THe last Poetry Busof 2010 and the worst physical present ever given to me was ...shoelaces! On my birthday. But what can you say about shoelaces that doesn't rhyme, chime,or be sublimely offputting for all things footing?
Shoelaces put me through my paces they said more in the spaces than the eyelets would allow how? Well, Shoelaces caused me two faces one that cried 'How lovely'! One that, well, just cried. I've lied. I didn't cry at all, I loved them.
Well that was that and this is this, whatever this may be and it's this that I hope for...only better.
Past present
The greatest gift The worst Don’t give your love to me I will break your heart because despite the music despite the stained velour I could take your soul but not your hand 180 degrees or 360 Centigrade or Celsius There is no us, only me I give fake, give lies , give the glitterless prize, Take hope destroy joy The vainest of vices I sense weakness like all kissable Incendiary devices I’m going to blow up In your face
And this is the next poetry Bus , the last bus of Beverley Hills 2010. 2011 is upon us like a wheel upon a bike upon a planet within a wheel.. HERE Mighty Muse Swings dings the bell telling us to move down the bus, tickets please! Many thanks to Weaver and her beautiful starry poetry parade and also alls the peeps wot rote a pome.
Weaver now handsover to Muse Swings who has spent the last twenty years building a life sized clay model of a life sized clay model of The Taj Mahal, and several other curry houses in her home town. A talented cook, Muse Swings likes to source exotic fresh food, cook it, and eat it. But not necessarily in that order. Muse swings is also a champion blindfold golfer at The Ikanoseeafuginthing Golf Club, her handicap is not being able to see the ball. Or the hole. Or where she left her clubs. Or the golf cart. She once smashed the club record and the club CD player and the clubhouse window with a wayward chip from the bunker on the 17th. Her hobbies include eating sprouts and All Bran and avoiding confined spaces. Her ambition is to become a world class jockey and win the Kentucky Derby riding a fried chicken. So get over to her blog, read the prompt then write the poem. Simples!
YULETIDE GREETINGS!
Scuttery buttery boom fill basted wasted langrous freaks of snowcrusty rolledstarry crisped even stevens day we will see another one gutter what are wordsorth fickle me spickle span bespectacle shandy bars handell messiah present tents macushla macdonalds the pale burger rising damp encrusted diamond girl ropped froople tutti fruit riot squad wainscot methusla rattled round me gartle the rocks the perish everybody needs a body sometime half the time out prither the yither yon tum tawdry drum yops yops yops plump buck stately barge pole indeedy credulous indescribability and reindeer and turkey mistleto catch me quick cook me sausage slow tinsel town wrapped up played down and out the heelof the hunt bread and butter Nell flanagans tractor broke but she can foot a pot I know by the black mark I saw it at the dance dishy dish trifley jelly welly moulded rum pum tum scrooptious pulppoosted prickly holly iveagh league boots snudge plunged slush fund monkey mickler hackler backer price of poteen skyrocket pound pocket euro billions for everyone in the audience world wooly jumper mulled wino pine needled rendered rustic ruthless toothless mc Taster flambaster fludgeon blick bludgeoned booster hit flooster flopped floozy no jack ouzi up in the park apres dark chicken tikka mcFlurry snow upon snow upon freakin snow.
Good winter and yuletide felicimations to thoust all fair blog people of the bus, the worst organized weekly prompt on the planet,and all the better for it!
The Summer In Siam
Remember how the stars shone
For us alone, we stole each one
Lit our dreams in coloured sleep
True until the end
Let me dream ,wake me
20 years from now
Leave autumn’s blind
Indifference for times’
Stark Trembling delirium
russet leaf and fallen gold
Let late Winter’s necessity
be the gates by the cross
Give us a final dance
For who we were
And not what we became
This aged world shaped us
Took our vibrant colour dreams
For blacks bleak crackle
To flitter us free
Like the dead leaves
Of a forgotten past
Spring may come to
The minds eye hot in Casablanca
Black and white memories
But these closed eyes under
Penny weights see only colour
Dream only of you and
the summer in Siam
Yes folks, just when you thought it was safe to drive a bit of prose, the Poetry Bus rumbles across the horizon like a rumbling poetry bus.
Many many thanks to mighty Titus for brillo drively, a fab porompt it was too, good dog/woman Titus!
