Have you ever been stung on an online real-time auction? There are more and more of these sites springing up every day. I’ve yet to come across one offering genuine bargains. Some auctions last just a couple of minutes and, although you can click on items to read the details, you don’t really have time and you don’t get much detail anyway. The auctions are peppered with meaningless words like “genuine”, “real” and “authentic” to suck in the unwary.
I was struggling with insomnia as usual tonight, so I wrote this, for a laugh…
It’s genuine silver-plated plastic,
a bargain at the price!
The bloody deal’s fantastic!
It’s going once, it’s going twice!
Get in there noo before it goes,
nae time tae check the detail!
Cross yer fingers and yer toes!
It’s the best in online retail!
The other day ah won a jacket,
it was “genuine Armani”.
But the feckin fake cost me a packet
and ah feel like such a fanny.
The thing is, everybody’s bidding,
they cannae all be daft.
Ach, who am ah bloody kidding,
nae wunner ma pals all say ah’m saft.
Today, Björn of dVerse Poets has set the challenge of considering how poetry expresses silence in its own unique way. He got me thinking about a short story I read in my German class at school when I was sixteen. It was by Heinrich Böll and it was called Dr. Murkes Gesammeltes Schweigen (Dr Murke’s Collected Silences). In it, a man records people speaking, then later cuts out and collects all the little silences between utterances to listen to later. I remember being mesmerised by the concept.
In my poem, Saturation, a young woman searches for the comforting silences of familiar childhood relationships, only to find that they’ve been ‘soaked up’, misappropriated, never to be heard again. Make of it what you will…
Where should I go
to find the silence
of back then
when Papa was still here?
Before I stopped believing
rain was angel tears?
Where’s the sound of snowfall
on distant mountains, of dew
settling on grass
like a flitting firefly,
while I still sleep?
Where’s the silent sound?
Why can’t I hear his silence
now that he’s gone, beyond
the place of whisperings?
I only hear
the noisy space
between his silence
and I’m deaf with it.
Mama, I know
where the silence went
when Papa left.
He didn’t take it with him.
I see it when you look at me.
It’s right there,
in your sponge-like eyes.
Had a very enjoyable afternoon at The FWS Tinsel Tales event at GOMA today. Makar Andy Jackson handed over the makarship to the wonderful Marjorie Lotfi Gill, who treated us to a wonderfully haunting reading from a long poem she wrote about her father’s journey as a refugee.
Such a variety of voices and themes, serious and humorous! A thoroughly refreshing afternoon!
It seems that my scrap of wallpaper was in demand after all. Three of my poems were accepted for publication in an American poetry journal called The Stray Branch. I’ll have to wait till next Autumn to see them in print but it was nice to have them accepted. I haven’t submitted much so I’m pleased with this result.
If I haven’t posted work recently, it’s because I’ve been trying to get some poems published and most publishers won’t consider previously published writing. Work posted on personal blogs counts as being published.
It’s been frustrating. You have to wait so long, months sometimes, just to get a ‘not this time, thank you’. Often, you don’t even get that. No matter how carefully you research the market and target certain publications, it’s soul destroying at times. I know I’m not alone in feeling frustrated but honestly, sometimes it feels like I’m sending out a scrap of old wallpaper in the hope that the recipient will have a damp patch on a wall the exact same size and shape of my scrap of wallpaper, in exactly the same pattern.
Maybe I should try the bloody Lottery…
I have never had to write a eulogy before. I am very sad that this one is for my father-in-law, who died last week.
for John Devlin
There was always mischief in your eyes,
a readiness to laugh and joke,
a kind man, though there were no flies
on you, you were a savvy bloke.
No problem ever was too big for you;
you always found a way around it.
When even Google didn’t have a clue,
by the time it loaded, you had found it.
An active man, you walked and cycled everywhere;
you put much younger folks to shame.
You wore the streets in Caldercruix threadbare
and now those streets are still, it’s not the same.
You wore your hair slicked back like Elvis,
whose every song you knew by heart.
And like the King, your humour was rebellious:
everybody knew that wit was your fine art.
If only I could have had more time with you
to set this world of ours to rights;
we shared a love of all that’s good and true;
we would have talked for days; we could have laughed for nights.
In life, you were an inspiration,
the way you faced each day without a care
and so take this, my dedication,
as a promise of remembrance, not a prayer.
Aspirin, Valium, Anadin, Omeprazole
Codeine, Brufen, Tramadol, I’ve had them all.
Diazepam, Prozac, trippy amitriptyline,
heads-a-spinning, tills-a-ringing, glorious carbamazepine!
HRT’s a patchy fix as tablets or transdermally;
Doctor Death is happy to prescribe them all quite merrily.
If arthritis gives you gyp, if you’ve had a broken hip,
don’t despair, the doctor’s there, he’ll prescribe a drug to sip.
Knock it back, swallow whole, take the jab (“it’s just a prick”)
Doctor Death will sort you out, she will stop you feeling sick.
Vaccinate, inoculate, protection while it’s not too late.
Constipation consternation, pills to make you defecate.
Are you feeling dizzy, pet? Have you called the doctor yet?
Don’t hold off if you’ve a cough. For ulcers you’ve got Tagamet.
Keep yourself out of the sun; jogging isn’t good for knees
Stop laughing if you don’t want wrinkles, stop your children climbing trees.
Danger lurks on every street and Doctor Death lives well on it
Don’t put your faith in cannabis or mumbo jumbo new age cures,
Reiki, reflexology, holistic healing reassures
but Doctor Death outlives them all, he alone can sign you off:
“She died of cancer, heart disease; he died of rickets, whooping cough.”
Doctor Death can’t give you, though, your longed for happy ever after.
On my stone, the words will read: “Another woman died of laughter.”
When you’ve had enough of grief, of fear and crying, rage and sorrow,
Laughter lands like soothing snow to help you to forget tomorrow.
If it didn’t make me so angry, the Tory Party Conference would have me peeing myself laughing… I offer this poem as my contribution to open link night at dVerse Poets. Thank you Kim!
Mrs May’s bangle
Don’t bother counting swallows,
I can tell you it’s not summer yet.
Winter after winter follows and
my wager is as safe as wagers get
that speeches will be shallow
at the Tory Party Conference,
where wearing bangled images of Frida Kahlo
does not inspire public confidence.
Maybe counting birds isn’t such a bad suggestion;
but which season follows next, that is the question.
Frank Hubeny of dVerse Poets has set the challenge this week to write a poem about some aspect of sleep, or sleeplessness. Here we go:
in a bustling playground of boisterous boys
it’s easy to spot the black sheep
the one left out of all the games
for permission to play
the only time they let him in
is when he’s het
a different kind of loneliness
they never tire of teasing
squeezing his self respect dry
like a lemon
years later as a father
he watches his own child play
those bitter games
for now he is
in nights as white
not quite catching
those elusive drops
A bit dark, this one. BBC Radio 4 recently broadcast an interview with a former resident (inmate??) of the Lanark orphanage run by a Catholic order. Her story is chilling. This poem is in memory of the victims of Smyllum Park and other places like it.
(dedicated to all child victims of abuse)
I am accused
They make me lick my vomit off the floor
I sleep in piss and this
is my fault
I was caught