The Zoom Affair

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.

Now, prepare to be stunned –

COVID WALK

old man

out walking

his shadow

young boy

taking his pet log

for a walk

a cloud

hamming it up

as Godzilla

ghost town

the only sound

a pub sign’s creaking

she sneezes snot

wipes it on her sleeve

glad I’m wearing a mask

the sky

the colour of

a blackbird’s song

Sixties…..

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.

Just to say…..

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.

Now, I have to deal with that cat……!

My Believers

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!!

Watch this space!

Bunty I Miss You

Let me introduce my pamphlet that came out last year. Bunty, I Miss You, published by the lovely Dempsey & Windle. And here is an extract –

Seventies  

1970 was bare legs and grubby socks,

and not getting into grammar school.

Wearing dresses that ripped under the

armpits, while running round the shop

for Bunty comic

But 1971 was sweating in ungainly blazers, and

striped knotted ties.

Feather cuts and two tone suits for some.

A satchel rattling round expanding thighs.

Bunty hanging on by a thread.

But 1972 meant tights and carrier bags full of

homework not done.

It meant David Cassidy, sanitary towels and

Jackie magazine.

Bunty ditched from a great height.

1973 saw girls snogging boys but 

only for the acne-free, not me and my mate. 

We had to make do with reading Henry Miller,

he gave us what Bunty never could.  

That man was so awful.  And Syphlitic mermaid?!  

What the Hell was that?!

Oh Bunty!  I missed you.

1974, meant strikes and three day weeks,

grim and unforgiving.

Unwelcome groping during the blackouts,

by boys, waiting for their Dad’s to leave the pub.

Spots and greasy hair in abundance.

Unloved, and unenlightened,

making holes in my cheap tights 

But 1975, brought a sub-world of disco’s

and cheesecloth, and Dynoflex.

Half lagers, and self-esteem.

Waking up, approaching womanhood.

The hard journey almost over,

those bastard grim days behind me.

Oh seventies, you finally saved my skin

….but I still held a grudge

Heather Moulson

HELLO AND WELCOME TO THE POETRY CORNER

Hello, and welcome to my Poetry Corner.

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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