Time for another sonnet, I think. A Caudate or “tailed” one this time.

The title of this one is inspired by The Polari Bible and translates as “the light of god”.

The evening sky is lurid, shocking pink
A quite synthetic, unrealistic hue
The scudding clouds a shade of grey I think
would better be described as slatey blue.
It clashes horribly. Too bold, too bright.
The twilight should be understated, calm.
From perfect blue and spotless clouds of white
The sky should fade to subtle, lilac balm.
It almost makes me certain that there is
A joyful universal consciousness
Beauty can be an accident but this
Must be a joke: it could be nothing less!
I glory in the awful colour choices
And in my mind I hear angelic voices.
All raucous, out of time and quite off key,
Praising a tacky, camp divinity!

Had a rather nasty experience this weekend. People who constantly compliment the bodies of women they don’t know well, ignoring their opinions and/or requests to stop, and defending the behaviour as freedom of speech and harmless compliments…Oh… Just so not good for my emotional wellbeing.
Guys, I know it’s not most of you. I know that.
But a little rule of thumb here. If you want to pay a woman you do not know well a compliment, imagine saying it to a man. Does it make you sound gay? If so, it isn’t appropriate unless you’re in a specific dating context. Otherwise, you WILL look like a giant perv and freak her out. Even if she doesn’t say so. She’s gonnabe running off to the toilet with her friends to go “euuurgh creepy man!” No matter how polite she is to you. Know this. Know this.

Herewith a poetry PSA for a certain kind of male.
It’s a Hungarian form called a Balassi named after the creator.

It’s not charming or sweet
If you if you find that you treat
All the women you meet
As mobile decorations.
Admiring their beauty
(Or worse still, their booty)
And calling them cutie
Has some ramifications.
Though you may mean no harm
What you think of as charm
May cause women alarm
– Seems a lot like predation.

If the words women say
Seem to get in the way
But their tits are ok,
So their statements you ignore
They say you’re out of line
But you know that it’s fine
To see girls and think “mine”
Admiration; nothing more.
When they ask you to leave
You can hardly believe
This irrational peeve
So you stay, though they implore.

Why not try something new?
-It’s not all about you
And though it maybe true
That some people do have breasts,
They also have a brain
Their own past, their own pain
So I say once again,
That it really would be best
To see them as human
And stop with your grooming
I’m looking at you, man.
Be an ally. Not a pest.

This really happened. Yesterday. In an arty pub in Sheffield. Not in the mid eighties in a village pub like you’d think.
Thanks to Kate Garret for the funky Welsh form, and thanks to Gav Roberts for gallantly swapping drinks with me and drinking my “lady’s pint” even though we both wanted the cool big tankards which, by the way, weren’t that heavy.
Finally, apologies to the Welsh for my butchering of this usually lovely poetry form.

Poetry meeting:
“Business” was fleeting.
Drinking and eating
Weren’t very far.
Gav and I hankered
For beer in tankards
To get us wankered.
Went to the bar.

Now this is my peeve
Did my eyes deceive?
I couldn’t believe
What came to pass.
The barmaid came near
“Is that for you, dear?”
She said, with a sneer
“Have a ladies’ glass”

She poured Gav his drink
I could only blink
She said “I don’t think
That you realise.
“These things weigh a ton
You will have no fun”
I saw what she’d done
And rolled my eyes.

A tall, slender vase
Patterned with stars
What a bloody farce
I’ve not made this up.
Girls “can’t lift a stein”
If you go there to dine
Do they serve white wine
In sippy-cups?

This is hajaz metre. It’s like rajaz, but the stress is “di-dum-dum-dum” which reminds me of the rhythm I used to morris dance to, badly.

I used to to be in Oakworth Village Morris Girls.
Our uniforms, white pinafores and crimson frocks.
And green and yellow ribbons in our ponytails.
Completed with white hankerchiefs and ankle socks.

At village fêtes and old folks’ homes we’d do our stuff,
Accordion or violin for melody.
We skipped and hopped in perfect time. The morris step:
A dozen girls. Well, all of them except for me.

The morris step was difficult. You had to hop.
Then cross your feet then stamp them smartly every time
On top of this we moved in synchronicity.
I stumbled, tripped, and messed it up: a morris crime.

The teacher tried – she really did – to teach me how
To neatly step in perfect time, not make a scene.
But in the end, she couldn’t risk me blundering.
So I stood back and sadly shook the tambourine.

This is rajaz metre, which has a rhythm reminiscent of walking.
The following is really true.

Walking to town, using my legs, trying to be
Healthier and frugal as well. Sun on my face.
Beautiful day, breezy and bright, swinging my arms.
Look at the time, panic a bit, pick up the pace.

Will I be late? Speed walking now
Starting to sweat,
Checking my watch, gasping for breath – god I’m unfit!
This journey seems shorter when I get on the bus.
Only half way! Better speed up. Suddenly, “Shit!”

When I went out, iron was on. Did I forget?
Is it still hot, house burning down? Better go check.
Turn on my heel, wheezing I jog. Hope it’s ok.
Get to the door, stagger inside. Physical wreck!

No sign of smoke, iron is cold. I can’t believe
I turned and ran all the way home, made such a fuss.
Read in the face, horribly late, know when I’m beat
Walk out the door, fish out some change, get on the bus.

This poem, a rondine, was sparked off by my poet-friend Mpho Ya Badimo talking about South Africa.
It’s actually about that special form of oppression where those with the power try to convince the oppressed that “slightly less oppression than before” equals “equality”.
The myths that feminism is obsolete, civil partnership is the same as marriage, and that there is no trace of apartheid in South Africa are all examples of this.
To quote Mpho, “Eish!”

You scatter crumbs of liberty
So we can taste what we desire
It makes us feel we’re so much higher:
You tell us this is being free.

Think of the way it used to be!
To keep us hungry, douse our fire,
You scatter crumbs

You cheat us of our victory,
Although our situation’s dire
You call us fortunate. You liar!
How can you think we do not see
You scatter crumbs?

This one’s up early, I know. Inspiration struck twice in a day!

I feel awkward and shy, all alone in a crowd.
Never know what to say, I could curl up and die.
Am I rambling on? Too withdrawn or too loud?
But the people who know me can’t understand why,

When I swagger onstage on a confidence high,
And perform unafraid to a liquored up crowd
I think some of them think it’s a little white lie:
“I feel awkward and shy, all alone in a crowd.”

But the rhythms and rhymes put me up on a cloud:
When performing a poem I think I can fly.
But I come back to earth all embarrassed and cowed.
Never know what to say, I could curl up and die.

When my confident friends see me struggle they try
To convince me that I can be cool and unbowed
But they cannot get through as I stutter and sigh
Am I rambling on? Too withdrawn or too loud?

Is it low self esteem, or am I far too proud?
For this social anxiety’s really a cry
“Please accept me! Please tell me if I am allowed!”
But the people who know me can’t understand why.

But the end of this rondeau redoublé is nigh
So please try to remember what I have avowed:
When I’m up here I find it as easy as pie
But the fear when I leave’s like a smothering shroud:
I feel awkward and shy.