EVIDENCE INFORMED
It has now been scientifically proven
that telly is better than poetry.
Psychologists stuck a load of people in a room
with both a telly and a poem –
on average, they spent about two minutes
disinterestedly glancing at the poem
before settling down for the remainder of the hour
to watch Homes Under The Hammer.
This proves that telly
is better than poetry.
So burn your books, people!
Grab those comfies and settle down
in the name of science.
They still call it Leo’s Room,
even though Leo hasn’t lived there
for thirty years. What once
was a baby’s bedroom is
now a study, yet still they call it
Leo’s Room. I know this because
my mum saw them in Sainsbury’s
a few weeks ago, and they got
chatting about old times. How things
have moved on. How the lawn
got paved over in the 90’s
and how Leo now lives half way
across the world. But I guess
no one ever truly leaves the land
that births them: I can still hear
those distant layers of laughter
echoing through the decades
behind these very walls.
I was just getting on with my job, see,
and there seems to have been a mistake.
I was doing my deed for the land that I lead,
then – ambushed by a cake.
I was hunkering down for the nation.
I knew there was plenty at stake.
I couldn’t foresee what would happen to me,
yes – ambushed by a cake.
I’ve spent billions on our defences
and weapons to make our foes quake.
The provisions for this, well they’re somewhat
amiss – ambushed by a cake.
But I guess you all knew when you voted
of the shambolic mess I would make.
Yes I’ve let you all down, but it’s only a clown
who gets ambushed by a CAKE!
Tomorrow I am visiting Belvedere Junior School, where I will be working with Year 3 classes to produce poems about pirates. I am really excited about this! Whenever schools book me to run workshops on a specific theme, I try to write a special poem on that theme, just for them. Well, it's not just for them, since I often put the poems on my blog too. With this in mind, here is Belvedere Junior's Year 3 Pirate Poem! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
[I removed the poem coz it's gonna be published in 'Welcome to My Crazy Life'. You'll just have to buy the book won't you, you schnorrer.]
ANALYSIS
His analysis
with Dr. Freud
wasn't entirely
successful;
everything the patient said
went in one ear
and out the mother.
STORY
They say a story has to have:
beginning; middle; end –
and maybe this injunction
isn’t wrong.
But if a story mirrors the
trajectory of life,
the start and end are short;
the middle’s long.
By night, they say, he scours
the streets incognito, fighting crime.
They say he can drive a tank
and that he’s highly trained in the art of kung fu.
Some say he was sent from the future
to purge the planet of evil; others claim
he’s a Viking reincarnated, summoned
from the past to avenge his kin.
They say he can shoot laser beams
from his eyeballs, that a single punch
can destroy a building, and that
he converses regularly with the gods in the sky.
They say all this, but I don’t know why;
he seems like an ordinary school caretaker to me.
OPERATION: LOOK OVER THERE
Look over there! It’s a migrant!
He’s trying to enter our land!
And look over there!
It’s the BBC!
Things truly have got out of hand.
Look over there! It’s Sir Kier!
He once had a beer at his desk!
And look over there!
It’s some junior aide!
The cut of his jib is grotesque.
Look over there! It’s a paper
on ‘Levelling Up’, and it's white!
And look over there!
It's some unemployed wretch
whose presence round here is a blight.
Look over there! In the distance!
Keep looking, and don’t make a fuss.
Yes, look over there!
Or in fact anywhere
just as long as it isn’t at us...
For two hours I’d been waiting
in the rain to collect the pills that keep
my brain just the right side
of a nervous breakdown.
As I approach the desk
the woman flips the sign. Closed.
I can feel the tears prickle behind
my eyes as I plead – just
one more, just this once.
Please. She looks down at me,
face like curdled milk, and says no.
Her name tag says Joy.
UNCONKERED
Darren came to school all laden
with the wares he wished to trade in.
“Buy this conker”, Darren pleaded.
“It has worth as yet unheeded.”
