Asila's Song book launch show - 17th June 2022 at Erin Arts Centre.
When you do performance poetry, for every horrifically terrifying, demonic-esque photo, you get a belter. Thank you Martin Critchley!
Sea Thief.... The female character from my prose poem, Sea Thief, has the soul of the bluebird. The bluebird is also an important feature in my second novel, The Call of the Birds. Pic by me, JMG.
Castletown Tin Bath World Championships featuring Penny Farthing the Misadventurist from Penny Productions. Penny had a great time gate-crashing the event with her poetic posse, Manx Myrtle, Bony Anne, William Kidd, Lil' Gio and our IOM Arts Council funded battery powered amp. Check out more Penny antics...
Penny Farthing the Misadventurist - a short excerpt.
Written especially for Castletown Tin Bath World Championships 2019
Written especially for Castletown Tin Bath World Championships 2019
'...Bring me more rum!' She'd burp and she'd holler
In a whirl of both cutlass and cat 'gainst whichever poor soul
Had mishappened to happen upon her -
'For my husband the sea he has bled my mouth dry,
And the spray of his ink
Is a terrible curse on the throat of this
Infamously fabled and most formidable bride!
Misadventurer me!'
She'd then laugh to the moon,
For Penny, oh Penny, was as crass and bad ass as any sea thief
With a taste for the ruin,
And the sea was a monstrous and marvellous force,
A terrific and tremulous titan of gigantic discourse,
And its surge was a veil and a mask and a tomb
With a tongue that tickled for tipples all of its own -
And though Penny was certainly born to tackle its sway -
In billow-black sheets that she artfully tethered with supreme mastery,
The wayward sea was a gnarly affair
With a particular taste for the haste
And the mistakes,
Of the Misadventurer...
In a whirl of both cutlass and cat 'gainst whichever poor soul
Had mishappened to happen upon her -
'For my husband the sea he has bled my mouth dry,
And the spray of his ink
Is a terrible curse on the throat of this
Infamously fabled and most formidable bride!
Misadventurer me!'
She'd then laugh to the moon,
For Penny, oh Penny, was as crass and bad ass as any sea thief
With a taste for the ruin,
And the sea was a monstrous and marvellous force,
A terrific and tremulous titan of gigantic discourse,
And its surge was a veil and a mask and a tomb
With a tongue that tickled for tipples all of its own -
And though Penny was certainly born to tackle its sway -
In billow-black sheets that she artfully tethered with supreme mastery,
The wayward sea was a gnarly affair
With a particular taste for the haste
And the mistakes,
Of the Misadventurer...
Asila's Song
Dark Horse 2019 - Feral Stage
Thanks to 90 minutes worth of slots over the weekend, I also performed 'On Ravensdale Hill', 'Sea Thief,' a couple of my Seven Deadly Sins Collection and a few page poetry pieces. Was a ton of fun! Thanks Feral guys!
'An eye for an eye and a ghost for a ghost.'
Completed in February 2019 - and dedicated to all those gentle souls who've lost their battle with mental health, I've been lucky enough to perform Asila's Song at three venues now - Mother T's, Douglas Head Amphitheatre and Dark Horse 2019 on the Feral Stage. Asila's mask is a collaborative venture between my husband at Emo Modern Furniture and my beautiful pal, Keiran (aka Han-fx). Here's the blurb and a super short excerpt.
'Asila's Song is an epic 25 minute long poetry-play in which the main proponent - a ghost, conspires to haunt her ex-lover. She is, however, hindered in her efforts by her own haunting - the presence of an Angel - Asila, who begs her to seek forgiveness and return to her bones in the sea. The story hinges on our ghost's discovery of a broken mirror, in which she finds her reflection to be identical to that of her Angel Asila, with the mirror serving as a metaphor for our ghost's shattered sense of self at the hands of her ex. In this classic battle between light and dark, who will win, Angel or ghost - indeed, will there be any winners at all?'
"Oh no you don't! Not now!
Look at how I've earnt the right to take his head -
See how he quivers,
Reduced from neat and groomed attire
To lie aghast 'mongst shards that sever skin and splinter fingers."
"Oh no you don't! Not now!
Look at how I've earnt the right to take his head -
See how he quivers,
Reduced from neat and groomed attire
To lie aghast 'mongst shards that sever skin and splinter fingers."
Mother T's tent, Dark Horse Festival, Isle of Man, 2018.
'On Ravensdale Hill,' is an 18 minute epic poem. The first half takes place during one long, dark, night of the soul. Here, the fallen Phoenix grapples to make sense of the devastating consequences of her one time lover's betrayal and abandonment (the Raven). The second half, which swiftly builds to an intense and dramatic climax, describes the repercussions of her final, desperate decision.
'On Ravensdale Hill,' is an 18 minute epic poem. The first half takes place during one long, dark, night of the soul. Here, the fallen Phoenix grapples to make sense of the devastating consequences of her one time lover's betrayal and abandonment (the Raven). The second half, which swiftly builds to an intense and dramatic climax, describes the repercussions of her final, desperate decision.
Excerpt...
Your Eyes.
Your eyes.
A pair of toys that demand to play,
Can't tear your eyes away from me,
A tribute touch
To touch taboo,
A place where words are...
Inconsequential,
And one long glance
Is more than ample
To convey touching,
But from a completely different angle:
A steady gaze,
An eyebrow raised,
A fail to follow convention
That would rather hail the rise
Of modesty
And thwarted intention
Than to condone
The secrets shared,
And the mercenary lies,
That hide
In the space that sits between,
Two illicit sets
Of playing
Eyes.
Your Eyes.
Your eyes.
A pair of toys that demand to play,
Can't tear your eyes away from me,
A tribute touch
To touch taboo,
A place where words are...
Inconsequential,
And one long glance
Is more than ample
To convey touching,
But from a completely different angle:
A steady gaze,
An eyebrow raised,
A fail to follow convention
That would rather hail the rise
Of modesty
And thwarted intention
Than to condone
The secrets shared,
And the mercenary lies,
That hide
In the space that sits between,
Two illicit sets
Of playing
Eyes.
It's really not every day Chris Riddell, Children's Laureate 2015-2017, and acclaimed author and illustrator, draws a picture as you recite one of your poems - Paterpaens, to a packed audience at Noa Bakehouse. CHRIS RIDDELL!!! Amazing experience! Slightly wonkey video but still, you'll get the gist :) Made me very happy! Manx Litfest is AWESOME!
To celebrate the last day of the Summer holidays, 2018, Maeve and I decided we would swim in as many bays as possible. Luckily we were blessed with perfect weather and in total managed to swim in 9 bays from Ramsey all the way down to Port Erin - which unexpectedly (and a little bit exhaustingly, I won't lie!) took us all day. Also unexpected was our discovery of two new fav beaches - Port Mooar and Douglas! (Though would take a lot to beat the beanbags on the beach at the Shed in Laxey, and of course our beloved Ramsey. )
Love my beach buddy <3
Ode to Summer is written as one narrative, but is actually constructed from various memories made throughout our magical day.
Love my beach buddy <3
Ode to Summer is written as one narrative, but is actually constructed from various memories made throughout our magical day.
Ode to Summer 2018.
Mo Mo Mui Mui, she’s nine.
She will swamp me in a blink.
Her feet already match up to mine
As we bristle against bitter Summer wind
And scurry-hop to the sea.
I shriek with drama:
Shrivelled kelp on barefoot, but,
She shrieks with laughter -
She thought to put her flip-flops on;
She’s always been more sensible than me –
And braver – bare skin barely registering the icy water.
I wear neoprene.
I watch her in her world,
She digs to find the sand King,
Tells me he's made out of sand
But I mustn’t mention it because
‘He’s sensitive about that kind of thing.’
