Plain Brown Wrapper

And so another Pub Poets' meeting descended, and with it the theme 'plain brown wrapper'. And, as is becoming a habit, I'm writing the poem during the afternoon when the meeting is scheduled for the evening.

So what do I write? No idea. Just start writing then, and see what emerges. Part way through, I had an idea for the ending - which may need some explanation for those unfamiliar with the group (i.e. probably most of you). Ashley Lister teaches English and creative writing at the local college, hosts the Pub Poets' open mic sessions with much hilarity, and is a much published author of erotica. 'Nuff said.

Plain Brown Wrapper

I got a little package
in the post the other day.
It was wrapped in plain brown paper
and not marked in any way.
Okay, if you’re pedantic
you many point out my address;
That this should mark the package
- or did the postman guess?
But I’ll ignore such picky words;
the snides won’t get me down.
Ignore the printed label there;
the rest was plain and brown.

The bloke who brought the package,
he was plain and wrapped-up too.
He didn’t come from Royal Mail –
instead, some other crew.
He got into an unmarked van
and drove off down the street.
An independent courier
or maybe just discreet.
I closed the door and went inside,
the package in my hand,
and that is when I noticed
that the wrapping was so bland.

Perhaps it was just marketing;
another new campaign
from Virgin mobile or such firms –
they really are a pain.
I looked at it and shook it
and I pondered, “Where’s it from?”
I wondered, “What could be inside?”
Perhaps a letter bomb!
I laughed at my stupidity
“Who’d want to blow up me?
I’m not like Katie Hopkins
Or a government MP.”

It could not be from Amazon –
they’re never in disguise.
Their name emblazoned on the side;
their parcels advertise.
Besides, I’d made no orders
when I tried to wrack my brain,
so who would send me something
wrapped in paper – brown and plain?
I know what you are saying:
Why not simply have a look?
I did, and then it all came clear:

I’d sent for Ashley’s book.

The Foul-Mannered Bureaucrat

For the looming Pub Poets night on 3 April, I was trying to think what to write, I considered limericks and ended up thinking about Edward Lear and his poem "The Owl and the Pussycat".

That's how I came to write a parody - and the alternative title had me thinking about failed attempts to influence local government and how these might feasibly be circumvented by those ruling the country.

The Foul-Mannered Bureaucrat

The foul-mannered bureaucrat went to see
how the dutiful cast their vote.
But something was funny despite all the money
wrapped up keeping int'rests afloat.
He scowled, wond'ring what they were all thinking of,
As he sat in the town hall bar,
You're not too fussy, when push comes to shove,
How incredibly wussy you are – you are,
How incredibly wussy you are.

Thus he said "Rank and file – will think a denial
is something your conscience should bring.
But payment's sufficient, so don't be deficient;
you know how the government swing."
Then he went away, coming back the next day
to then stand where the "throng"'s opposed.
And as we knew he would – an officer stood
with results now the votes had been closed,
as supposed,
with results now the votes had been closed.

"I declare to those seated – the motion's defeated."
Said the bureaucrat softly –"oh bum"
So he went back down south, a bad taste in his mouth
to the Minister at the Asylum.
But all was not lost; despite extra cost
the Minister said "I'm no fool.
Set up a committee from friends in the City
the locals we will overrule
we rule,
the locals we will overrule."

The Captain was a Ladies' Man

These are the lyrics to a Sea Shanty I was inspired to write earlier this week. You see, in addition to the poetry lark, I'm currently rehearsing as part of a group called the Lytham St Annes Shanty Crew, formed by my mate Joel in the latter third of last year.

The title of the piece says it all really. Imagine a group of sailors reminiscing about a skipper they shared; a man who seemed to have a romantic dalliance in every port and ended up having to scarper.

Performance notes:
A soloist sings the first and fourth line of each verse (shown in italics), and everyone sings the rest. The Chorus is sang after each verse. Optionally, a second soloist can sing the second and fifth lines, with a different person responding in each verse.

The Captain was a Ladies' Man


Do you remember Jack the Lad?
Best skipper that we ever had
We do! We do! The things the captain used to do…
Jack Dawes he was a ladies’ man
But with a low attention span!
No way – he’d stay – And that is why we say…

CHORUS
The captain was a ladies’ man
A girl in every port
And half the time we set to sea
To stop him being caught.
Aboard the ship he’d run the crew
With fair and steady hand
But once ashore again he’d be –
Jack Dawes the ladies’ man.

