Just in under the wire with posting this, but it’s not the easiest thing updating a daily blog on the hoof. We just got back from a trip to London in which we cheered on Jow getting his personal best of 4 hrs 7 seconds (wow) in the marathon, and went to the London Zine Symposium – at which I sat down at the “help make a zine” table and scrawled out a version of this poem which had been fermenting in my head all day. It will go in a compilation zine made of contributions on the day. However I saved the rough draft to type up and upload, and I’m aware I made slightly different changes, so this is the “high tech” version of the poem.

“You’re never more than 10 feet from a rat”
A friend once said, with relish, “when in London
No matter where you are, they find a way
To stay close to humanity. It’s dreadful:
In some on-trend boutique you’ll hear a cry –
A scabby rodent scurries in the door,

Scaring the clientele, who find the door
And leave, en masse, disgusted by the rat
Who disregards the way they shriek and cry
And boldly grooms his whiskers, seeing London
As his domain, not ours. I think it’s dreadful
(she repeated) so I want to move away.”

I started, then, to think about the way
– Before I can rush blindly for the door
(because “making a scene” makes me feel dreadful) –
I feel the sadness creeping like a rat
Down greasy tearduct-pipes, when I’m in London.
This bloody city always makes me cry.

And then I saw him, in my mind, the Cry-
Ing Rat. When I’m in someone’s way
And they barge past, give me that glare that London-
Ers do well, or when I’m lurkIng by the door
At someone’s trendy party, then the rat,
All scabby-tailed, embarrassing and dreadful,

Skulks out of me in sobs, and I feel dreadful
It’s mortifying when I start to cry
In public, but my friend the crying-rat
Could not care less. He has a funny way
Of creeping in my brain by the back door
And boom! I’m wailing. On the street. In London.

I couldn’t tell you why it is that London
Does this to me, and, though I it’s dreadful
To make a fuss, the rat and I adore
Abandoning the etiquette to cry
“This city sucks! I want to run away!”
Phil Larkin had his Toad, I have my Rat.

And so, some doors are closed to me in London
The crying-rat makes socialising dreadful.
Embrace the crying. It’s the only way.

Written on a car trip to London. Thanks are due to another Emma, who’s nearly 5, and obligingly focused on fighting carsickness long enough to suggest six words for me.

Once upon a time, there was a piggy
Whose best friend was a purple unicorn.
One day she shouted “Uni!” very loud
And when Uni looked up, she gave a wave.
“what’s up?” he asked. “I want to be a star”
Said piggy, “and become an astronaut.”

“why do you want to be an astronaut?
you are a very silly little piggy!
Only a unicorn can be a star.
Pigs can’t go into space!” said Unicorn.
And laughed and gave his horn a little wave.
I don’t think you would even be allowed

To go inside the rocket! You’re too loud
And dirty to become an astronaut.”
Piggy sat down and then she felt a wave
Of sadness which swept right over her piggy
Self. She was not like the unicorn:
Unusual enough to be a star.

“perhaps you’re right: I’ll never be a star”
She sighed “I wouldn’t be allowed.
What would I do without a unicorn
To tell me not to be an astronaut?”
And Unicorn looked at his friend the piggy
Who stared, dejected at each ocean wave,

And said “maybe in your case they will waive
The rules and you can go and bestar.
Don’t give up hope, you’re such a clever piggy!
Let’s go to NASA, neigh and squeal real loud,
Until they let you be an astronaut”
And so the piggy and the unicorn

The piggy and her friend the unicorn
Both neighed and squealed and Grunted stamped and waved.
Until somebody said “that pig’s a star!
We need a little mascot astronaut,
Let’s take her into space, if we’re allowed!
And Unicorn said “goodbye, little piggy!”

“My friend’s an astronaut” boasts Unicorn
While high above Piggy looks down to wave.
Now she’s a star. with joy she squeals aloud.

I spent an inordinate amount of time, yesterday evening (well, a couple of hours ago) laughing at my dear friend and tongue-brother* Tim Ralphs for being a luddite and not liking Twitter.

In fact, not only has Tim been a creative inspiration and performance role model to me for years now, he’s also a bloody brilliant friend, whether or not he can manage, one day, to squeeze his genius into 140 character bursts.

A while back he did an introduction at his night The Story Forge which, appropriately enough, really fired my imagination. Being more of a fan of the written (as opposed to spoken) word than Tim is, generally, I was delighted to discover that he’d written it down and used it on his website, so I could enjoy it again.