I lie back, gasp at the ice trickle
That finds a gap at the top of my neck
Then float on liquid gold;
Will the sun to emerge
From behind a late afternoon
Foil wrapped cloud.
We lie there together,
Soothed by waves;
Flinch together
When a gull squawks over.
'Mummy,' my still-baby-girl
But-only-by-a-whisker says,
'The sea’s my best friend.'
J Morrey Grace.
7 October 2018.
Mo Mo Mui Mui, she’s nine.
She will swamp me in a blink.
Her feet already match up to mine
As we bristle against bitter Summer wind
And scurry-hop to the sea.
I shriek with drama:
Shrivelled kelp on barefoot, but,
She shrieks with laughter -
She thought to put her flip-flops on;
She’s always been more sensible than me –
And braver – bare skin barely registering the icy water.
I wear neoprene.
I watch her in her world,
She digs to find the sand King,
Tells me he's made out of sand
But I mustn’t mention it because
‘He’s sensitive about that kind of thing.’
I lie back, gasp at the ice trickle
That finds a gap at the top of my neck
Then float on liquid gold;
Will the sun to emerge
From behind a late afternoon
Foil wrapped cloud.
We lie there together,
Soothed by waves;
Flinch together
When a gull squawks over.
'Mummy,' my still-baby-girl
But-only-by-a-whisker says,
'The sea’s my best friend.'
J Morrey Grace.
7 October 2018.
Oh look!
Mimi found her way onto a Manx Litfest Poetry Trail poster!
Mimi found her way onto a Manx Litfest Poetry Trail poster!
Pieces from my
'Seven Deadly Sins' Collection.
'Seven Deadly Sins' Collection.
ENVY
Penny Farthing.
Penny Farthing.
This work was inspired by Simon Smart's utterly terrifying Babadook outfit which he wore to sing his haunting accapella songs at Without Wing's 'Dance of the Devil's Snuffbox.' This was an off-beat, alternative evening of macabre rhyme, rap, music and song which I organised to celebrate the charity's first anniversary. It was a LOT of fun.
Penny Farthing as depicted by local artist, Peter Davies (words are actually from my second Penny poem, 'The Penny Eyed Whore.')
Penny Farthing was the local whore,
She rode a bike around the town,
Wore men's breeches, belts and braces,
Painted ginormous moustaches,
Beauty spots and fake eyelashes
Upon the many different faces that
Penny cared to thrust upon us.
But Penny'd never owned a hat.
She'd not the pennies to fetch one that
She felt might compliment her
Fair complexion:
Her fine cheekbones,
Her sweet stub nose
And, what she took the greatest pleasure
To indulge in...
Her bejazz-jewelled lip-licking
Bejazz-jeweled tipped tongue...
Until the day did come along
When Penny Farthing met her match
On one
Who stood so very tall...
He towered over our favourite whore.
And that was even long before he
Tip, Top, Tapped,
Put on the beauty that was,
His great, top hat!
"Oh my!" Penny winked at him
As she stuffed his pennies where
The sun don't shine.
"What a girl would give for that,
Your great big, massive, huge,
Top Hat!"
The man, he shot her a cautious look
As he grabbed his long cane by
The long tip of its crook.
Nodded politely, said,
"Good day to you,"
Then clicked the tip of this
Well heeled shoe and
Turned to head towards the door,
Tickled pink to find that Penny Farthing
Had managed to get there, before...
"I'll give you a farthing if you give me that."
Penny's eyes were glued to his big, top hat.
"I reckon it'll look good on me,
Suit my complexion to a tee!
What do you say you take it off?
You better, or I'll call my boss."
As she spoke she arched her back,
Prowled, leopard-like around the chap.
Bedazzled him with her bejewelled tongue,
Thinking that nothing at all possible could go wrong
(DOT, DOT, DOT!)
"No. I think not."
His look turned sly,
A wicked glint reflected from the corner of his eye,
"Well, well," said Penny, "fancy that!
A man too mean to give up his hat!
Tell me, what's a poor girl gotta do
To get that top hat off, off, off, off, off, off, off of you?"
"I'll tell you what..."
He began to smirk,
"Answer a riddle. That might work.
You've three tick-tocks to get it right."
(At this Penny thought his eyes turned
A rather sinister shade of luminous bright...)
"But if you perchance to get it wrong,
I'm afraid I'll have to... Snatch your soul.
If that's alright?"
Well, Penny paused and Penny thought,
And Penny decided that her pennies ought
P'raps not go to where she'd put her mouth,
For sharpest penny in the penny toolbox
Had never really been her strong point
If Penny was to tell the truth.
But Penny girl, she loved a gamble!
And that top hat?
Well she really did think it
Might be worth the hassle,
And though she didn't like his grin,
Which suggested that Penny Farthing
He did not think might be the one to win,
Upon the floor did Penny drop,
As she looked at him and said,
"Yeah, why not?"
"Well if you're sure?"
He seemed to glow,
As he opened his mouth for the riddle to flow...
"What scrubs up clean?
What can be dropped?
What's sometimes flipped
Or brings good luck?
Tick... Tock... Tick... Tock... Tick... T..."
"Wait!" Cried Penny as the penny dropped,
But she spoke too late and the man said,
"...ock..."
And then he roared a MIGHTY roar,
And flames shot out of every single orifice
To smite poor Penny from where she sat upon the floor!
Penny sizzled,
Penny was smote,
Penny went up in a puff of smoke,
A besozzled pile of bejewelled ash
Upon which the Devil placed at last...
The tip, tip top of a tuppity tap,
Of a tall, tall, tall, tall, tall, tall, tall, tall...
Tip top...
Top hat.
November 2017.
She rode a bike around the town,
Wore men's breeches, belts and braces,
Painted ginormous moustaches,
Beauty spots and fake eyelashes
Upon the many different faces that
Penny cared to thrust upon us.
But Penny'd never owned a hat.
She'd not the pennies to fetch one that
She felt might compliment her
Fair complexion:
Her fine cheekbones,
Her sweet stub nose
And, what she took the greatest pleasure
To indulge in...
Her bejazz-jewelled lip-licking
Bejazz-jeweled tipped tongue...
Until the day did come along
When Penny Farthing met her match
On one
Who stood so very tall...
He towered over our favourite whore.
And that was even long before he
Tip, Top, Tapped,
Put on the beauty that was,
His great, top hat!
"Oh my!" Penny winked at him
As she stuffed his pennies where
The sun don't shine.
"What a girl would give for that,
Your great big, massive, huge,
Top Hat!"
The man, he shot her a cautious look
As he grabbed his long cane by
The long tip of its crook.
Nodded politely, said,
"Good day to you,"
Then clicked the tip of this
Well heeled shoe and
Turned to head towards the door,
Tickled pink to find that Penny Farthing
Had managed to get there, before...
"I'll give you a farthing if you give me that."
Penny's eyes were glued to his big, top hat.
"I reckon it'll look good on me,
Suit my complexion to a tee!
What do you say you take it off?
You better, or I'll call my boss."
As she spoke she arched her back,
Prowled, leopard-like around the chap.
Bedazzled him with her bejewelled tongue,
Thinking that nothing at all possible could go wrong
(DOT, DOT, DOT!)
"No. I think not."
His look turned sly,
A wicked glint reflected from the corner of his eye,
"Well, well," said Penny, "fancy that!
A man too mean to give up his hat!
Tell me, what's a poor girl gotta do
To get that top hat off, off, off, off, off, off, off of you?"
"I'll tell you what..."
He began to smirk,
"Answer a riddle. That might work.
You've three tick-tocks to get it right."
(At this Penny thought his eyes turned
A rather sinister shade of luminous bright...)
"But if you perchance to get it wrong,
I'm afraid I'll have to... Snatch your soul.
