Seasick, yet still docked.

For my post graduate course I have been trawling my Norton Anthology of Poetry to find a suitable poem to use in a peer teaching activity next week. I didn't want a poem too archaic, but then I couldn't use a modern Benjamin Zephaniah as I thought it might be too hard to break apart and reassemble.

Stock cheesy photo as I am far to tired to snap my own, that is for a whole new post entirely!

I could sit and read poetry all day. I could bore my peers senseless raving on about Ted Hughes' The Thought Fox and how much I love it, but you know I've got to be diverse yeah? Shakespeare got deemed too intimidating along with Wordsworth and Coleridge. Although I briefly considered the relationship between the two poets and could have totally switched lanes regarding my creative writing peer teach I focused on finding a simple poem rich with everyday words. Khubla Khan is too big a concept to introduce to new poets on virgin territory and The Goblin Market by Christina Rossetti. Well, where do you start with that?

Listen to this glorious poem of MANNNNNNY meanings)

This is such a good recording of this wonderful poem, I dare you to listen to it, and rethink what you think poetry actually is.

Anyway, do you want to know what apt poem I found?

"Sea-Fever"
John Masefield

I must down to the seas again,to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.
I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

This poem has a great deal of words about the sea, including the word 'spume'. the most glorious word in the English Language if you were to ask me. So lots of words that can be moved around. Gosh, That was some good thinking on my part. 

Still left wondering why I titled this post with a Morrissey song? Well, it's going to be playing in the background as my peers create poetry. Ta-dahh! I always get him in somewhere. #mozarmy etc.

Virtual Silence?

Poppies

By Liz Lochhead

My father said she'd be fined

at best, jailed maybe, the lady

whose high heels shattered the silence.

I sat on his knee, we were listening

to the silence on the radio. 

My mother tutted, oh that it was terrible,

as over our air

those sharp heeltaps struck steel, rang clear

as a burst of gunfire or a laugh

through those wired up silent streets around the Cenotaph.

Respect.

Remembrance.

Surely when was all said

two minutes silence in November

wasn't much to ask for the dead?

Poppies on the mantlepiece, the photograph

of a boy in a forage cap, the polished

walnut veneer of the wireless,

the buzzing in the ears and when

the silence ended the heldfire voice

of the commentator, who was shocked,

naturally,but not

wanting to make too much of it.

Why did she do it?

Was she taken sick - but that was no

excuse on the radio it said,

couldn't you picture it?

how grown soldiers buttoned in their uniforms

keeled over, fell like flies

trying to keep up the silence.

Maybe it was looking at the khaki button eye

and the woundwire stem

of the redrag poppy

pinned in her proper lapel

that made the lady stick a bloody bunch of them

behind her ear

and clash those high heels across the square,

a dancer.

Who tells us to be silent at 11am? 

I noticed how pushy twitter became this morning. How rude is it not to observe a virtual silence? VIRTUAL SILENCE? I mean, what is that?Does it mean silence from the woodpecker clicks of the iWorld? Can we click keys whilst being silent, if I put my phone on silent?   IT did make me think of a beautiful line of poetry by Liz Lochhead though; 'listening to the silence on the radio'. The idea of the brash lady wearing the poppy behind her ear in defiance. Who instutionalises time?

I took time to think of my Nana who was buried on this day, but I didn't do it at 11am sharp.

I'll be fined at best, jailed maybe.

So take time to think of your loved ones, it doesn't have to be 11am on a Sunday because the world says so.  

I had to type this poem in myself, it is my little gift to you as it can't be found anywhere on the internet. The academic in me feels she should reference it. Showing admiration for the poet whilst doing so. I always go back to this poem especially when I am stuck. Either that or I look at my foot. 

KINSMAN. J.(ed) (1992) Six Women Poets. Frome & London: Oxford University Press.

Not So Simple Suppertime Thought.

So once again it is Friday. This day happens on a regular basis, but it is gone before you know it. I have a whole weekend ahead of me to think of poems for an assignment. I need one ripe with plenty of words, words that look good in any combination, words easy to use but rich in flavour. (Do excuse me I've been watching Nigel Slater's Simple Suppers).

Firstly, I thought about using Night Mail by WH Auden but I cannot induce doggerel, so I'll need another. DON'T EVER SUGGEST WORDSWORTH TO ME! What do we do when we are seeking inspiration and wandering the videoblogosphere? We go to the friend of the procrastinator; You Tube. You're lucky, it's not chicken olympics this time but something utterly terrifying; OLD RADIO SPEAKING!

Haunting bellowing tones. W.B Yeats' recordings incite fear at the very thought. I wouldn't sound so scary reading out a poem, but their voices bellow over vale and yonder, drenched in sadness and woe.

I can't type any more I'm trying to find videos of Nancy Mitford speaking quaintly on the eccentricities of her life. BRB etc.

And then I found William Carlos Williams

This is just to say

So I am sat here practicing modelled reading; that is to expressively read aloud. I'm using one of my own poems to practice. I am also googling red Ford Mondeos. All will become clear. It made me think though, think of all the useless things I look up on a daily basis. Aside from the Morrissey videos and make up tutorials I found myself keying the letters c-h-i-c-k-e-n-o-l-y-m-p-i-c-s. Yep, that's right. CHICKEN OLYMPICS. What an earth is going on there? Do you even want to know? (There was a slightly humorous advert with a chicken doing a triple jump.) The worst part of this is, I couldn't even find the Happy Egg Company advert where I saw it. What I did find was someone videoing chickens in a race.

