I'm a Poet and I Don't Know It
Entry posted by caldrail
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Many years ago, I met up for a game session with a bunch of guys, some of whom I knew well, others I didn't. One chap who was a friend of someone else and not known to me at all, interrupted the proceedings and said "Your mascara is running".
I was pretty mystified by that comment, but his leering expression made itself felt. I wasn't happy with that slur, and just to make the point, my friends seemed as mystified by his attitude as I was. The week after, as I was leaving, I noticed a book open beside him and enquired bluntly as to its purpose.
"Ahh... Poetry. I'm a poet..." He looked a little flustered as I grinned with relish at this symbol of unmanliness. "Its not all serious... I do some funny stuff... I... errr...."
Revenge is soooo sweet. He never came back. Serves him right. However, I wonder if there's a poet in each of us struggling to get out. Perhaps not in Swindon, since most of the local performers prefer yelling insults in the small hours, and poetic it isn't. A mate of mine in the music business, a local singer/songwriter (We'll call him TB), once told me how his poetic spirit once took hold.
He was walking through a well-to-do area, looking musically shabby of course, and heard the sound of the wind swishing through the tall trees along the side of the road. He was captivated by it, and stood there engrossed in its subtlety. A passing police car thought otherwise, and since policemen are not known for poetic leanings, TB was promptly called upon to explain why he was staring at the bedroom of an expensive house.
"No, officer, I'm not, I'm... err.... listening to the trees.... ummm.... The sound... Its.. you know..."
"Don't do it again Sir" The policemen rebuked him, "Now move along."
Some people just don't appreciate poetry. Actually I don't either. Still, people who claim to be artistes tend to survive better on the dole, and since I'm too old to claim rock superstardom at grass roots level (I don't live in a country mansion after all), I'm left with no recourse to claim that as a local poet, I'm a vital cultural resource. Unfortunately, that means I now have to prove I'm a poet. So here goes....
Poem of the Week
I wandered lonely as a local poet of cultural significance
That floats o'er hill and theatre
A woman smiles and offers me a chance
Of activities peculiar
Yobboes jeer and call me 'nance'
And ask why I won't bonk her
In serene contempt I retain my stance
And remind them of their failure
Ok. I 'll move along Officer...
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