This weeks driver is the wonderful Weaver of Grass ( I thought she rolled her own spliffs when I first read that) Weaver hasn't been too well of late so it's really great to see her not only back on the bus, but actually driving it!
Weaver is a wonderful woman who breeds racing stoats high up on the Yorkshire moors. Racing stoats are very poular among Yorkshiremen/women and Arab Sheiks/Princesses and a prize specimen can cost as much as £50, ooo. Racing stoats are smooth skinned for improved aerodynamics and are slighty larger than ordinary stoats. After years of selective breeding modern stoats are able to run upright on their massively powerful back legs, speeds of over 60mph are commonplace with a gut busting 73 mph being achieved by world record holding pedigree stoat sprinter, Cedric Dynamite Flyer. Stoat racing is still a minority sport but gathering in popularity all the time and is expected to be an Olympic event by 2016 along with Badger Lacrosse and toad tossing.
A keen and gifted amateur scientist, Weaver once amazed relatives and friends by splitting the atom and putting it back together in less than an hour, using only a hammer and some fine thread.
Blessed with 'Healing Hands' she once cured a man of hiccups just by poking him in the eye with her finger. He couldn't see properly for six weeks but was delighted when the Hiccups disappeared a few hours after. In her spare time Weaver likes to sky-dive, fish, knit, gargle, and mud wrestle.
Get thee over to her blog for poety writing thing!
They weren’t fish from the sea
Any more than blue bears were
Black silhouettes of herself
God Woman mother of all
Making progress reach for the skies
Evolution not revolution,
parity stars, lights trouble
uncalled for. We all have a monkey
on our backs ,crystal clear,
blue is black in light relief.
I love the city, I hate the reality,
rapid fire irritation jarring.
We knew it was wrong,
Alchemy, conjuring.
Sing, sing ,sing,
reaction in the nightime:
Hearts on fire;
Blazing light;
Break my heart
Like an egg, like the question,
cracked into the heat.
We who could do anything choose
To do this, or this, or this?
I know the answer
If it's a poem, it has a million
beginnings a million chances,
I’m just dreading the end.
The night the riots began I felt old ,out in the cold, caught between the devil and the detail of the revolution The codes were lost, the codes were moral, a helping strong hand, Ethics balanced against anger against Subversion against anarchy Last night I heard the screaming I wanted to call the police but they were already there Loud voices shouting People were in need people were broken down People were lost People were bloodied I prayed for change I prayed for justice I prayed for a law to protect the vulnerable a government that knows the children are the future Who will answer my prayer?
Yes folks, it's the pottery bus here again, regular as a bran addicts bowels. This weeks driver is canine extraordinaire Titus The Wonder Dog (AKA JoAnne McKay) but first many thanks to last weeks drivelo,Kat Mortensen (AKA Kat Mortensen) and all the brillo poety passenglers what boarded in such good spirit, skill and style. Pat yourselves on the back!
What can I say about Titus? Truth is often stranger (more unbelievable/extraordinary) than fiction, but I'll stick to fiction. Titus is a dog , but also a woman, but never at the same time. It all started when Titus was abandoned as a pup and picked up by mad scientists who were experimenting with DNA , bubblegum, elastic bands and matter transportation. JoAnne, a fiesty police woman was trying to shut down their operation as it had criminal intent (beaming small dogs into bank vaults to steal money) One day she broke into their secret lab but unwittingly hid in one of the transmissioin booths just as Titus the dog was being teleported, their DNA was irrevocably mixed in a Jekyl and Hyde , Woman and Dog,Ying and Yang, Starsky and Hutch, Salt and Vinegar,configuration. One moment we have Titus the dog, the next it is suddenly JoAnne the woman. Which can be particularly embarrassing when Titus is doing his duty with the local poodle... Either which way they cope and thrive with their new duality.
JoAnne at first thought the process could be reversed but she was barking up the wrong tree, not realising the advantages of being a part time canine, ie. Lots of lovely long walks, sleeping in front of the fire, biting the vicar and widdling on the postmans trouser legs.