And nick it to make a sestina out of.

So, Tim, this one is for you.

He says “The tongue’s like a red headed match.
We strike it, “Ta-Dah-Dy” on the rough roof
Of the mouth and with that spark we light a flame.
And then? (he says) And then the lungs are bellows
And words melt in the crucible of the ear,
Cold-black, red-warm, white-hot and we forge dreams.”

It’s like a voice you’d hear within your dreams
Narrating unobtrusively. It match-
es
Your imagination. In your ear
It gently coos, like pigeons in the roof.
You hardly know it’s there and yet those bellows
Can fire imagination to a flame.

Sometimes I think his mind must be aflame
With inspiration. Every night his dreams
Must burgeon with mythology. The bellows
Of his lungs force out the words that light the match
Which lights up all our faces. And the roof
Is raised. He whispers jokes into your ear

Although he’s on the stage. It’s almost eer-
ie How his voice is like a flame
Which blooms, filling the room up to the roof
Immersing us in story. Oh, the dreams
We’ll dream tonight will be a perfect match
With what he speaks, declaims, murmurs and bellows.

His stories, when I hear them, pump the bellows
And fire my creativity. My ear
Takes in the passion, tempting me to match
It with my poetry, and yet his flame
Of genius, It taunts me in my dreams,
Escapes me, like a bat up in the roof.

The tongue strikes, “Ta-Dah-Dy” on the rough roof
Of the mouth. And then that flame, fanned by the bellows
Ignites: black-red-white-hot and forges dreams
Which creep, insouciant, into your ear
And set imagination all aflame.
My story-brother’s tongue: red-headed match.

He forges dreams which flap about the roof
Then strikes a match which, nurtured by the bellows,
Ignites my ear and sets my mind aflame.

* In no way as filthy as it sounds. Utterly innocent, in fact.

Prompt of the day: Big Tent Poetry – a poem about drunkenness.
Random decision of the day: Combine Sestina with limerick.
Quality level of the day: 3/10

Going out for a pint with a mate
Where the atmosphere’s totally great
Good times and good beer
And nothing to fear
So for Friday I simply can’t wait
But we probably won’t stay out late.

Though the pubs do now open quite late,
So I might ring and see if my mate
Wants to stay out and wait
Which would really be great
Or if he’ll go home early in fear
Of coming home stinking of beer.

At three in the morning. Cause beer
Makes you do stupid things when out late,
It removes all your fear
And makes you want to mate
With people you’d call less than great
And it makes you put on loads of weight…

All the same, now I just cannot wait!
To get myself outside some beer.
Cause it’s gonna taste great
In the beer garden, late
In the night, talking crap with my mate
For we’ll not make much sense then, I fear.

But drinking gets rid of the fear
And the worries about looks and weight
And it makes you say “mate
No it’s not just the beer
I’ve been thinking of you a lot late
-ly and honestly I think you’re great

No really, you’re jusht bloody great
And I honeshtly love you, I fear!”
Then your periods late
So you nervously wait
Thinking “we drank a lot of that beer
At the end of the night, did we mate?”

It’s too not late, though my best friend’s great
We can’t mate! The thought fills me with fear!
No, but wait: I just won’t drink much beer…

In honour of the excellent film 28 Days Later, I felt it was time for a zombie sestina.  The NaPoWriMo Prompt was to write a poem backwards, line by line. They suggested ‘starting’ with a famous saying as the last line and then working your way up to the top.

However the combination of zombies and backwardsness reminded me of an excellent and unexpectedly moving trailer for the horribly gory zombie themed game Dead Island shown to me by the lovely  Saxon and Emma , which shows a similar, but not identical story in reverse chronological order.  My story is different because of syllable count. I didn’t have space to put ravaging zombie hordes in my poem, so I had to settle for an undead fox.

Obviously, as you read mine, it’s the right way round, but I did write it from the bottom up!

We need to get away from everything

Because my work is always on my mind

I’ve no time for my wife and little girl

It’s so long since we had some peace and quiet

I only see my daughter when she sleeps

If I keep on like this, I’ll soon be dead.

 

Out walking in the woods, we find a dead

Fox. And my girl cries and strokes the thing

It stirs, and bites. She cries, and later sleeps

And now something is preying on my mind

I check her pulse. It’s gone completely quiet

And then she wakes, and now she’s not our girl.

