Saturday, 24 May 2014

If You Can't Write a Post Write a Poem

I haven't written on my blog since December 2012. I've written lots of drafts of things that I want to post on here eventually but I got it into my head that no one is bothered about the inner workings of my mind. However, the other day someone I never speak to commented on something I wrote on Facebook saying my 'posts are class' and that I 'should write a book or something', which meant so much more than if my mum or a close friend had said it, and it's given me the kick up the bum I needed. I had no plans this evening so I decided to come home after a long lunch with my ex roomy and write something.

I wanted to polish up some notes I'd written about bananas about 9 months ago but I couldn't find the scrap of paper I'd scribbled them on or the iPad note I thought I'd typed up. I'm sure you're devastated by the loss. Fortunately on my rummage I did come across some poems I wrote so I've decided to commit them to an eternity of internet dwellage. You're truly mourning those bananas now aren't you?

Here's the back story...

In April 2007, a month after starting a job at the shopping channel which I absolutely hated, I sought solace in a comedy course run by the wonderful Logan Murray despite the fact that:

a) I hated public speaking
b) I wasn't funny and didn't want to be a comedian
c) See a) and b)

After being persuaded by the formidible Hils, who founded Amused Moose, that not everyone does it to be a comedian, that I'd make some new friends and that I wouldn't have to take part in the showcase at the end, I entered the basement of a pub close to Chalk Farm and for the next few weeks a group of strangers, who soon became friends, and I were led in a series of exercises to get the creative juices flowing.

One of the exercises was to pretend we were part of the Haringey Poets Collective and to write a poem about something in the room.

Here is mine from 8th May 2007:

The orange juice taunteth me so
As it sits in its towering glass 
Over there on the oak smoked floor.
Exuberant and gleeful, gloating at my palid skin,
"The tanning lotion isn't working, you're not as orange as me!!"
That's what it says.

I sit here and think ill thoughts on the juice 
That is robbing me of my Tango-ey glow,
For it has ruined me.
I shall never be on Footballer's Wives now.
The orange juice that fills the glass so pintily 
Shall beat me to the role of Chardonnay.

I was quite pleased with that one. 

I tried to write another poem on my own time the following day but it turned into an outpouring of what appears to be an unconscious fear of being eaten alive by rodents...

Have you been hiding in my house?
Have you been hiding, little mouse?
Don't deny it, for I hear you nibbling on my walnuts
But do not feast upon my mind
For that is more important than the cheese
So I ask you, if you please,
To be so kind
As not to munch upon my mind.

Having bought Logan's book shortly after the course I used it to amuse myself when I was bored at work. In 2009 I wrote a poem to a sanitary bin whilst I was being paid to be a Tape Librarian. Exactly three years after starting Logan's course I was still writing the odd (in both senses of the word) poem whilst temping as a receptionist...

On the 8th April 2010 I wrote these:

A Love Poem to a Chair (in the Probation Service Waiting Room)

Dear Chair,
I see you there
Imagining me in my underwear
But for now you'll take me as I am,
Wearing this wondrously multicoloured kaftan.

You want me to straddle you
And ride you around
But instead you just sit there
And don't make a sound.
Say what you feel, Chair,
Do what you want to me,
If only you dare.

You think I'm too good for you
Because you've no wheels.
You think I want swivelling
Because I wear heels.
You wish you had the depth of a bog
So you could see my bare arse
And feel the warmth of my log.

But Chair, I love your stability
And your dirty blue cover.
I want to sit down on you,
I don't want another.

It must have been a slow day for murderers and paedophiles because then a random photograph of a dog on the reception desk caught my eye...

Overexposed Dog

Overexposed dog,
Looking at me from your glossy picture,
I don't know who you are
Or where you've been
Just that you stand in a concrete-slabbed garden
With only terracotta pots for company.

You have an elegant nose
And look like you know a thing or two.
You're too sophisticated to defecate it seems
As there is no sign of poo.

Overexposed dog,
You're overexposed because there's too much light in the camera lens
Not because you have your bits on show.
You're too cultured for that
And look like you should be wearing a top hat.

A couple of months later the receptionist I'd been covering returned from sick leave and it turned out the overexposed dog in the photograph was hers. One day I met Dylan and he was indeed as sophisticated in person (or should that be animal?).

I started to write this one about one of the offenders which was more than likely inspired by having read some unsavoury things in his file...

You look like such a nice man
But then so did Saddam Hussein
And look what he's done.

That's as far as I got but I think it says it all really.

If you've not had enough 'comedy' for one day here's my set from the showcase I didn't want to do...

No comments:

Post a Comment