Well, the Zoom poetry evening was a great success. Apprehensions of not reading poetry for three months melted away, as I saw familiar faces on the Write Out Loud screen. We were all in the same boat. Unnerved by not hearing myself speak, and that dreaded Mute button, I ploughed on anyway. Memories of live readings before the lights went out came flooding back. Bringing hope that we may return there soon. So lovely to hear some of those voices again. I basked in that sea of talent.
Now, is it me? Or do those little blocks of poets remind me of Celebrity Squares?
So, the Poetry Basket – one of the stunning and prolific poets reading last night – Donall Dempsey has some very relevant and clever Haiku to share with us… Dobby? Poetry Basket please…..
Dobby has been watching The Beverley Hillbillies. They really don’t make ’em like that anymore.
As you can see, Dobby’s poetry review basket is currently empty. So, I’ll share another poem from my Bunty I Miss You pamphlet. This one is a bit of a downturn, as it features my personal view of the Sixties, in which it was not remotely swinging!
You were swinging for some, but
a bastard for others!
Blistering heat, brutal sports days.
Bulging in unlovely shorts,
puffing in last, with a permanently
red neck, and heat stroke to follow.
“Sunshine should never be missed”,
Teacher chucks his class outside,
without a scrap of shade, their skins
Him, having his fag in the classroom.
Humiliations of being sent to bed
in broad daylight!
Along with brutally hot nights, and twisted,
But Winter was a stinker:
Permanent goose pimples on bruised skinny
Back doors left wide open on a bastard
winter’s night, to get more coal from the yard.
Despite the hissy, spiteful, warming fire,
backs remained cold and rigid.
Dim foggy mornings, trudging along miserably,
contemplating the grey, violent playground.
Only to walk back home in the pitch dark,
avoiding the bullies.
Oh yes, you gave us proper and tyrannical seasons:
But all year round were violent parents,
and slappy teachers.
Bastard free school milk. Grim and curdling,
uninviting, only good for blowing bubbles.
Scratchy, black and white television sets,
shouting at us about how good we had it.
I stuck up two fingers when no-one else was looking.
Bugger you, Sixties, you were bloody awful!
They don’t make ’em like that anymore! Tune in this week for more poetry news and reviews.