As a dog Titus has won Crufts best in show three years running, appeared in several TV ads and done a lot of charity work to buy cigarettes for retired lab test Beagles. As a woman JoAnne was the first person to swim the atlantic using Doggy paddle, she won who wants to be a millionaire on the quiz machine on the prom at Llandudno, entered local politics in 1999 and narrowly missed winning the seat for Barking in the 2002 North London bi-election. She also writes poetry, but it isn't doggerel.
I'm sure you are all straining at the leash, so get thee gone over to their blog HERE and see what the feck we are doing on the next bus in the cosmosphere! Good luck, and there will be plenty of food and drink on the bus , too much in fact, so bring a doggy bag. Don't sit on the back seat if you feel a bit ruff. I'll keep hounding you till you write a poem, so get on with it!
There's no known cure! Actually TIPPSYSCHISM is not a tropical disease.No, it's a wizzard wheeze to find new homes for pomes.IFFYSPAM (actually an acronym for INTERNATIONAL PUT YOUR POEM IN A SHOP MONTH) was Cunningly devised by ace poet, writer, broadcaster and Carol Singer, Niamh (Various ) Bagnell.
LIPPYORGASM is now an annual yuletide event that is spreading round the world like a recession.Actually feck the recession, spread a little happiness, share a little poem. Poems already flying around shops in places like Scotland, Canada, America, Ireland, to name but a few. Get all the details of HIPPYSPASM and follow up posts over HERE
Put simply, write a poem on a piece of paper or card and leave it in a local shop so that an unsuspecting shopper may happen across it and burst with joy at their good fortune. They may even bring it home and treasure it for the rest of their lives, or till the end of the week, whichever is soonest. Be sure and take a photo of the poem in the shop and put it on your blog and let Niamh know so she can link to it.
Last year I took a photo with a mobile phone but the pic wasn't recorded. This year I used the mobile fone again but a) couldn't find the fone at home and then b) Can't seem to be able to connect the fone to the Craputer to download the pic. Doh!
Fortunately I took a photo with an ordinary kamra before I left for the local Dunnes stores where I left my work of genius among the Christmas decorations. I went back the next day to try again to take another foto in the shop and my magnum opus was gone!!(in fact all the Magnums were gone, and in this weather!) Look out for it on ebay.
Still waiting to do a funny one but in the meantime and in case I don't make it by Monday here's these things. The first one is new.
Stretford. End.
Oh Lord doncha know it?
Cheers! For eleven years
I was as pissed as a poet,
parrot sick in The Vic,
frightened now to own it
how much skin was split.
On payday, come what may
I would have my say
talking to the walls in Tommy Ducks,
surveying knickers on the ceiling, among
somewhat less than appealing clientelle.
Meek as fuck ,oh so meek
in Peveril Of The Peak!
And singing? Lord did I sing,
midst the bling the blag and swag,
the sharp tongues, the razor blades.
Nothing quiets ,nothing fades.
Steaming, screaming mercy, Lord have mercy!
On the Ordsall estate, saving for grace,
boiling ,writhing, reeking, in The Kettle,
hard chaw lads from the flats,
uncool cats with baseball bats,
mental mettle tested, none found wanting,
safe for another pint.
Bluff and bluster
Bleep and Booster, blood and guts,
beside Robinson’s Timber yard, minus 5,
battered Bertie Blue Noses-
Salford Lads , red till dead!
Monday mourning reality dawning
early doors only for the hard of heart,
battle scars running deep, cheap?
Less than minimum wage pay
all the rage for those with more say,
more Salford keys in Salford Quays,
more of this life flying to sunny days.
A Dublin Doorstop in O’Sheas,
12 pints by lunchtime
Inner city grit, multicultural grime,
a multitude of ways
to survive to fight
(mainly run)
keeping on
in the White Lion
Jesus, Mecca, and Zion.
Downstairs Inn,
The Withington Ale House
Bursting noses
no composer supposes
like symphonied rainbows arced in blood,
never mind the deluge,
this was our flood.
Pool cues saved teeth from rotted,
Nick Lowe would love the sound
when people were potted
wearing Scarface disgrace in
The Fallowfield.
(Flats now, holy cow!)
The misery was on tap,
Mad Mick was quick to try
Special handshakes
I knew why he would try
to break my bones if I slipped
explained,in pained plained English
people from broken homes had nothing on me.
See? I kept the noose loose,
Nothing personal, even if it was.