If that's alright?"
Well, Penny paused and Penny thought,
And Penny decided that her pennies ought
P'raps not go to where she'd put her mouth,
For sharpest penny in the penny toolbox
Had never really been her strong point
If Penny was to tell the truth.
But Penny girl, she loved a gamble!
And that top hat?
Well she really did think it
Might be worth the hassle,
And though she didn't like his grin,
Which suggested that Penny Farthing
He did not think might be the one to win,
Upon the floor did Penny drop,
As she looked at him and said,
"Yeah, why not?"
"Well if you're sure?"
He seemed to glow,
As he opened his mouth for the riddle to flow...
"What scrubs up clean?
What can be dropped?
What's sometimes flipped
Or brings good luck?
Tick... Tock... Tick... Tock... Tick... T..."
"Wait!" Cried Penny as the penny dropped,
But she spoke too late and the man said,
"...ock..."
And then he roared a MIGHTY roar,
And flames shot out of every single orifice
To smite poor Penny from where she sat upon the floor!
Penny sizzled,
Penny was smote,
Penny went up in a puff of smoke,
A besozzled pile of bejewelled ash
Upon which the Devil placed at last...
The tip, tip top of a tuppity tap,
Of a tall, tall, tall, tall, tall, tall, tall, tall...
Tip top...
Top hat.
November 2017.
Penny Farthing as drawn by Lauren Comish Aged 11
I love it Lauren! Thank you! And glad you loved the poem <3 <3 <3
I love it Lauren! Thank you! And glad you loved the poem <3 <3 <3
GLUTTONY.
Ta Ta Taboo - Prize Winning Performance Poem: Manx Litfest Poetry Slam 2017
I initially wanted this poem to be about something healing and almost kind of sacred. When I realised it wasn't quite behaving, I had to alter the words slightly to fit. Still, somewhere in my heart, and in an alternative universe, it will always be a much sweeter story.
This story is largely inspired by the Ravens of Ballacobb - the hills of which played a large part in my rehabilitation after my second major seronegative arthritis flare. It also inspired, and is now featured in, my epic poem, 'On Ravensdale Hill.'
Ta Ta Taboo - Prize Winning Performance Poem: Manx Litfest Poetry Slam 2017
I initially wanted this poem to be about something healing and almost kind of sacred. When I realised it wasn't quite behaving, I had to alter the words slightly to fit. Still, somewhere in my heart, and in an alternative universe, it will always be a much sweeter story.
This story is largely inspired by the Ravens of Ballacobb - the hills of which played a large part in my rehabilitation after my second major seronegative arthritis flare. It also inspired, and is now featured in, my epic poem, 'On Ravensdale Hill.'
Silence old Raven,
I’ll hear no more
Of your throbbing, dark wings,
Your Ta-Taboo caw.
I’ll not stroke your curious head
As it cocks to one side,
Nor tap your tip-tappity claw
Or steal a look inside
Your hypnotic hued eyes.
Be shushed, sweet Raven!
Your words are but empty shells on the shingle -
You have no pearls of wisdom
To goad my temptation
Or to test my good reason.
Keep your beak...
For the rats!
You’re too weak
For large prey.
You’re Ta-Taboo, Raven!
Farewell and good-day!
Steady there Raven!
You weather the storms and you circle the skies,
But let it be known,
If you must feast on feasts stolen,
Then I, for one,
Will not be your carrion,
Being, as I am,
A feast that is also forbidden -
Pray silence, my Raven,
Your Ta-Taboo’s deafening!
You’re boring me Raven,
That swoops on my back,
Caws ‘Ta-Ta-Ta-Taboo, Taboo!’
In my ear
And spits its hack-ity, hack-ity hack-ity cack
On my cheek.
Shoo Raven, shoo!
I will scavenge your tongue,
I'll let it be known
To each and all and everyone
Who might lend an ear
To the cack-squaw of your song,
That it’s a lie of temptation
From the unkindness of the Raven.
You trickster! My Raven -
But no croak will lay me down
On heath soft as butter,
Nor open me up
Like the yielding egg
That you greedily peck
Till it drips from the tip
Of your monstrous beak
And no more is left
Save the notch…
On your wing,
And the saliva
That meanders
Down a Ta-Taboo chin…
Yes, Ta-Ta-BOO! Raven.
Ta-Taboo, caw!
Your talons are fierce
But you’re the hunter no more,
I’m Ta-Taboo, Raven,
Your sharp mouth is mine!
A moment of thrill
In my Ta-Taboo, Ta-Taboo
Valleys of time!
Ta-Taboo, Raven,
Beat, beat to my drum,
I’ll feed till I SPLIT!
With satiation,
I will gorge myself drunk!
Ta-Taboo, Raven,
Ta-Ta-Taboo,
Such a sweet feast
And so forbidden…
Let me gobble up you!
J Morrey Grace.
July 2017.
I’ll hear no more
Of your throbbing, dark wings,
Your Ta-Taboo caw.
I’ll not stroke your curious head
As it cocks to one side,
Nor tap your tip-tappity claw
Or steal a look inside
Your hypnotic hued eyes.
Be shushed, sweet Raven!
Your words are but empty shells on the shingle -
You have no pearls of wisdom
To goad my temptation
Or to test my good reason.
Keep your beak...
For the rats!
You’re too weak
For large prey.
You’re Ta-Taboo, Raven!
Farewell and good-day!
Steady there Raven!
You weather the storms and you circle the skies,
But let it be known,
If you must feast on feasts stolen,
Then I, for one,
Will not be your carrion,
Being, as I am,
A feast that is also forbidden -
Pray silence, my Raven,
Your Ta-Taboo’s deafening!
You’re boring me Raven,
That swoops on my back,
Caws ‘Ta-Ta-Ta-Taboo, Taboo!’
In my ear
And spits its hack-ity, hack-ity hack-ity cack
On my cheek.
Shoo Raven, shoo!
I will scavenge your tongue,
I'll let it be known
To each and all and everyone
Who might lend an ear
To the cack-squaw of your song,
That it’s a lie of temptation
From the unkindness of the Raven.
You trickster! My Raven -
But no croak will lay me down
On heath soft as butter,
Nor open me up
Like the yielding egg
That you greedily peck
Till it drips from the tip
Of your monstrous beak
And no more is left
Save the notch…
On your wing,
And the saliva
That meanders
Down a Ta-Taboo chin…
Yes, Ta-Ta-BOO! Raven.
Ta-Taboo, caw!
Your talons are fierce
But you’re the hunter no more,
I’m Ta-Taboo, Raven,
Your sharp mouth is mine!
A moment of thrill
In my Ta-Taboo, Ta-Taboo
Valleys of time!
Ta-Taboo, Raven,
Beat, beat to my drum,
I’ll feed till I SPLIT!
With satiation,
I will gorge myself drunk!
Ta-Taboo, Raven,
Ta-Ta-Taboo,
Such a sweet feast
And so forbidden…
Let me gobble up you!
J Morrey Grace.
July 2017.
Seven Deadly Sins - sketches
A sketch of Wrath. I've done a few short works to get me in the mood for my next poem in this series (still to come: Wrath, Sloth and Lust!). This sketch is inspired by a line from another piece I am currently developing - an epic based on a ghost looking for vindication. It's all pretty brutal. Have fun :)
The Power and the Glory.
Here is the fire
that burns like a fever
and twists, turns and hurts,
And without any warning at all
lets its flames lurch.
Here is the fire that
licks at the blinkered eyes
of those
who see fit to let
judgement’s harsh scythe
reap the ill gained rewards,
Of the blissfully ignorant
and deliberately uninformed.
And all the while,
they shake their heads
and point their fingers,
and elevate themselves
to experts
of subjects
of which they have
precisely
zero knowledge:
They of the forked tongued
glory Hallelujah sniping judges.