 Here you are, my  pleasure etc.

Well the strange thing is, I could have thought about these chickens all day. I could have looked up breeds of chicken. I could have looked for another word to describe the chicken's feathers? pelt? who cares? How they pecked angrily around nonchalantly crossing the finishing line. Think up a half rhyme for Usian Bolt. What for exactly? I don't know but it gives me something to talk about here. So if I think of these things on average 468 times a day, what else do I do?

Eventually, I found an image of a red mondeo. It isn't even that exciting.

An Apology to the Great Red Shark

It served me well

travelled

for fifty thousand miles.

Was spacious

bright;

The Great Red Shark.

Bumper cracked,

dented

wing, but.

But I’m sorry

it just had to go.

Be replaced

with something

so cool

so old.

At the time of writing this, I was well and truly in the throes of love for William Carlos Williams. Something about tangible everyday object you say? YES please I say. When I asked @timkeypoet what his favourite poem was he told me it was 'This Is Just To Say'. It is safe to say I am now in throes of writerly admiration for Tim Key. 

Click to read the awesome 'plums' poem.

A Daily Win.

Today I have thought to much about poetry. Here is the over spill.

 I've dragged myself to the laptop yet again without a clear idea of what I am going to write. I've always enjoyed the serendipitous feel of free writing. It really does limber up and stretch one's vocabulary.

Why does everyone assume poetry has to rhyme? We all know the old adage about what assuming makes so I'm not going to go in to it here. What is exactly poetic about describing a period like a moon? Why can't we use flowery flamboyant language to explain the everyday? It's a little daily win to me; to use a ridiculous word, or get my dictionary.com word of the day into an everyday sentence. I could probably do with thinking of more important things than this, but hey-ho it is not unpleasant.

DO YOU KNOW WHO DESCRIBES THE EVERYDAY IN FLOWERY LANGUAGE?

Gawd, I knew I'd get him in somewhere! (A little win for me!) So bear this in mind as you read my next poem.

The Appointment.

Dreading the day.

That appointment with Gaynor.

“No need to be shy, we're all girls here.

I've seen them like yours love,

and plenty bigger!”

Her hands

dishwasher soft, yet cold

as she slides two fingers under the strap.

A sigh as she runs the width of my back.

“Look at our new range,

they are in every shape, size and colour!”

So I tentatively creep around the corner

reluctant to raise my eyes,

not wanting to look.

I stopped.

In awe, I stood.

In front of the bras

in every shape, size and colour!

A child in a sweet shop. Aching to try every one.

I handled the huge ones.

Consoled myself that yes!

There were ones bigger!

One after another I tried them on,

studying myself in the flattering mirror.

Twisting to the side,

my hands on my hips.

Until my reflection defiantly told me my new year’s resolution.

Jeni, don't hide that womanly shape,

Don't crush them away!

Just be a Goddess in your 36G!

November? Movember?

Movember? NaNoWriMo? No.

A blog a day keeps the demons at bay.

It appears to me that November seems to be a month for getting things done. Is it because the evenings are getting shorter and we need more goals to get through a truly miserable month? It's not December, but it's not back-to-school September or half-term-halloween. A month sandwiched between two eventful months. 

First up; Movember. Such a pleasing idea to me. Thing is I am still too proud to show off my mustache in support of men's health. I would guys, but I need to keep hold of some kind of dignity while I can. 

Some other people use November to write a novel. So many words per day etc. Strange? I know. I just cannot entertain the idea of a plot at the moment, busy and all the other excuses you could possibly think of. I still need to flex that writing muscle before it gets weighed down in Havard referencing and objective writing. I am in no way procrastinating here. Well, I lie. I am a bit. 

 So 500 words a day. I wonder how many people that statement has already put off. To cut a long cliched story short I have decided to create a blog so it becomes #NaBloWriMo. National BLOG writing month. Here we are stuck in a dreary November and I really have nothing else better to do. 

I'VE SAID IT NOW I HAVE TO DO IT!

What is it going to be about? Well, it is already the 6th November and I've failed to come up with a unique selling point for my blog. Can't think of a witty name to join the dearth of beauty bloggers out there. So it's a LIFESTYLE blog. How ingenious? It covers most aspects. I can ramble on about books from my Manchester Shelf (yes, I've made it a proper noun because it is that good), make up, poetry, Lego or whatever takes my fancy. Lifestyle yah?

Today poetry takes my fancy. So here we are.

Those Intimate Times

There is no other mouth but yours,

Your mouth belongs to me.

I am there first thing in the morning.

Standing defiant

Awaiting your kiss,

whilst slightly obstructing your view to the mirror.

An intimate moment

when you pick me up,

I’m still tired from last night!

Your fingers,

so sleepy, so warm and so wet

grasp me tightly.

Run some water and freshen me up!

Slide a smooth paste all over my prickling bristles.

Next is my favourite part

When you open your mouth

And guide me in.

Letting me search your deepest crevices

exploring, sometimes finding new cracks.

I wrote this. It is my favourite type of poetry, well the only type of poetry. Poetry about inanimate objects; not periods and moons or wombs. When I wrote this I became obsessed with the word 'paste'. The way it whirls around the mouth before reliving the 'spitting sound' of the second syllable.

"Enough" she said "that is it until tomorrow!"