(Darren hoped we would say yes, but
no one fell for that old chestnut.)
HAVE A PARTY
When the sun is in the sky – have a party.
There’s no need to feel shy – have a party.
Other people might well sigh
when they watch their loved ones die;
that’s no fault of you or I — have a party!
Well the death count’s pretty large – have a party.
After all, it’s us in charge – have a party.
Get the booze from the garage,
Sod the constable and sarge,
Let’s invite Nigel Farage! Have a party!
Let me top up your champagne, at the party!
So we broke the rules again – it’s a party!
Yes the plebs are feeling pain
locked in tight with ball and chain,
but their loss is BoJo’s gain – have a party!
So the mood’s intensifying – have a party!
And the mourners keep on crying – have a party!
We can say that we’re complying,
they will never twig we’re lying
and that Bolly’s fortifying – have a party!
Yes, the country’s in the muck – have a party.
Well that’s pretty rotten luck – have a party.
Yes, the rules might come unstuck
but take off that tie! Untuck!
No we just don’t give a f… Have a party!
She’s an indoor cat.
Her world lies within the walls
of our first floor flat.
She sits at the window
eyeing the birds outside,
creatures she will never catch.
Her exercise routine is walking
from the kitchen to the bedroom and back.
She’s an indoor cat.
The rug is her Serengeti,
the couch her habitat.
Excitement, for her, is a post to scratch.
She’s never brought home a frog or a rat.
And is she happy?
Well it’s all she’s ever known.
Her whole universe
is circumscribed by our home.
Her eyes are keen.
Her claws are sharp
but she knows no combat.
Look at her there.
She’s an indoor cat.
but a parody of himself. I’m beating
the absolute crap out of my dad, using
fists, sticks, whatever comes to hand.
My fingernails show him who’s man
as they grope for his eyeballs. He doesn’t
fight back, accepts each raining blow like milk
on his tongue. The umbilical cord is round
his neck as he tries to speak, each gasping
breath grasping for something I can’t quite
make out. But nor do I care to: the time is
now. The reckoning. My mum smiles,
feints, steps into the ring.
THE FACE
There’s a girl in the window. I don’t know her name.
Her hair is all tangled. Her eyes are aflame.
She sniggers at me like she thinks it’s a game.
There’s a girl in the window. She’s there… now she’s gone.
I sit and I wonder if maybe I’m wrong.
Perhaps it’s a trick of the dusk coming on.
There’s a girl in the window. I think I can see
a bruise on her lip and a flower (for me?)
and a palm on the pane like she wants to be free.
There’s a girl in the window up there, I said.
But they say I’m mistaken, it’s all in my head:
the lady who lived there is long, long since dead.
The above poem is based on a recurring image I have, of a girl's face in a tiny, high up window. Having shared the poem with your class, here are some suggestions for follow-up activities:
I’m stuck in the bathroom
I’ve been here a while
I’ve not much to do
And I can’t help but smile:
I worked yesterday
Now this downtime is due
Because my boss gave me
A day off in loo.
AVA’S GONE
I look and see
a hole in the class where she used to be.
They told us she’d be gone a while
but it’s been six weeks since I saw her smile.
I’ve asked the teacher every day
when she’ll be back, but he won’t say.
I’ve asked my mum, who doesn’t know
and so I feel her absence grow
and fester as I sit alone.
I’m weighted down by this heavy stone.
The playground isn’t as it was.
The halls are hollowed out because
my best friend’s gone. I sigh and see
a hole in my world where she used to be.
I found the singer
of my favourite punk band
on LinkedIn. Back in the day
he used to rant about capitalism
at sweaty live shows
the underground press
would frequently describe
as ‘incendiary’; these days
it appears he is a managing partner
at some company or other.
His shaggy mane is now replaced
with a slick hairdo that wouldn’t look
amiss on a footballer.
He’s also got three kids, apparently,
and lists cars and boats
as two of his main interests.
Whatever happened to the heroes?
Whatever indeed.