Here is the fire
that cannot to be lessened
but only can grow
in the raging glow of its own elevation.
Here is the fiery rage
of a passion;
Here is the illuminator
that if not heard
will be seen
if not smelt,
worry not.
Will still be felt.
Quick:
Cover your eyes and your ears and your mouths and your noses.
Before you get licked.
13th July 2018
The Devil's Snuffbox.
Written as an introduction for Without Wing's first anniversary celebration 'Dance of the Devil's Snuffbox.' This poem describes the magic of the spoken word - how it
can take the harsher realities of life and completely transform them. It's a magical skill, one to be treasured and honed and explored; a craft that can make life so much richer and more beautiful - whatever its challenges.
Written as an introduction for Without Wing's first anniversary celebration 'Dance of the Devil's Snuffbox.' This poem describes the magic of the spoken word - how it
can take the harsher realities of life and completely transform them. It's a magical skill, one to be treasured and honed and explored; a craft that can make life so much richer and more beautiful - whatever its challenges.
The Devil had a Snuffbox once,
Stuffed Devil full of snuffed out dreams,
Got stole it did by them wish weave
Those snuffed out dreams
To better things;
The Devil man dance night and day,
The Devil man, he wants it back,
But soothes and sayers,
Rhymers and tellers
Have stole those dreams
From Devil's trap;
The Devil man can't get to them,
The Devil man can fly away,
Dance Snuffbox dance for all he likes,
Hark, hark!
We've set his stories
Free!
October 2017.
The Cursed and the Damned.
Another favourite wicked rhyme and performance piece.
Nothing but a story. To the rhythm of a galloping horse. When performing I replace the word 'gun' with 'water pistol,' and shoot people. The kids love it.
‘The horses!
Their hooves sound like thunder.’
Rosalie’s voice was too loud,
Her whisper a voluptuous crash
In the dark space under the bed
Where she’d buried herself with her sister.
Aria’s reply was a tremble:
‘They’ll hear you,
They’ll find us,’
She hissed as
She bunched up a fist
And forked Rosalie sharp-prang-stab
In the ribs
With the bone that bit out
Of her elbow.
Rosalie pinched
And Aria snarled,
Then on hearing a terrible
Clang, clatter and bang,
All feuds were forgot
And one gripped the other,
And like that,
They lay
Under the bed
And cradled each other.
Rosalie wished now
She remembered her mother.
Papa had always been vacant or staged,
He’d plenty of friends
When the winnings came in,
But more than a few enemies made
When times got thin.
She thought lately
She’d try be a good daughter,
Tucked him in rugs
When he crashed on the floor,
Wiped his face clean
Of the spew on his chin
And threw out the booze that
He brought through the door.
Aria thought only
Of ships and the sea,
Head cotton wool crammed
With the cursed and the damned:
Swashbuckling maidens,
Pirates, smugglers, sirens,
Her world was a play
And its cast were her sailors.
Rosalie thought Aria quite mad,
Aria thought Rosalie dull,
But as each listened to the
Thump, thump, thump
Of the front door,
Their hearts throbbed as one
And as one they lay still.
‘Knock, knock, big man,
We want paying.’
Aria’s hair tickled Rosalie’s ear.
Short as a boy’s
It stank of dried dirt,
Rosalie’s own
Was a shiny, dark mane.
‘I’ve nothing for you,’
Papa told them,
‘Take a look if you like
And take what you want.’
And immediately
Both girls
Inhaled as one body,
For both of them knew:
Father was not to be trusted
When father was drunk.
Aria paused, then whispered,
'Just so you know:
I hate you.’
Rosalie whispered,
‘I hate you right back.’
But as each twin twisted
Round the other twin's fingers,
They both breathed,
‘No.
I love you,’
Then ‘click,’
The sound of the latch.
Aria was sold to a slave ship,
The men thought her too wild
To keep a house clean,
For over a month
She slept in her own filth,
Till she tricked the captain
And slit up his throat,
Then sailed the whole world
In her own little boat.
Rosalie survived nine years
On a farm,
She barely knew sleep
And was worked to the bone,
And when finally Papa sobered
Enough to come fetch her,
She clawed at his eyes
And cried for her sister.
Aria came home with a fortune,
And...
A band full of swashbuckling men!
She stormed the whole town
Where her childhood was stolen
And then…
When
Rosalie emerged from
The damage they’d done
And the twins embraced
And embraced as one
And Rosalie whispered,
‘Well looks like someone had fun,’
Aria reached in a pocket
And pulled out…
A gun…
'Who gets it first then my sister?'
Rosalie lowered her eyes slowly
Then lifted a finger,
Pointed it straight at the farmer's wife's head
Said,
'That bitch beat me within
An inch of my life
And I want her dead.'
BOOM BOOM!
The town jumped to attention,
Aria said,
'So? The farmer? He's next?'
And closing her eyes,
Rosalie sighed
'Yes,
And all the rest,
But please, Aria?
Don't touch the children.'
BANG BANG went the gun
And everyone screamed,
But the shooting went on
And on
And on...
Till somebody finally
Dragged out their father...
And...
Aria swooped down on him like a vulture,
But Rosalie cried:
'No! Put back your gun,
Then turned to her father and shrieked,
'Papa, please RUN!'
As father vanished off
To the distance,
Aria cautiously eyed up her sister.
'We're twins, Rosalie, we come as a pair,
And whether or not you decide to agree,
You're coming with me
To sail the whole sea.
So the sisters set sail for the sunset,
And Rosalie found
She kind of enjoyed it.
As Aria killed and maimed and generally caused chaos,
Rosalie cooked and cleaned
And baked the men biscuits.
And when the day finally came,
The ship took a hit,
And the play was done
And
That,
Was it,
Together they cradled
Each one the other
And their hearts beat as one
And they died together,
And their hearts beat as one
And they died...
Together.
Their hooves sound like thunder.’
Rosalie’s voice was too loud,
Her whisper a voluptuous crash
In the dark space under the bed
Where she’d buried herself with her sister.
Aria’s reply was a tremble:
‘They’ll hear you,
They’ll find us,’
She hissed as
She bunched up a fist
And forked Rosalie sharp-prang-stab
In the ribs
With the bone that bit out
Of her elbow.
Rosalie pinched
And Aria snarled,
Then on hearing a terrible
Clang, clatter and bang,
All feuds were forgot
And one gripped the other,
And like that,
They lay
Under the bed
And cradled each other.
Rosalie wished now
She remembered her mother.
Papa had always been vacant or staged,
He’d plenty of friends
When the winnings came in,
But more than a few enemies made
When times got thin.
She thought lately
She’d try be a good daughter,
Tucked him in rugs
When he crashed on the floor,
Wiped his face clean
Of the spew on his chin
And threw out the booze that
He brought through the door.
Aria thought only
Of ships and the sea,
Head cotton wool crammed
With the cursed and the damned:
Swashbuckling maidens,
Pirates, smugglers, sirens,
Her world was a play
And its cast were her sailors.
Rosalie thought Aria quite mad,
Aria thought Rosalie dull,
But as each listened to the
Thump, thump, thump
Of the front door,
Their hearts throbbed as one
And as one they lay still.
‘Knock, knock, big man,
We want paying.’
Aria’s hair tickled Rosalie’s ear.
Short as a boy’s
It stank of dried dirt,
Rosalie’s own
Was a shiny, dark mane.
‘I’ve nothing for you,’
Papa told them,
‘Take a look if you like
And take what you want.’
And immediately
Both girls
Inhaled as one body,
For both of them knew:
Father was not to be trusted
When father was drunk.
Aria paused, then whispered,
'Just so you know:
I hate you.’
