Thanks for coming along. Normally I would post some of my speculative fiction, or God forbid, my Literary Fiction. Today I’m sending you some of my poetry interspersed with a few thoughts. I hope you enjoy. There’s a little bit for everybody (to criticise). By the way, I’m on Facebook and I’m always happy if you buy me a coffee.
Purple People Eater
I am a purple people eater. Not purple. Nor have I eaten any people yet, But the threat remains: The implication, the provocation. And I’ll paint my skin magenta A clear warning to the unwary.
This poem, Memory Foam, is a reflection on grief and loss rather than a memorialisation of an actual loss. This one is serious, but I also consider the whole business of dealing with death to be ludicrous and laughable. When I’m in a different place, I’ll write about that.
Memory Foam
There’s a dent where she sleeps in the bed What I meant: where she slept, past tense. Memory foam is the thing, by which Our little home remembers her. It uses polyurethane, chemicals and such Abuses our sense of time, increases our sense of loss. Memory foam is bubbles, squeezed and squashed That feels alone when a body’s lost The bed might forget. This grief might end. My head might heal, move forward from the urgent loss. May troubles fade, and I let go of cradling gloom, The bubbles gain their shape once more. But for now - let me feel the weight of her absence May sorrow take me where the bubbles were.
On Thursday, my wife and I attended a poetry reading by the excellent writer Henry Normal. I tag the experience as “Time Well Spent”. Go and find his stuff and read it! Even better, he’s currently touring the UK. He is perhaps more widely known as a writer for British TV and film, notably for Mrs Merton Show, The Royle Family, Gavin and Stacey, lots with Steve Coogan including the film Philomena.
A Poet Saved My Life
A poet saved my life last night. Well, tweaked my thinking, put it right. I had an urge To splurge My hard-earned cash on frippery, And pay to see tomfoolery Read to me from the written page. A spotlight, a mic, a poet on stage. The venue was amenable, The ticket price quite reasonable. Wasn’t bad for hard up times. His output even often rhymes. His metre Could be neater. But who am I to judge? When I can’t make it fit, I fudge. Others went for entertainment, I went to learn just what the words meant! As poets may well write things down, But words are lifeless - it’s how they sound. These sounded funny, at the start Then by turn - both sweet and tart. They waxed romantic or political, Or whispered, spicy and confessional. Did I learn anything new? Is nuance the thing, or should passion cut through? Must I study craft and oratory In some tedious laboratory? “Go! Demonstrate your own humanity Spread humour, love, routine profanity, Offer a hand, true conversation. Make writing more than mere dictation.”
One last roll of the poetry dice…
Stop Scratching
Stop scratching she says. I’ve got an itch. I can see that. Stop scratching. I grab a coat hanger and Rub, rub, rub. Yes, yes, yes… er no. Stop scratching she says. Again. Well you scratch it for me Not doing that she says I can’t make it stop. What’s it worth? Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve got an itch. She takes two hands to it, Digs her nails into my back. She really gets into it, Gets the bit between her teeth. Stop scratching I say. Shan’t!
I could hear Henry reading a poet saved my life. Excellent.
Great. I particularly enjoyed A Poet Saved My Life’. As well as being entertaining,, it was punchy and totally different ,in every respects, to the other two.