He didn’t get it, while he got it,
in my drunken mind
easy after the first time
Hardly a crime punishable by the law
who can talk with a broken jaw?
So, rough justice don’t make a fuss
(Now go! Do one!) this
is how we live,
factory fodder five days a week,
which is odder, the weak, or the weekend?
And now I don’t sleep
a quivering coward,
reality freak.
And now I search the shadows,
afraid of the light, afraid of my life,
afraid of the ghosts.
knowing
that now, and now ,and now,
too little is too late,
and still I have to wait, I cower,
and I wait, I see, I seal,
my hate,
my fate, my fate, my fate.
At my wake.
Inconspicuous in my absence, eyes thumbed shut, best-suited arms stiff by my side, unable to reach the tasty snacks or pour a pint down the parched gullet. Deaf ears cannot hear how much they miss me, on the rigor mortis scale- I’m ten, even when young they said I was ‘Dead-but-for-the-washing.’ Do I remember the last supper?
Butter on toast on Sunday,
before the mourning on monday, the craic here now on Tuesday I’ll be ashes by Wednesday. Time’s still winding clocks and watches like clockwork, there will be clean shirts at Easter, roasting hot days in summer with tar bubbles bursting for joy. If you take a walk as far as the bridge, or the canal , buy me a red lemonade in a black glass in Gleesons’- at least I was never the poor craythur with a choc ice, trying to keep his teeth in.
(Ps for those outside Ireland, Translation of 'the poor craythur' = literally 'poor creature' but meaning more like ' poor old sod')
Published in The SHOp 31 Autumn Winter 2009
Jewel
Along Capel Street I stagger into Slattery’s and stagger out again to be sure I have my wits. What the hell have they done? Is nothing sacred? Is anything safe from their blandiose renaissance? A curse on them whoever they are. I barrel on to the Quays singing or talking to myself, corpulent with drink and struggling to re-inflate between bursts of song. Filled with stupid elation and fuelled on pints of stout, I gaze wide-eyed and blowing, at the new found beauty of herself, Anna Liffey. Spanned by an arch the whiter shade of pale, her waters are expressive fecund and inviting. With undulating, warm, open arms of green she calls to me in clamshells of desire. Wanting to be smothered within and bursting for a leak, I express myself, let fly the floodgates, a stream of pee to the pea green below, relief and satisfaction in equal measure. They’ll never take the piss out of Dublin.
(Published in The SHOp 13 Autumn /Winter 2003)
Mulligan's
It’s up there in Nelly’s room, behind the wallpaper, it’s in the rancid scraps that this mongrel went to see a white coat about. Left gnawing on my own bones,
I curse the pedigree poets, the multifarious super models, those alphas of adroitness that trot out juicy cuts of honeyed ham left right and centre, as smug and as arrogant as my jealousies. Feckit, there’s no meat here, but a thousand wasted breaths can soon be soothed by a truly poetic manifestation- the voluptuous blackening of a pint glass, in a not too crowded bar in Poolbeg street.
I've just hopped on/off the last bus brilliantly driven by Buglet and now here zooms Kat from Kanada with another magical bus ride. Thanks to Bug and everyone who joined in last week. Luckily the Poetry Bus has got snow tyres as we are in blizzard conditions here in County Wicklow and I'm pretty sure that Canada occasionally get's the odd flurry too. So wrap up warm everybody, wear a hat and a scarf. There will be warmed mince pies and teas, coffee, whiskey, mulled wine(yeauch!) served as we go.
Kato is the founder member of the Canadian meat eating vegetarian society and campaigns tirelessly for the rights of vegetarians to eat meat. Her campaigns have won her worldwide acclaim and she was shortlisted for the Nobel vegetarian prize for her development of a meat based vegetable called the Beef Tomato, but unfortunately it was technically a fruit and the prize was withdrawn. In her spare time Kat likes to whistle , in fact she is quite a virtuoso and can whistle in seven different languages. A talented multi-tasker Kat can type with her eyebrows and knit with her knees while out shopping, all thanks to a specially designed shopping trolley that she has patented and catchily called' The Knit-while-you-type-while-you-shop-Kat Kart' A keen transcendental meditationist she likes to think about dentistry whilst floating 6 inches above the ground. So get ye over to her place and join in the poetry fun as fun is the watchword for Kats task. Go for it!!