Rosalie whispered,
‘I hate you right back.’
But as each twin twisted
Round the other twin's fingers,
They both breathed,
‘No.
I love you,’
Then ‘click,’
The sound of the latch.
Aria was sold to a slave ship,
The men thought her too wild
To keep a house clean,
For over a month
She slept in her own filth,
Till she tricked the captain
And slit up his throat,
Then sailed the whole world
In her own little boat.
Rosalie survived nine years
On a farm,
She barely knew sleep
And was worked to the bone,
And when finally Papa sobered
Enough to come fetch her,
She clawed at his eyes
And cried for her sister.
Aria came home with a fortune,
And...
A band full of swashbuckling men!
She stormed the whole town
Where her childhood was stolen
And then…
When
Rosalie emerged from
The damage they’d done
And the twins embraced
And embraced as one
And Rosalie whispered,
‘Well looks like someone had fun,’
Aria reached in a pocket
And pulled out…
A gun…
'Who gets it first then my sister?'
Rosalie lowered her eyes slowly
Then lifted a finger,
Pointed it straight at the farmer's wife's head
Said,
'That bitch beat me within
An inch of my life
And I want her dead.'
BOOM BOOM!
The town jumped to attention,
Aria said,
'So? The farmer? He's next?'
And closing her eyes,
Rosalie sighed
'Yes,
And all the rest,
But please, Aria?
Don't touch the children.'
BANG BANG went the gun
And everyone screamed,
But the shooting went on
And on
And on...
Till somebody finally
Dragged out their father...
And...
Aria swooped down on him like a vulture,
But Rosalie cried:
'No! Put back your gun,
Then turned to her father and shrieked,
'Papa, please RUN!'
As father vanished off
To the distance,
Aria cautiously eyed up her sister.
'We're twins, Rosalie, we come as a pair,
And whether or not you decide to agree,
You're coming with me
To sail the whole sea.
So the sisters set sail for the sunset,
And Rosalie found
She kind of enjoyed it.
As Aria killed and maimed and generally caused chaos,
Rosalie cooked and cleaned
And baked the men biscuits.
And when the day finally came,
The ship took a hit,
And the play was done
And
That,
Was it,
Together they cradled
Each one the other
And their hearts beat as one
And they died together,
And their hearts beat as one
And they died...
Together.
For Lisa
I loved this picture so much that a while ago I asked - and received, permission from Lisa to use it, but until recent events, couldn't quite find it a home. She was a beautiful person and a kindred spirit. This poem is dedicated to all those brave and open souls who are just too light for this planet.
Angel's Lament
(In honour of Lisa - a lover of stories, tragedy and the sea, this later developed into the entirely fictional work, Asila's Song <3)
Dedicated to Lisa Jane.
When I call you
Won't you come?
Oh yielding earth, to bear my hand?
As tendrils that from willows weep
Wrap me before they
Draw me down.
I'm plagued upon the angel's lyre,
I'm tortured into soft lament,
Confronted with a wealth of worth
That little means,
Save to immortal bias
Of my own self.
How could it be I could believe
My tender coil might
Spark a storm,
And leave its mark so permanently
When so many hearts,
So many beats,
So many souls
Have gone before?
Such frailty of life, it seems,
That might be snapped,
Just like a twig,
Then passed so unremarkably
To silent tombs of
All those precious moments had;
All we once loved,
All we once did.
Who are we to think we matter?
Who is there to truly care?
When some squalls rage
We'll never weather,
Some embraces craved
We'll never share.
So when I call you,
Won't you come?
Oh yielding earth,
To take my hand?
Whilst sweet tendrils that
From willows weep,
Shroud me before they
Drag me down.
For if you do
I'll never die,
But dance immortal
As my dreams,
On Summer's rays,
And Winter's storms,
On Autumn's cloak,
And Spring's fine wings.
For if you do,
I'll fly!
Not fall...
They'll be no tears
For you to cry,
They'll say I called
And that you came
And when I leapt
I leapt with joy,
And with joy
I kissed my earth,
I kissed my earth,
For one last time.
"The willow tree gives a sense of belonging, safety and the ability to let go of pain and suffering"
14 June 2018
(In honour of Lisa - a lover of stories, tragedy and the sea, this later developed into the entirely fictional work, Asila's Song <3)
Dedicated to Lisa Jane.
When I call you
Won't you come?
Oh yielding earth, to bear my hand?
As tendrils that from willows weep
Wrap me before they
Draw me down.
I'm plagued upon the angel's lyre,
I'm tortured into soft lament,
Confronted with a wealth of worth
That little means,
Save to immortal bias
Of my own self.
How could it be I could believe
My tender coil might
Spark a storm,
And leave its mark so permanently
When so many hearts,
So many beats,
So many souls
Have gone before?
Such frailty of life, it seems,
That might be snapped,
Just like a twig,
Then passed so unremarkably
To silent tombs of
All those precious moments had;
All we once loved,
All we once did.
Who are we to think we matter?
Who is there to truly care?
When some squalls rage
We'll never weather,
Some embraces craved
We'll never share.
So when I call you,
Won't you come?
Oh yielding earth,
To take my hand?
Whilst sweet tendrils that
From willows weep,
Shroud me before they
Drag me down.
For if you do
I'll never die,
But dance immortal
As my dreams,
On Summer's rays,
And Winter's storms,
On Autumn's cloak,
And Spring's fine wings.
For if you do,
I'll fly!
Not fall...
They'll be no tears
For you to cry,
They'll say I called
And that you came
And when I leapt
I leapt with joy,
And with joy
I kissed my earth,
I kissed my earth,
For one last time.
"The willow tree gives a sense of belonging, safety and the ability to let go of pain and suffering"
14 June 2018
Dancing With Angels
We last met long ago on a sad, lonely day,
You said you’d just lost
The best friend you’d ever had;
And I said I’d lost my way.
And your eyes were like toffee,
And your hands were firm and strong,
And my hands felt like butter melting as you held them,
And whispered sweet nothings, (sweet nothings,)
And I took each and every word of them
And carved our future into stone.
We danced upon our moonlit joy that night,
We threw our pasts into the sea,
Convinced ourselves not to believe
The skins
We shed
Still trailed...
And bled
Behind:
As shadow ghosts,
That both of us
Needed too much not to see.
You called me sun and moon and stars,
I sparked up -
Lit the pyre inside your eyes,
A Venus to your splendid Mars;
You a Vulcan to my Aphrodite.
And when we stumbled on a box
Torn, battered in the wind,
You laughed and picked its contents up -
A latent fingerprint examining
Of relics from a long lost scene.
And as you did a moment passed,
When both of us felt the presence
Of one whose dreams
Might have been… But did not last.
You placed a pork pie hat upon my head,
I tore it off and tried to run away
But stopped, and turned -
Well - you had my fag,
And so through smoke rings
And all those musty clothes
And things,
We both collapsed:
A pair of mismatched conjoined twins
In fancy dress,
Both pretending we were one again,
Both pretending we could sew and patch
Our dreams into a different end.
Then I awoke
And was alone,
Uncertain if you’d ever been,
A tatty box of old clothes and keepsakes
In my arms,
Your best hat crushed between
The pillow seams.
And when I went to mouth your name
I found my lips were sewn together;
My tongue buttoned like your sheepskin coat;
My teeth strapped tight
In faded strips of shredded leather.
(*Whispered)
We last met long ago on a sad, lonely day,
You said you’d just lost the best friend
You’d ever had,
And I wept and said I’d lost my way.
December 2017.
Poem sparked by Georgia Lisette's love of fancy dress <3
(Georgia was Poetry Slam Champion TWICE!)
We last met long ago on a sad, lonely day,
You said you’d just lost
The best friend you’d ever had;
And I said I’d lost my way.
