Last night was the October edition of New Words, Fresh Voices open mic event, hosted by Ian Fosten at The Seagull Theatre in Lowestoft. It's a bi-monthly performance of poets, story tellers and singers/musicians. I'm not going to lie, some are really good and some are really not so good, but I guess that's a risk of an open mic event; there's no quality control. But don't get me wrong. It is an enjoyable evening, and it's great to hear people's creative outbursts.
The standout performer last night, for me, was a singer/guitarist called Kesha (I believe that's her name; I'm useless at remembering important details like that). She sang two songs and they were beautiful. Very haunting and moving. They sounded like traditional Irish songs; kind of Enya-esque, not drunken Guinness fuelled ditties. Absolutely amazing. Last night was the first time she'd performed at New Words, Fresh Voices and I hope she comes back.
The other performers consisted of a banjo player (who didn't want to be compared to George Formby), a singer/guitarist who regularly performs funny songs, a woman from Blythe Valley Radio who reads poems by people she has on her radio show, a poetic technical expert, a few free verse poets, and me.
The loose theme for this evening was autumn, and post Olympic/jubilee 2012. Normally I read out something I've written years ago that happens to fit in with the theme, but this time I wrote a new poem, and here it is.
Oh-lympics
Well it’s been a typical English summer
With rain and cloud and rain,
I recollect the sun made an appearance
But then it was rain again.
Yes I did get horribly sunburnt, twice
And yes it was quite painful
But that was quickly cooled right off
With the vast amount of rainfall.
So now the leaves are crunchy
And the conkers are getting ripe
But regardless of the weather
Us Brits, we enjoy a good gripe.
It’s too hot, we say when it’s sunny,
It’s too cold, we say when it’s cold,
But how about we forget the weather
And focus on the silver, bronze and gold.
Who laughed out loud at the queen and Bond
As they parachuted over London?
Who got sucked into Boyle’s garish vision
Of fantasy, celebration and wonder?
Who covered their house in bunting
Roof to foundation in union jack?
Who flew the flag with the rings
Of blue, gold, green, red and black?
Who spotted Wentlock and Mandeville
Dotted around the streets?
Who yelled and roared and shouted
For team GB to win their heats?
Who stood up tall as the anthems played
No matter what the nation?
Whose thumb was glued to the remote’s red button
As it flicked through all the stations?
Who cried along with Chris Hoy
As he cycled to first place?
Who screamed along with Farrah
As he easily won his race?
Who jumped along with Ennis
As we willed her to go far?
Who held their breath with Tweddle
As she twirled around the bar?
Who smiled along with Phillips
As she got rewarded by her mum?
Who freestyled along with Adlington
As in to third she swam?
Who whacked along with Murray
As he won the final game?
Who punched along with Adams
As she boxed her way to fame?
Who cheered along with the Brownlees
As they ran in first and third?
Who flew along with Daley
As he dove right off the board?
Who felt some pride for Ogogo
Our local Lowestoft lad?
And because of all this, who has decided
They now want to become an Olympiad?
Who posed along with Usain?
Who held the Olympic torch?
Who, hourly, checked the medal tables?
Whose bum was stuck to their couch?
Who loved the slow-mo recaps
As faces contorted and gurned?
Whose hearts broke as athletes tripped
And stumbled and crashed and burned?
Who watched far too much telly
Over that historical two and a bit weeks?
And who were the lucky ones
Who had tickets for the Stratford stadium seats?
Who sang along with Madness , Elbow,
The Spice Girls and The Who?
Who cringed along with George Michael
As he crooned all out of tune?
Who’s seen the bronze postbox
On the outskirts of our town?
Who felt empty when it was all over
And the hype had all died down?
Who misses the sense of patriotism?
A kingdom united, for once.
Strong bonds between organiser,
Performer and us, the audience.
So let’s not moan about the weather
That the summer did or didn’t have,
And turn our memories over
To the jubilant events of 2012.