Do you remember in St Annes?
Was that the time they read the banns?
We do! We do! The things the captain used to do…
He liked the girl but not to wed
He grabbed his boots and off he fled
No way – he’d stay – And that is why we say…

Do you remember Grimsby town?
The time the blonde twins tracked him down?
We do! We do! The things the captain used to do…
He won the game of hide-and-seek
He smelled of haddock all that week!
No way – he’d stay – And that is why we say…

Do you remember Rotterdam?
The time he got into a jam?
We do! We do! The things the captain used to do…
The green light that he thought he saw
Was red and not worth paying for,
No way – he’d stay – And that is why we say…

Do you remember in Bangkok
The time we spent a week in dock?
We do! We do! The things the captain used to do…
He ran off after quite a shock
It was a man inside a frock!
No way – he’d stay – And that is why we say…

Do you remember when he died?
The mourners came from far and wide (aah)
We do! We do! The things the captain used to do…
But even then we had to smile
With six wives fighting in the aisle!
He did – not stay – And that is why we say…

[Rehearsal performance on YouTube: https://youtu.be/vv0AJyLCXWg  ]

Leaping Into The Unknown

The February Pub Poets' theme of "Leaping Into The Unknown" made me think of virtual reality, so that's the inspiration for this poem.

And why not throw in a few TV show references and a bit of science fiction for good measure?

Leaping Into The Unknown

It must have been five years ago
Or thereabouts, I guess
The time I took a diff’rent job
so had to change address.
Much nearer to my cousin Chris
whom I’d not seen for years
so it was great to reacquaint
ourselves and share some beers.

One night when we’d run out of cans
(around about half-nine),
I sneaked down to his cellar where
I thought he kept his wine.
But what I found beneath his house
led to the Twilight Zone.
Before too long I’d take a leap
Into the vast unknown.

Before me, racks of DVDs
with walls of hi-tech gear,
a padded suit suspended high
within a plastic sphere.
And as I looked around the room
my cousin joined my side.
“You’ve found my secret world,” he said,
“You wanna take a ride?”

“I built all this advanced A. I. –    
a brain that fabricates
a virtual environment
from DVD base states.
You choose the video you want
from those stacked hereabout.
You get inside the padded suit
and tune the real world out.”

Well Chris was quite persuasive
(and drinking played its part)
so I was soon inside the sphere,
the system set to start.
My expectations were not high;
imagine my surprise
when I was next to Captain Kirk
upon the “Enterprise”.

I found that I could move around
but still remain unseen,
and I could look around the set
where cam’ras hadn’t been.
Extrapolated images
accounted for all this,
and all from software programmed by
my clever cousin Chris.

The next few weeks I spent my time
in many diff’rent zones.
I visited each TARDIS and
each place in Game of Thrones.
I mooched round Downton Abbey just
to see the rooms they’d got.
I went to Pasadena and
I sat in Sheldon’s spot.

I sat upon the tram that knocked
one Alan Bradley down,
but when I saw who shot J.R.
a thought caused me to frown.
I realised that not a one
of Chris’s discs were fact;
Yes: dramas, plays and comedies.
Non-fiction discs he lacked.

He’d missed an opportunity,
but I’d not, so next day,
I brought some vintage footage of
that “Shot” at JFK.
A solo flight while Chris was out:
he’d given me a key
So I would do my own research
In Dallas, ’63.

When I walked up the grassy knoll
There was a gunman – true!
But he saw me – to my surprise –
His shot went off askew.
A sort of pop and I was back
although the room had changed.
No Chris, no discs, no padded suit.
The past – now rearranged.

The flesh wound now a killer shot
that took out JFK.
My former past is now unknown
because I leaped that day.

Going Underground

A new year. A new venue for the Pub Poets open mic events in Blackpool. A new poem from me.

The theme for the poem was "going underground", presumably because the new venue is below ground level. When trying to decide what to write for my poem, I thought of moles, rabbits, Wombles, the Tube in London (discarded, since I've never been there) and Paul Weller (because of the Jam's first UK number one single). Nope. My mind went another way.

Oh, and again for benefit of non-UK readers, some years ago many towns and cities boasted a Littlewoods department store.

Going Underground

This tale is set some years ago
when corner shops were not so rare,
when youngsters thought the Beatles ‘fab’
but parents worried ‘bout their hair.
A time of change, and in one town
they opened a department store –
the only one for miles around
with many wonders on each floor.
An architectural tour de force:
five floors of goods for him and her
from gift shop ‘neath the glass-domed roof
to basement, where staff toilets were.

So now we have the where and when.
The who’s a guy called Jimmy Woods,
a shop assistant in the store
who had a job in “fancy goods”.
He loved his job; he did it well,
enjoying how it went for him
until the bosses saw his skill
and forced promotion on young Jim.
The problem with this change of role,
walking more than he would choose
it filled his bladder quicker but
he couldn’t use the basement loos.

This problem going underground:
the reason why, he did not know.
With Subterranean redbrick loos
the urine simply would not flow.
That first time Jim thought he could use
a bucket in a changing room,
but explanations to the staff?
Beyond the pale – so I assume.
He thought he’d try the alleyway
to ease the pressure down below,
but buskers played there all the day
so that was not the place to go.