And your eyes were like toffee,
And your hands were firm and strong,
And my hands felt like butter melting as you held them,
And whispered sweet nothings, (sweet nothings,)
And I took each and every word of them
And carved our future into stone.
We danced upon our moonlit joy that night,
We threw our pasts into the sea,
Convinced ourselves not to believe
The skins
We shed
Still trailed...
And bled
Behind:
As shadow ghosts,
That both of us
Needed too much not to see.
You called me sun and moon and stars,
I sparked up -
Lit the pyre inside your eyes,
A Venus to your splendid Mars;
You a Vulcan to my Aphrodite.
And when we stumbled on a box
Torn, battered in the wind,
You laughed and picked its contents up -
A latent fingerprint examining
Of relics from a long lost scene.
And as you did a moment passed,
When both of us felt the presence
Of one whose dreams
Might have been… But did not last.
You placed a pork pie hat upon my head,
I tore it off and tried to run away
But stopped, and turned -
Well - you had my fag,
And so through smoke rings
And all those musty clothes
And things,
We both collapsed:
A pair of mismatched conjoined twins
In fancy dress,
Both pretending we were one again,
Both pretending we could sew and patch
Our dreams into a different end.
Then I awoke
And was alone,
Uncertain if you’d ever been,
A tatty box of old clothes and keepsakes
In my arms,
Your best hat crushed between
The pillow seams.
And when I went to mouth your name
I found my lips were sewn together;
My tongue buttoned like your sheepskin coat;
My teeth strapped tight
In faded strips of shredded leather.
(*Whispered)
We last met long ago on a sad, lonely day,
You said you’d just lost the best friend
You’d ever had,
And I wept and said I’d lost my way.
December 2017.
Poem sparked by Georgia Lisette's love of fancy dress <3
(Georgia was Poetry Slam Champion TWICE!)
M.R.I
I had an MRI whilst on a 2 week fruit fast in the Summer (not really recommended). That same day I ate nothing but peaches and the two seemed to come together into this poem.
I reached for a peach,
turned my back on the world,
burrowed inside
made my bed in its core.
I hung lanterns
from ripples of grooves
in its stone,
used soft fleeces and hammocks
to flesh out its womb.
Curled up and spooned up,
dug, dug myself in,
outside all sealed off
by sweet flesh
insulation.
Soft, ripe in its comfort,
a peachy, warm glow,
till peach was all eaten,
my eyes once again opened,
and back, back, back,
into the world
I was thrown.
I had an MRI whilst on a 2 week fruit fast in the Summer (not really recommended). That same day I ate nothing but peaches and the two seemed to come together into this poem.
I reached for a peach,
turned my back on the world,
burrowed inside
made my bed in its core.
I hung lanterns
from ripples of grooves
in its stone,
used soft fleeces and hammocks
to flesh out its womb.
Curled up and spooned up,
dug, dug myself in,
outside all sealed off
by sweet flesh
insulation.
Soft, ripe in its comfort,
a peachy, warm glow,
till peach was all eaten,
my eyes once again opened,
and back, back, back,
into the world
I was thrown.
The Ballad of Lily White
This was only the second poem I wrote. I don't often perform it for some reason, even though I love the imagery of the bluebird. Similar in feel to Jono Dead, it is about the loss of happiness - represented by the bluebird, who incidentally, is also Without Wing's logo.
They found her by the old canal.
In her mouth
A blue bird’s tail.
A feather, stuffed, between each toe.
Beside her ear, a beak.
Her halo was her yellow hair,
Her shroud?
Just sludge...
Just grass.
Her gown was made of damaged things,
Like rusty cans and broken,
Glass.
What Devilry is this?
They cried on fallen knees
Placed, tender hands
Beneath her head,
And cursed the wretch
Who’d do such things.
Her palms were crossed
On bloodied chest,
Where note, lay, crumpled,
Underneath.
They paused...
Then bade note reveal to them,
The secrets of which
Only note,
Could speak.
‘My name is Lily White,’
It told,
‘He stole my eyes
He slit my throat.
No tongue have I,
No teeth,
No breasts.
Yet still my heart
FOUGHT his request.
‘I struck him hard!
And beat him down,
Tore off his wings...
Yet still, he sang.
Yet still,
He sang.
Then note was caught upon the breeze
And carried far into the sky,
Whispering to all of those who wished to hear,
That Lily White upon the banks
Did lie.
Lily White, upon the banks did lie.
They called for cart!
And piled her in,
Beak?
They left, upon the shore.
And Lily might have smiled again
To know that beak
Could surely sing his song to her,
No more.
Yet if it might, some tale it’d tell,
Of one so young and bright and fair
Who one time danced!
The bluebird’s song,
With coloured ribbons, in her hair.
‘Her name was Lily White,
It’d say,
‘I stole her eyes so she might see!
Her throat I slit so she might speak!
Her teeth I took to make her eat.
'Her tongue I tore... But mended well
So her sweet voice might never fade.
Her breasts I kept for babe. Or man...
Her heart I found I could not save.
Her heart, I found,
I could not save.
'I tried so hard,
I sang my song,
Put feathers, on her feet,
And begged and begged they'd dance again
And prayed and prayed she might want me.
'I tore my beak, so she might hear,
I sang and sang to break the curse
Of he,
Who so undeservingly,
Had snuck in and stolen her heart first.
'But Lily White was dead to me,
Lily White was gone,
And though I crept between
Her soft, soft lips,
I knew,
I sang,
My song,
Alone.
Lily White was beautiful!
My moon, my stars... my love.
But Lily gave her heart to death,
And now, my love,
Is lost...
This was only the second poem I wrote. I don't often perform it for some reason, even though I love the imagery of the bluebird. Similar in feel to Jono Dead, it is about the loss of happiness - represented by the bluebird, who incidentally, is also Without Wing's logo.
They found her by the old canal.
In her mouth
A blue bird’s tail.
A feather, stuffed, between each toe.
Beside her ear, a beak.
Her halo was her yellow hair,
Her shroud?
Just sludge...
Just grass.
Her gown was made of damaged things,
Like rusty cans and broken,
Glass.
What Devilry is this?
They cried on fallen knees
Placed, tender hands
Beneath her head,
And cursed the wretch
Who’d do such things.
Her palms were crossed
On bloodied chest,
Where note, lay, crumpled,
Underneath.
They paused...
Then bade note reveal to them,
The secrets of which
Only note,
Could speak.
‘My name is Lily White,’
It told,
‘He stole my eyes
He slit my throat.
No tongue have I,
No teeth,
No breasts.
Yet still my heart
FOUGHT his request.
‘I struck him hard!
And beat him down,
Tore off his wings...
Yet still, he sang.
Yet still,
He sang.
Then note was caught upon the breeze
And carried far into the sky,
Whispering to all of those who wished to hear,
That Lily White upon the banks
Did lie.
Lily White, upon the banks did lie.
They called for cart!
And piled her in,
Beak?
They left, upon the shore.
And Lily might have smiled again
To know that beak
Could surely sing his song to her,
No more.
Yet if it might, some tale it’d tell,
Of one so young and bright and fair
Who one time danced!
The bluebird’s song,
With coloured ribbons, in her hair.
‘Her name was Lily White,
It’d say,
‘I stole her eyes so she might see!
Her throat I slit so she might speak!
Her teeth I took to make her eat.
'Her tongue I tore... But mended well
So her sweet voice might never fade.
Her breasts I kept for babe. Or man...
Her heart I found I could not save.
Her heart, I found,
I could not save.
'I tried so hard,
I sang my song,
Put feathers, on her feet,
And begged and begged they'd dance again
And prayed and prayed she might want me.