And I read a story that I had written a while ago, but it followed the theme so I thought it was appropriate.
Partridge and pears
It’s
Christmas. It’s the end of
September. The barometer needle still
points to ‘sunny’ and the mercury has settled itself in the low 20s. Slowly, the shops have started sneaking packs
of Christmas cards and dusty tinsel onto their shelves. Everything is half price and people are
buying it. As I walk down the aisles,
past the glitter and the sparkle and the motion activated dancing snowmen, the
shops’ music systems intersperse classic Christmas anthems amongst the usual
middle of the road pop drivel that is played on a continuous loop. Someone somewhere has been paid a fortune to
scientifically produce a playlist that encourages people to buy more than they
actually want. The songs can’t be too
aggressive or too relaxing, just in case they heighten the emotions and cause
unnecessary outbursts of excitement. The
aisles would be full of old people rolling around on the floor, clutching at
their chests and making the experience of shopping more frustrating than it
usually is. The songs have to be easy
listening, nonchalant, blah. It’s called
muzak apparently and there’s a skill to it, and it drives me crazy. I work in one of these shops.
This
morning, Mum asked me to pick up a bag of pears and some Christmas wrapping
paper when I leave off work. She said
she wanted to get everything bought, wrapped and out of the way by
November. She says this every year and
every year she rushes around half past three on Christmas Eve trying to find
something nice for someone she doesn’t like.
I don’t know why she pretends it will be any different this year.
I
reluctantly buy the most hideous wrapping paper I can find, there isn’t really
much choice, and a bag of pears, and make my way home through the crowds of
posing boys, prancing around with their shirts unbuttoned, hoping to impress
groups of silly school girls giggling into their make-up mirrors. My sister Jenny is one of those girls. She’s sitting on a wall near her school with
her skirt barely reaching her crotch.
She catches my eye and glares.
She flicks me the middle finger as I walk past and yells something at me
in text speak. She’s delightful. She really is.
Before
I even put my key in the door, I can hear Mum singing Christmas carols in a
painful falsetto voice. As with every song
she sings along to, she mumbles a garbled noise to the parts she doesn’t know
the words to. She’s sitting at the desk
staring at the computer. She’s warming
her hands against a roaring open fire screen saver that Jenny downloaded for
her. She has no idea how to use the
computer other than to turn it on and to set the screensaver. On the mantel piece is a little wooden
nativity scene that she found at a jumble sale.
She gets it ready extra early every year. She cleans every figure individually with a
grubby, yellow duster. Over the years
the scene has fallen foul to the taste buds of our dog, Big Bird. Mum allowed Jenny to name the dog. Big Bird chewed the head off one of the wise
men, and swallowed the baby Jesus in one gulp.
The centrepiece of the nativity is now a conker in a manger, who is
being visited by two wise men and a Lego Darth Vader.
I
notice a pile of paper, a pair of scissors, jars of coloured glitter and a pot
of glue sitting next to her on the desk.
I ask her what it’s all for. She
turns around and grins. She tells me
that she’s getting a head start on making the decorations. She insists that the ones in the shop are so
tacky and she likes the personal touch.
She throws a string of paper chains towards me and the glitter pings off
in every direction. Guess who’ll be
clearing that up later. She stands up
and asks if I want a cup of tea. As she
gets out of the chair, a snowfall of tiny paper pieces tumble off her lap onto
the carpet. Guess who’ll also be
clearing that up later.
I
plonk the bag of pears down on the kitchen work top. She rushes over and rips the bag open. She has a look of determination in her
eyes. She shovels a pear into her mouth
as though she hasn’t eaten for months. I
take a few steps back just in case she eats me too. When she’s finished, she spits the pips out
into her hand and puts them in a sandwich bag that appears to have more pear
pips in it already. I ask her what she’s
going to do with them. She grins and
rushes into the living room. She returns
with her hands behind her back. She
wants me to guess what she’s holding. I
don’t want to guess. She shows me a dead
stuffed bird. It’s a partridge.
