A Peculiar Commission

A friend messaged me this morning:

“May I be cheeky and ask for your professional poetry skills as I’m drawing a blank. A friend of mine is having trouble with a neighbour who doesn’t seem to realise that people can see into his bathroom and watch him masturbate.

“I’m thinking a limerick posted anonymously through his door might be a friendly way of encouraging him to buy blinds or at least close the curtains!”

And today’s been a right bastard, so I thought: yes, freeware poetry. So here it is in case any of you ever have need of a poem to tell a neighbour you can see him indulging in naked DIY.

Dear neighbour, please picture the scene
As we gaze out through windows pristine:
We’re glad you take time
For yourself, - that's no crime -
But you might want to put up a screen. 

It’s good to take time to be tantric
In a world that can be very frantic,
But we just thought we’d mention:
It’s causing some tension
To view your self-pleasuring antics. 

Now please do not take us for prudes
And we really don’t mean to be rude
But we’d rather not view
Everything that you do
When you’re getting yourself in the mood. 

We’re feeling embarrassed as hell;
We didn’t know quite how to tell
You of our complaint
We hope this comes off “quaint”
And we hope this short rhyme finds you well.

Yeah, I know it’s not perfect, and there’s some ineloquent repetition, but hey...

Grant Me This - for #nationalpoetryday

I was asked to be one of the #BBCLocalPoets - for #Cambridgeshire - to compose a new #poem as if from the point of view of a local landmark or geographical feature of the area.

After putting it out to people via social media, the one feature that came out again and again was that of the river (in various different ways - as visual feature, bridge-bearer, punt-vehicle, houseboat-home, wildlife-habitat, etc.) and, as it stretches across the whole county, it seemed a good way to celebrate and inhabit the character of the county (bearing in mind that the poem needed to be less than two minutes long and "not political").

It was recorded yesterday, down by the Chesterton Road stretch of the river, and you can see/ hear me read it (somewhat creakily - this is my fifth week of severe laryngitis) here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p04b4cpv



I also went on breakfast radio to be interviewed and to perform some of it live in the studio. I am not a mornings person. It was interesting... :)

(If you want to hear what I sound like early in the morning with laryngitis, check out this link http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p0482z92 - the segment starts at 01:46:55)

Full text below - enjoy! :D  (Credit needs to be given to Carla Keen for the line "Catch, catch, catch..." which I heartlessly stole from a beautiful poem she wrote about her love of rowing.)

Grant Me This

Birthed beyond borders,
I rise in the west,
Scrawl a course
Of eccentric penstrokes
Across this palimpsest.
With my sisters
I weave a drench of memories,
Stretching to the new day's edge.

I have carried you
On my broad back -
Gambolling new beginnings,
Fleece, stone, and corn meal,
Vellum and sand,
Two-tongued, poling solo,
Always with a weather eye
To the next angle.

You have inscribed me,
Drawing me deep into histories,
Gleaming lines sighing,
Igniting visions, lingering
In civilisation's litanies
For those who came before
And all who dream of
Divining mysteries.

I was named backwards,
Shaped by the town
Around which I curve,
A cupped palm,
A charm of siren sounds,
Enclosed and disclosing,
Ringing with myriad bell-tongues
Flooding this rich ground.

Cast me between walls
And I surge and curvette,
Beckon evolution's remedies and
Ambition's gravity,
Leaning into the gradient of Best,
Cresting sly wins at the
Narrowest of passes -
On your marks, get set.

I creak in the mornings -

Gasp and echo the endless
Catch, catch, catch…
Scratching glory etched deep
In the clutch and pull of legs,
Mist-rimed breaths, swelling shoulders,
Cold noses, and warm hearts,
Regardless of your team's net.

In the evening I chug,
Bank-huggers making fragrances
Of home - curtained and potted,
Dot-and-carry dance partners,
These happy-anchored vagrants,
Swaying, framed in gold paint,
Named for the way I spell freedom,
And tomorrow's chances

Your ancestors built me steps,
Bedecked me with loving chains,
Cross-stitching me with sighs and pigsties,
While monarchs, mathematics,
And dragons all stake their claims
As I stride on, lop-sided,
A reminder that, together,
We have made a grace of strangeness.