'I tore my beak, so she might hear,
I sang and sang to break the curse
Of he,
Who so undeservingly,
Had snuck in and stolen her heart first.
'But Lily White was dead to me,
Lily White was gone,
And though I crept between
Her soft, soft lips,
I knew,
I sang,
My song,
Alone.
Lily White was beautiful!
My moon, my stars... my love.
But Lily gave her heart to death,
And now, my love,
Is lost...
JONO DEAD
This poem is intensely personal and was the work that marked the beginning of what has come to be a completely unexpected and quite frankly utterly bizarre catapulting into poetry in general and performance poetry in particular. This was the first poem I had written since my angst ridden teenage years and it came to me in one go in utter despair, 3am, January 2017, on the one year anniversary of horrific 'collapsed pelvis' pain and disability. Much later, this turned out to be a misdiagnosed 'leaking' of the RA in my hip joints - caused by major emotional turmoil perhaps combined with an overlooked medication alteration. Incidentally, the trauma of being left undiagnosed and in such horrific pain for so long, later triggered another burst of creativity, but in the meantime, this work haunted me for ages. I had literally no idea where it came from, what it was about, or why it felt so powerful. Initially I thought Jono was a brat - my shadow self, who, in my mind, was tempered only by the the PaterPaens - an elegant and gentle race that lived on tightropes in the sky. But that interpretation never quite sat right, so I read it and re-read it, experimenting with lots of different cadences as I tried to work it out. Finally, it became clear. Jono is not rotten. This work here represents the brutally murderous destruction of trust, and the witchies are the beasts that slaughter it. The anger directed towards Jono is therefore more grief than hatred. Brilliant isn't it? How poetry can - sometimes- reach so deeply inside a person's psyche that even they can't work it out! As a kindness to Jono, I therefore like to perform this as a dark comedy or occasionally as beat poetry with my band mate Jordi on beatbox.
Interestingly, the PaterPaens have always been too shy to appear in these pages. I see now that this was because I had misjudged them (within the context of Jono). I've therefore started to gently coax them out again - especially as I've since learnt that they are particularly talented at helping Jono find his way back to wherever he wants to be - dead or otherwise. I have to be careful with this collection of characters however. The PaterPaens are tiny and fragile and unfortunately, Jono is prone to grabbing them by the fistful. This tends not to end well. Yeah I know, I'm rambling, but my point is, though this started out a bit heavy, in the end, just like everything else, it's only a story.
...As a later edit... You can check out a video of how the Paterpaens worked out somewhere on the link below. Naughty creatures. Never would behave themselves.
Jono was four when he died.
Lazy sod.
Call that a life? He barely tried.
His brain was dull, dishwatery,
Not prone to night haunt tales and witchery.
No Jono thought on none of that,
Didn’t stay scared in bed like other sweet brats.
Instead...
Sucking his thumb from across the room
He fancied that he saw the moon,
And thinking it a pretty sight,
He slipped from bed
Crossed the night
Hoisted the window
Sat on its ledge,
Pulled sticky stars from his pocket,
Pinched from teacher’s desk.
He peeled one off and stuck it high,
Watched it twinkle in the sky.
Next, he took a silver one,
Slapped in on Orion’s tum.
But just as fat fingers tore a third,
He stopped, looked, listened...
Then he heard.
It started out as tuneless whistles
All grates and grinds, like pointy thistles,
Then something whooooooooshed!
Straight past his head,
Yet still Jono did not think
To not get dead!
He peered, instead,
To the whispering tree,
The one where best Ted liked to play.
Dark now. Full of beasts,
But Jono’s head was full of crisps!
He pulled one from the other pocket,
Scuffed off the sticky sweet stuck to it,
Then chomp chomp chomp
He watched the tree,
Not knowing that’s where night witchies like to be…
He didn’t think, or know, you see,
That!
Witchies are not the same as you and me!
No, they’re tiny, little folk,
With great big teeth and baggy throats,
They’re not at all what you’d expect,
Not much bigger than your....
'Here kitty, kitty, come, come to me,'
Silly boy! Foolish! That’s not a cat tree!
'Here kitty, kitty, come, come, come…'
Go Jono, now Jono, run, run, run!
'Here Kitty, Kitty, please come inside.
Back to bed now, Jono, hide, hide, hide!
He reached across towards the black,
A little pissed off when it bit him back!
So he stretched our and tugged its tail,
Then giggled as he heard it squeal.
Next, he leant as far as he could reach
Then twat! He kicked the little beast!
But oh, oh, oh, he should not have done,
For that was no kitty, but a witchie’s bum!
And now the witchie turned on him,
Screeching forward with wails and din…
Jono, lifting up two grubby mitts,
Went slap slap slap and got the bitch!
He covered her with bright red stars,
Flung her high and called her Mars.
Shame.
He didn’t see
The other three…
One by each shoulder, another by his head,
They were gonna to get him
Gonna make him Jono dead.
And so it was when he turned about, that...
CLOUT!
He stumbled, windmilled through the air,
He fell and the witchies
Did not care!
Instead as he lay broke and cold
They plastered him
With stars shone gold
Threw him up and
Watched him zoom
Then laughed when he landed on the moon.
Jono was four when he died.
Lazy sod.
Call that a life?
He barely tried!
Jan 3rd 2017
Lazy sod.
Call that a life? He barely tried.
His brain was dull, dishwatery,
Not prone to night haunt tales and witchery.
No Jono thought on none of that,
Didn’t stay scared in bed like other sweet brats.
Instead...
Sucking his thumb from across the room
He fancied that he saw the moon,
And thinking it a pretty sight,
He slipped from bed
Crossed the night
Hoisted the window
Sat on its ledge,
Pulled sticky stars from his pocket,
Pinched from teacher’s desk.
He peeled one off and stuck it high,
Watched it twinkle in the sky.
Next, he took a silver one,
Slapped in on Orion’s tum.
But just as fat fingers tore a third,
He stopped, looked, listened...
Then he heard.
It started out as tuneless whistles
All grates and grinds, like pointy thistles,
Then something whooooooooshed!
Straight past his head,
Yet still Jono did not think
To not get dead!
He peered, instead,
To the whispering tree,
The one where best Ted liked to play.
Dark now. Full of beasts,
But Jono’s head was full of crisps!
He pulled one from the other pocket,
Scuffed off the sticky sweet stuck to it,
Then chomp chomp chomp
He watched the tree,
Not knowing that’s where night witchies like to be…
He didn’t think, or know, you see,
That!
Witchies are not the same as you and me!
No, they’re tiny, little folk,
With great big teeth and baggy throats,
They’re not at all what you’d expect,
Not much bigger than your....
'Here kitty, kitty, come, come to me,'
Silly boy! Foolish! That’s not a cat tree!
'Here kitty, kitty, come, come, come…'
Go Jono, now Jono, run, run, run!
'Here Kitty, Kitty, please come inside.
Back to bed now, Jono, hide, hide, hide!
He reached across towards the black,
A little pissed off when it bit him back!
So he stretched our and tugged its tail,
Then giggled as he heard it squeal.
Next, he leant as far as he could reach
Then twat! He kicked the little beast!
But oh, oh, oh, he should not have done,
For that was no kitty, but a witchie’s bum!
And now the witchie turned on him,
Screeching forward with wails and din…
Jono, lifting up two grubby mitts,
Went slap slap slap and got the bitch!
He covered her with bright red stars,
Flung her high and called her Mars.
Shame.
He didn’t see
The other three…
One by each shoulder, another by his head,
They were gonna to get him
Gonna make him Jono dead.
And so it was when he turned about, that...
CLOUT!
He stumbled, windmilled through the air,
He fell and the witchies
Did not care!
Instead as he lay broke and cold
They plastered him
With stars shone gold
Threw him up and
Watched him zoom
Then laughed when he landed on the moon.