 

I lock the bedroom door against the girl

Who used to be our child, the walking dead

We hold each other, and our sobs are quiet

How did our darling girl become this thing?

Once bitten, both of us will lose our minds

All we can do is wait until she sleeps.

 

My wife had tried to snatch an hour’s sleep

Somehow, she still got bitten by our girl.

I stabbed her, before she could lose her mind

And now she’s lying in the bedroom, dead

I don’t feel sad, it was the kindest thing.

I turn, for suddenly the house is quiet.

 

I find her curled up in the corner, quiet.

She looks just like she used to, as she sleeps

It isn’t her, it’s some unfeeling thing.

I draw my knife, decapitate my girl

And sag, relieved: what she became is dead.

My wife and child both gone, and I don’t mind

 

For soon, I will be dead. How could I mind?

Though everything’s destroyed, it’s now so quiet

In peace at last she sleeps, my little girl.

Another NaPoWriMo prompt: write a nursery rhyme.
Apologies for the ridiculous tweeness.

Pretty little Mrs Mouse
Lived in her cosy hole
“It is a perfect little house!”
She said to Mrs Vole
“I’m never bitten by a louse
And needn’t dig like Mole.”

“I wouldn’t like to live like Mole,”
Said little Mrs Mouse,
“With worms for tea, it seems a Lous-
Y life. I love my hole.
Do come and join me, Mrs Vole
And live inside a house.”

“I do not like your human house
I’d rather be a mole,
Than hide and steal,” cried Mrs Vole
“Be chased by cats? Oh Mrs Mouse,
You tremble in your hole
And not even a tiny louse

No not even a tiny louse!
Will share your little house.”
Said Mrs Mouse “I love my hole
Go, find your friend the mole!
You dare insult me as a mouse?
I hate you, Mrs Vole!”

“I’m sorry Dear!” said Mrs Vole
“I do feel like a louse!
Your hole is lovely, Mrs Mouse,
A perfect little house.
But like the busy, digging mole
I like my outdoor hole”

“Oh go back to your dirty hole,
You rude ungrateful vole!
No better than a blind old mole!”
She squeaked, you nasty louse!”
But as she spoke, a great big house-
Cat swallowed Mrs Mouse!

Vole said to Mole ” I love my hole
Though Mrs Mouse called me a louse
No proper vole lives in a house”

Wow! I got featured on the NaPoWriMo site! Hello, people I don’t actually know who are now reading this!

So, check out the link above to see today’s ridiculously complicated prompt. I did it and ended up with a heartfelt, autobiographical (self pitying, clunky) piece about my old secondary school. All real names.

That place always gave me a flavourless feeling:
Like overcooked pasta or one of those apples
Which looks sweet but inside it tastes of ennui.
Do you think I enjoyed it, my time at your school?
Mr Williams, Ms Watson,   Miss Wright,  Mrs  Wall?
Each day was like playing at Russian roulette

At the bus stop, I wait. Will the bus driver let
Me get on, or refuse to because he is feeling
Dissatisfied? Who knows? I lean on the wall
At the bus stop. Ignore everyone. eat an apple.
Pretend that it won’t be so awful at school,
And I switch off my mind to prepare for ennui.

It seems quite pretentious to call it ennui.
It was boredom, despair, and if ever I let
My guard down, it was physical pain: at that school
You weren’t punched where it showed, you got kicked in the feelings.
I bruised a lot, then, like an often dropped apple.
Felt trapped and advanced on: my back to the wall.

I just wasn’t cool enough. Over the wall
The whole busload of kids would sneak. Jackets on, we
Would evade capture, going to town for sour apples
And chuddy and kola kubes. Sometimes they let
Me come too, and I’d smile, temporarily feeling
Included, but that all stopped back up at school:

Because nobody talked to me much, up at school:
I’d be shunned or else shoved, face first, in to the wall
Told ‘get out of the way, you sad cow’. And my feelings
Were crushed a bit more, and replaced with ennui.
When you’re told that you’re nobody sometimes you let
Yourself think you deserve the jeers thrown like old apples

(In home economics, they threw actual apples)
At me.) In conclusion, what I learned at school
Was to keep my head down, not to speak, and to let
People trample all over me, and that Miss Wall
And the rest wouldn’t help. So in fact the ennui
Was my only defense. Learned to switch off my feelings.

But now I can let myself taste the sweet apples
Of life. Feeling that I’ve climbed over the wall
And escaped from that school and its sense of ennui.