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.
From 7 pm tonight, Write Out Loud, Woking, will be presenting a live Zoom poetry evening. This is the first time I have read poetry live since March, just before they turned the lights off.
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!
Sixties Seasons
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
burnt off.
Him, having his fag in the classroom.
Humiliations of being sent to bed
in broad daylight!
Along with brutally hot nights, and twisted,
oily blankets.
But Winter was a stinker:
Permanent goose pimples on bruised skinny
Legs.
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.
A day earlier than planned, was too excited to wait. Go over to our Poetry Basket page and read about Grenade Genie, the exciting new collection from explosive poet, Thomas McColl…..
While I lock swords with ‘Dobby’, tune in on Monday where the Poetry Basket will feature a review of Grenade Genie, the wonderful new collection by Thomas McColl.
Speaking of whom, watch Tom perform on Facebook Live at 11 am this morning, on Fly on the Wall Press Performance Group. You’ll be so glad you did.
Here I am reading my poetry book to my believers behind me.. A nice quiet afternoon. Very civilised. Only one of the Homepride men coughed!
Watch out for the next post when we have another review in the Poetry Basket.
In fact, here comes my virtual assistant, ‘Dobby’ with the basket. She’s in a huff at the moment, as she wants a premium plus website, but she’s not getting it!!
I am a writer and poet, and in old fashioned days eg March 2020, I would be performing like Billy O!
Things seem a little quiet at the moment. So what better way to keep our art alive?
I’ll be posting poems and reviews, and generally chat about poetry and performance.
Look at me on the About page.
Thanks for watching.
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A Spring Special:
Paul goes to put the rubbish out, and gets an unpleasant surprise!
“What the f……?!”, he splutters.
He immediately confronts Mrs Slagg:
“What the blazes, Slagg?! Do you know how much that Aga cost? “ “It was a pile of shit, Mr Paul. Rustic this and rustic that….. You want a proper cooker!” “This is not the seventies!”, Paul retorted, “Where the Hell did you get that thing?!”
“Why, Mary, Sir. She lifted it for me”
Paul sighed. Ever since Mary had escaped the open prison and turned to crime, life had become difficult.
“And also, Sir, it never did you no harm growing up with one of these. Besides,” Mrs Slagg added craftily, “You have your Son and Marigold to occupy you.”
This was a very sore point indeed. Despite Marigold’s sunny disposition and bearing him his second son, Paul had become tired of her and longed for Mary’s bawdiness.
Guiltily, Paul had been harassing the Council to get her re-housed. He hadn’t told Marigold yet.
He went ranting to his wife about the cooker injustice:
Who was no help at all:
“My food is in a glass, dear Husband. Why don’t I get that nice Marigold to “sort you out”.
Paul sighed. It was hopeless. The whole world was against him.
He ranted about this later to Marigold in bed. She clucked sympathetically. Paul kept quiet about the Council re-housing though.
“Thank God it’s bloody teatime! Hang on….what’s this? Egg and chips (with baked beans?!). Haven’t had this since I was a boy, hiding from father!”
Paul ate heartily, along with his bread and butter pudding and custard. Then he sought Mrs Slagg:
“Topping food, Mrs Slagg! Yes, you can stuff your mushroom bakes and haddock soufles! Fry ups are the best!”
“You see, Mr Paul. It was the right move, and I can reach the thing!”
Heather Moulson 