Jono was four when he died.
Lazy sod.
Call that a life?
He barely tried!
Jan 3rd 2017
I was so gutted to miss the wonderful Janet Lees's recent workshop on grief and recovery - a result of being struck down with pretty hectic RSI. However, I did attend the evening readings and open mic where there were a couple of incredible poems based on 'I am,' - one of the afternoon's grief recovery exercises. Even though my hands are buggered and I'm trying to avoid operations through an enforced 6 week rest and gentle stretching programme, I couldn't resist having a go when I got home. I performed my latest poem - not yet published, last night. I've had a tough couple of weeks and its anger reflected this. I had planned to write - and perform, a calmer poem to counteract it, but my hands sadly would not allow me to write another poem last week. I think though that this, though beautifully self indulgent, and utterly narcissistic (but hey, it's poetry so it's ok and totally recommended!) Has proved the perfect antidote - in its true meaning: a medicine to counteract the poison. Video coming soon!
Inscape
I am the raindrops dripping on my tin roof.
I am the stench of fresh earth dug with my bare hands.
I am the secret, hidden places:
The wide, sparse valleys;
The misty cloak;
The darkness.
I am, and most happily always have been,
The one who stands alone, outside.
I am a mother –
But not only to my children;
And a lover –
But only to my husband!
I am a heart bigger than the biggest ocean
That – in words pinched from Sarah Kay,*
Leaps from its booth
Only to find its cloak is being held back
By the very ones it was intent on saving…
But still,
I am the never giver upper.
I am the coral that recoils on impact
Then explodes back
Even bigger than before!
And though yes, of course I am wounded,
I am the always blessed and surrounded
By goodness,
Because I am the hand on heart
Daddy’s girl who was brought up to believe in truth,
And, as someone kind once said,
“Truth floats.”
So, I am the always bobber to the topper,
The one that will not be sunk
Or get swept under
The carpet; even though
I am the one who my husband always says
Sticks my head above the parapet
And then, I become the one who complains when I get hit -
I am the shattered shot at which he is left to pick.
I am the sea!
No – really! I am!
Or maybe I am deceived
And the sea doesn’t really care about me…
I suppose – I am a little bit disgusting:
I am a pair of filthy boots
You’d never want to touch,
I am a naked sitter in freezing rivers
And I’m a terrible liker of weeing in wetsuits,
Or wearing the same clothes till they grow legs
And walk off…
Which is sometimes more than I can do:
I am often a cripple.
Not always - and right now I am doing quite well
Though I am an always aware of what’s around the cornerer
And I’m a mind battler too:
I am uneasy in bed in the mornings,
I am a not liker of too many thought interruptions.
I am a much too old and should know better worry
For my much too old parents to still
Have to fret about me.
Because although I am older, and I am wiser,
And steered by a
Meticulously well engineered
Empathy and bullshit radar,
I remain a loving, but hopeless disaster of a car crash of a daughter.
I am a pretty good sister.
But deep down,
I am nothing more
Than the child who likes to sneak off to hide
Amongst the gorse on the fairway,
Who sits quietly under the tin roof of her brother’s den,
And listens to the raindrops.
15 April 2018
* Sarah Kay 'If I Should Have A Daughter' - my favourite performance poem of all time
Inscape
I am the raindrops dripping on my tin roof.
I am the stench of fresh earth dug with my bare hands.
I am the secret, hidden places:
The wide, sparse valleys;
The misty cloak;
The darkness.
I am, and most happily always have been,
The one who stands alone, outside.
I am a mother –
But not only to my children;
And a lover –
But only to my husband!
I am a heart bigger than the biggest ocean
That – in words pinched from Sarah Kay,*
Leaps from its booth
Only to find its cloak is being held back
By the very ones it was intent on saving…
But still,
I am the never giver upper.
I am the coral that recoils on impact
Then explodes back
Even bigger than before!
And though yes, of course I am wounded,
I am the always blessed and surrounded
By goodness,
Because I am the hand on heart
Daddy’s girl who was brought up to believe in truth,
And, as someone kind once said,
“Truth floats.”
So, I am the always bobber to the topper,
The one that will not be sunk
Or get swept under
The carpet; even though
I am the one who my husband always says
Sticks my head above the parapet
And then, I become the one who complains when I get hit -
I am the shattered shot at which he is left to pick.
I am the sea!
No – really! I am!
Or maybe I am deceived
And the sea doesn’t really care about me…
I suppose – I am a little bit disgusting:
I am a pair of filthy boots
You’d never want to touch,
I am a naked sitter in freezing rivers
And I’m a terrible liker of weeing in wetsuits,
Or wearing the same clothes till they grow legs
And walk off…
Which is sometimes more than I can do:
I am often a cripple.
Not always - and right now I am doing quite well
Though I am an always aware of what’s around the cornerer
And I’m a mind battler too:
I am uneasy in bed in the mornings,
I am a not liker of too many thought interruptions.
I am a much too old and should know better worry
For my much too old parents to still
Have to fret about me.
Because although I am older, and I am wiser,
And steered by a
Meticulously well engineered
Empathy and bullshit radar,
I remain a loving, but hopeless disaster of a car crash of a daughter.
I am a pretty good sister.
But deep down,
I am nothing more
Than the child who likes to sneak off to hide
Amongst the gorse on the fairway,
Who sits quietly under the tin roof of her brother’s den,
And listens to the raindrops.
15 April 2018
* Sarah Kay 'If I Should Have A Daughter' - my favourite performance poem of all time
Just Like Heaven
A study of seronegative arthritis. This also evolved into a different poem that came to be the epilogue to my 20 minute performance epic, 'On Ravensdale Hill.'
A study of seronegative arthritis. This also evolved into a different poem that came to be the epilogue to my 20 minute performance epic, 'On Ravensdale Hill.'
I went for a walk in heaven today.
Well, there are worse places to lay down and die.
I slipped off my boots
And pulled up my hood,
Half exposed to the world
And half,
Shut off,
Then I lay down and lay down
And cried.
I lay down and lay down and cried.
My heart was erratic,
My lungs pumped for air,
The brambles had shredded my shin.
My tummy felt bugged
Like the tics on my shirt,
And the greenfly
That nipped as it
Hopped on my skin.
And the greenfly that
Hopped on my skin.
I was weak as a noodle,
Looked like death
From the strain,
Two whole weeks I'd spent
Mopping my blood.
Only to fall,
Off-beat, frail moment
Plunged in the poison,
And cursed
I'd gone fucked it all up.
And cursed
I'd gone fucked it all up.
I hear Raven calling,
He croaks a fine song,
Might have even be tempted
But his words are encrypted
And the bridge has been burnt.
I know it's a mocking,
A mocking of me,
And I sob and I sob and I sob.
And I sob and I sob and I sob.
Well, there are worse places to lay down and die.
I slipped off my boots
And pulled up my hood,
Half exposed to the world
And half,
Shut off,
Then I lay down and lay down
And cried.
I lay down and lay down and cried.
My heart was erratic,
My lungs pumped for air,
The brambles had shredded my shin.
My tummy felt bugged
Like the tics on my shirt,
And the greenfly
That nipped as it
Hopped on my skin.
And the greenfly that
Hopped on my skin.
I was weak as a noodle,
Looked like death
From the strain,
Two whole weeks I'd spent
Mopping my blood.
Only to fall,
Off-beat, frail moment
Plunged in the poison,
And cursed
I'd gone fucked it all up.
And cursed
I'd gone fucked it all up.
I hear Raven calling,
He croaks a fine song,
Might have even be tempted
But his words are encrypted
And the bridge has been burnt.
I know it's a mocking,
A mocking of me,
And I sob and I sob and I sob.
And I sob and I sob and I sob.