Bemused

Bad News: My muse has got the blues, she's under the duvet, says she'll choose to become a recluse, I tried to coax her out but she refused.

Wordfail

As carelessly I stretched and reached

to grasp a metaphor,

the ladder I’d invested with my faith

betrayed it’s nature-

not a simple noun,

as I’d assumed, but

masquerading adjective,

lad, ladder, laddest

so in laddishness deposited

my poor sore self

and as I fell the metaphor,

dislodged, came flapping,

falling with me,

in descent

and disarray.

I lay

a supine, spavined, broken poet,

the metaphor, elusive still,

flitting just beyond 

my reach, like a

falling, flapping,

flitting 

thing.

The Museum Muse

Yesterday I took part in a performance poetry workshop at Bewdley Museum with the very wonderful Heather Wastie and Emma Purshouse. We took two poems to perform, one of our own and one written by someone else. I used the as-yet-untitled first poem I have ever written especially for a Love Slam (competitive poetry event) so that I could try it out on an audience, and also chose a poem by the incomparable John Hegley entitled 'Coming for Christmas'. I thought that it worked for performance and was quite challenging. 
We also got to look around this lovely museum and write something inspired by the objects, displays, interpretation or surroundings. I wrote two poems, using different voices (we performed them later).

The first was the voice of an elegant two-piece ladies outfit from 1895:


I have taken afternoon tea, 
with ladies of high quality,
I'll have you know, 
and even though
I've now been put on show,
a relic of those bygone days,
I don't mind being subject
to your gaze.
From what I see from here
the clothes you're wearing 
wouldn't last 
a half a year.


The next poem was inspired by the stocks, and a story about two boys caught playing marbles in Wribbenhall Parish Churchyard and put in the stocks as punishment. The vicar took pity on them, as it was snowing, and sent someone out with a rug!


It was only bleedin marbles after all...
not as if I swore or somethin
now me feet are bleedin freezin
why they gone an put us ere?
Ere's the vicar, 
come to let us out.
Oh no, 
it's just to put a rug 
upon us. 
Bugger.




I also started a poem about slaughterhouses which I'll finish in due course as it's a very strong subject so I'd like to take my time and do it justice.
I'd like to thank Heather and Emma for a great day, and everyone else who attended for being such good company. Oh, and do visit the lovely Bewdley, and its Museum, if you haven't already (and if you have, why not go again?)

                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

The Reluctant Poem

Hold a pen above the page, shake it like a ketchup bottle jolted o’er a plate and hope the blob of words that oozes forth is worth the wait.

T#138

Rhymey

ABCD, free, key, bended knee, 
coffee, tea, killer bee, 
sweet pea, referee, 
Japanese pagoda tree,
guarantee, 
first degree, 
absolute insanity. 


T#137

Oh No! It was such Fun!.

Disappointment’s definition really ought to read: finding you can’t zoom around hovering above the ground, as you did in last night’s dream.


T#135

Feeding Fastidious Micro-organisms

I’ve got a microscopic pet, he’s quite a fussy eater, yet this brain heart infusion broth is ideal food for Daniel, my streptococci spaniel.

I read the following (don’t ask me how or why) and was determined to use the information in a poem:

Brain heart infusion broth is a highly nutritious general-purpose growth medium for fastidious microorganisms, such as streptococci, pneumococci and meningococci. It is made by the recuperation of nutrients from boiled cattle hearts and brains. Soluble factors are released into the broth during the boiling procedure. The broth can then be turned into powder for easy distribution.




T#133

Oh look, there’s the Queen...

Don’t let fashions, frocks and hats distract, nor seeking out a famous face, just remember- Derby Day is all about the horses, and the race.

T#131

Make Her Stop...

After death come clichés, 

prosaic or profound, 

in speeches, verse or song. 

Some bring comfort, maybe, 

but Celine Dion 

goes on 

and on 

and on.

T#129

The Bird Table Burglar

There is no sign to tell the thief this treasure is not his;

the seeds serve bird and squirrel both alike. 

Besides, his antics make me smile

 T#124

Justifying Lying-in

The extra time in bed is thinking time, working out another rhyme or planning ahead the course of the day, well that’s what I’ll say anyway.

T#123