He couldn’t find a single place
instead of going underground,
so going here and going there
he thought he’d spread himself around.
First, finding an umbrella stand,
he briefly stopped to wee in that.
And pausing at the milliners
he widdled in a bowler hat.
He widdled in a Grecian Urn,
he widdled in a non-stick pan,
but just a few drops in each place
until he found a better plan.

The pressure off, with time to think
he set himself a simple task:
a method to contain himself.
Solution - buy a Thermos flask.
His claustrophobic bladder then
would have no reason to refuse,
as later he could take his flask
to empty in the basement loos.
And now you know the reason for
this mystery at Littlewoods
They never found the culprit there.
The one who left the widdle: Woods.

'Tis The Season

It's been a while since I updated the blog. No excuses - I've been dividing my time between doing other things and... doing absolutely nothing. That's not to say I haven't been writing some poetry - primarily for the Pub Poets events - so I'll add the Christmas poem I wrote for the December event. I know that the seasonal hiatus has now passed, but now you have the chance to reminisce without the alcoholic haze.

[Note for non-UK readers - DFS are a company who advertise on TV selling furniture, and it is a running joke that they are forever having new sales]

'tis The Season

‘Tis the season – ivy, holly, Carols playing – very jolly,
Digging out the Christmas tree, Festive adverts on TV,
Watch the new John Lewis ad, Argue if it’s good or bad,
Stores competing for success, Winter sales from DFS.

‘Tis the season to go shopping, Carols playing – never stopping,
Weather starting to go colder, Greetings yelled by Noddy Holder,
Christmas lights appear in trees, Toys invoking children’s pleas,
Will the parents acquiesce? Further sales from DFS.

‘Tis the season to go spending, Carols playing – never ending
Trying hard to disregard – The urge to use the credit card,
Chestnuts, cheeseboards all about, The enigmatic Brussel sprout –
Eaten under some duress. Another sale from DFS.

‘Tis the season to go buying, Carols playing – very trying,
on all those T.V. promos too – Strictly, Sherlock, Doctor Who
Tinsel and Baubles put up then – We’ll shortly take them down again.
The price of stamps: the cards cost less. Yet more sales from DFS. 

‘Tis the season to overspend; Will those carols ever end?
The time of year is certain when, The famous grouse appears again,
But the three drinks inebriant are*: Sherry, Baileys and advocaat.
Alcohol to great excess. Miss a sale from DFS.

‘Tis the season to booze and scoff. I’ve scared the carol singers off.
I’ve locked the door and dimmed the light. I’ll settle for a silent night.
Some box-sets if I change my mind; In case I feel that way inclined.
I call it Dodging Festive Stress – abbreviated – D F S.

* To be read in a manner reminiscent of "We Three Kings of Orient Are"

Number

The November Pub Poet's poetry theme was "I want to be in that number", intended to be a "When the Saints come marching in" reference, it being around All Saints Day. I decided to interpret the word "number" differently. As in numb. So inspired, I wrote the following.


Number

I want to be in that number state
that stops me getting so irate
at news reports I read on-line,
events that seek to undermine
the way of life we now expect,
injustices and disrespect
that make me mutter, shake my head
and read beneath what others said
and find the comments that concur
with what I feel, make my heart stir,
but then I see a few replies
by people blinded by the lies,
and I despair how this can be,
and then I wonder, is it me?

I want to be in that number state
where one ignores the sorry fate
of all those people who have lost
their homes because the extra cost
of payments banks so sorely need
outweigh compassion, didn’t concede
that when they lent the money out
(smiling sweetly without doubt)
they didn’t care that markets change
and now refuse to rearrange
repayments to traverse this blip.
Instead they say “abandon ship”.
Is this the Big Society?
I doubt it though – perhaps that’s me.

I want to be in that number  state
where stomachs do not ulcerate
from worry prompted by the news
and over-dramatic interviews
with talking heads who talk too much
exacerbating such and such
to vilify minorities
and bring them firmly to their knees,
discrimination to ignore
until there’s change within the law
to move us to another phase
as done with women, race and gays.
But for now we cannot tolerate.
So tell me, is it right to hate?

I want to be in that number  group
That will accept the bovine poop
as spoken by that Minister
and not see all the sinister
decisions and precise incisions
cutting us in fine divisions,
whilst reducing key resources
“competition” – this of course is
divide and conquer, tried and true,
diverting us from what they do;
manipulation of the press:
a new pariah to address.
Surely other folk must see?
I wonder then, perhaps just me?

But apathy is wearing thin;
More people discarded in the bin,
It’s tempting to avoid the strife –
I don’t like conflict in my life –
but maybe we’ve not long to wait
to break free from the maiden aunt
I want to be in that number state –
but conscience says, “Me? No I can’t.”