She
tosses me the bird and I throw it onto the table. She knows I hate taxidermy. She grabs the roll of paper from my hand as
she walks past and does a little skip of excitement. She waves it in the air and knocks the
lampshade but she’s singing too loudly to notice. I tell her to stop being such an idiot and
she tells me to stop being such a Scrooge.
She’s too preoccupied with the reindeers in Santa hats staring back at
her from the wrapping paper to remember that she offered to make me a cup of
tea.
I
tell her that I saw Jenny flashing her pants to the world. She closes her eyes and continues to dance
around the room. She never listens. Big Bird hobbles up to me. I feel sorry for him. He can’t escape Mum’s Christmas
obsession. He especially hates her
motion super sensitive dancing characters.
He stretches and a fat Santa in a metallic red jumpsuit holding a sprig
of mistletoe jumps to life, singing I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus. He perks up his head when the postman comes
and he has to endure Rudolph The Red Nose Reindeer spewing from a scary looking
reindeer with a dodgy eye and a red light for a nose that flashes
erratically. He sneezes or scratches and
the whole house is filled with the dulcet tones of a squeaky voiced snowman
wearing a top hat bobbing up and down warbling Frosty The Snowman.
I
take him for a walk. The door latch clicks
behind us and all I can hear through the open window is a medley of badly
recorded Christmas songs. I’m glad to be
out of there. I see Dad walking along
the pavement towards me. He’s carrying a
box under his arm. Big Bird pulls
forward and sniffs Dad’s crotch. Dad
tickles him under the chin and he lies down in the middle of the pavement,
right in the way of all pedestrian traffic.
A woman sighs loudly and takes an exaggerated step over his tail. I glance at the box Dad’s carrying. It has a picture of a giant Christmas tree on
the side. Dad rolls his eyes. Your mother asked me to pick it up, he
explains. She wants me to set it up when
I get home, he sighs. We’re going to
have a six foot inflatable Christmas tree sitting in our front garden for the
next three months, he winces. I doubt
it, I reply. It’ll be stolen in a few
days, I continue. He nods in agreement. That’s why she had me order four more, he
mumbles, and they’ll be delivered on Friday.
He leans down to pat Big Bird but he’s too occupied by an ant scuttling
along the pavement. I wish Dad
luck. He chuckles. He tells me not to be late home for dinner. Mum’s cooking turkey.
I
pull at Big Bird’s lead and almost dislocate my shoulder. He’s a big dog and he’s a stubborn dog. When he’s ready he gets up and pulls me
towards the beach. I let him think that
it’s all his idea but we were going there anyway. It’s empty which is the way we like it. I let him off the lead and he chases his tail
for at least thirty seconds before running after a rabbit.
It’s
warm, not hot, just warm. There’s a bit
of a breeze in the air but that’s welcome.
There is a boat straddling the horizon.
It doesn’t seem to be going anywhere.
Big Bird rolls around in seaweed and digs to China to find the best
stones. He sneezes and awaits the awful
sound of a Christmas character. It
doesn’t come. He goes back to playing. I start to sing Jingle Bells to myself and
then scream. There’s no need for
that. Big Bird comes running towards me
with a clump of dried seaweed in his mouth.
Tangled up amongst the seaweed are a Dutch crisp packet and a used
tampon. He shakes his head vigorously to
kill it, thankfully flinging the tampon back into the sea. Once convinced it’s dead, he drops the
creature from his teeth and runs towards a black groyne sticking out of the
sand at the water’s edge like a rotten tooth.
He sniffs it, rubs his back up against it, sniffs it again and then
cocks his leg. A minute later and the
groyne glistens. Big Bird turns on his
heels towards home. I’m done. Let’s go.
All copyright belongs to me, so don't even think about stealing these pieces.
The next New Words, Fresh Voices is on Sunday 2nd December. If you're a writer and you've never read your work aloud, come along to the next one. It's a lovely little confidence boost, which isn't a bad thing at all.
