Wirral Festival of Firsts

This year’s Festival of Firsts at Hoylake is on Sunday, 17th. July from 1 pm. Margaret Holbrook and I have reading slots at one of the Poetry Fair’s three venues: Margaret is on at 1-30 pm at the Meols Room and my slot is at 3-35 pm at the Upton Room. We’ll be on the lookout for audience encouragement! Lemn Sissay will be announcing the Poetry Competition awards and performing at 6 pm (tickets available).

Almost Erotica

This afternoon’s Macclesfield Creative Writing Group’s workshop was led by Zoë Quinlan who asked us to turn our thoughts to the erotic with some excellent contributions, some of them quite saucy (Mark Rawlins’ B & B poem and Peter’s twist in the tail horror story). The best I could do was influenced by Brian Rix, looking over my shoulder, with his trousers down.

Almost Erotica.

Will it be romance or a bedroom farce,

a banana skin which lands you on your arse?

There’s a vase of roses and satin sheets

when your secret tryst in anticipation meets

and pulses are racing and blood pressure soars.

In your ears a deafening silence roars.

 

Nerves are tingling. Your skin is on fire,

a sublime moment on passion’s high wire.

With kisses so tender, caresses so soft,

gravity relents and sweeps you both aloft.

In ecstasy’s grip, you squirm and are lost,

but deep in your dream was where your paths crossed.

 

An alarm bell is ringing. It’s all in your head:

another long night alone in your bed.

The OK UK?, Referendum Day and The Lions who Squeaked

I’m not best pleased with the Great British public and a certain national football team at the moment and am digging frenetically through the family archives to find Scottish/Scotch and Welsh connections. At least my daughter, Paula, was born in Haverford West, though it has to be admitted that Pembrokeshire was known as “Little England beyond Wales”. Three poems follow, all written since Refer-end-um Day and the recent return to the Cod Wars of the 60s and 70s.

The OK, UK (and Northern Ireland)? In or Out?          (Remember the “Hokey Cokey”)

You put your left wing in, your left wing out,

your left wing in and you shake it all about.

You do the OK, UK? and you turn around,

but what is it all about? In? Out?

Chorus: Oh, do the OK, UK?

Oh, do the OK, UK?

Oh do the OK, UK?

In, out, in, out. It’s your shout.

You put your right wing in, your right wing out,

your right wing in and you shake it all about.

You do the OK, UK? and you turn around,

but what is it all about? In? Out.

Chorus: Oh, do the OK, UK?

Oh, do the OK, UK?

Oh do the OK, UK?

In, out, in, out. It’s your shout.

Jeremy Corbyn’s in. Dennis Skinner’s out?,

Your Corbyn’s in and you shake it all about.

You do the OK, UK? and you turn around,

but what is it all about? In? Out?

Chorus: Oh, do the OK, UK?

Oh, do the OK, UK?

Oh do the OK, UK?

In, out, in, out. It’s your shout.

You vote Remain (that’s In), but Brexit’s Out,

Remain is in and you shake it all about.

You do the OK, UK? and you turn around.

The outcome’s not in doubt? It’s Out.

 Chorus: Oh, do the OK, UK?

Oh, do the OK, UK?

Oh do the OK, UK?

In, out, in, out. You’ve had your shout.

We’ve put our whole selves Out. Yes, whole selves Out,

the whole UK is up the Brexit spout.

We’ll soon be just the UK.  OK, what’s happened to the pound?

That’s what you call a rout!

Chorus: Oh, do the OK, UK?

Oh, do the OK, UK?

Oh do the OK, UK?

In, out, in, out. You’ve had your shout.

 

Referendum Day: Apocalypse Now

Today was Referendum Day.

The skies are uniformly grey.

The people’s voice has had its say:

but “Shall I go or shall I stay?”

 

That brings back echoes of “The Clash”

as Future sears the Past to ash.

Both sides invent shed loads of cash

and each wild claim’s a bigger splash.

 

Whichever faction has its way,

we’ll end up dis-United K.

We’re scuppered, sunk. General dismay

and groaning watch our children play.

 

So now the task is to rebuild

Society whilst staying chilled,

where for beliefs no-one is killed

and only beer or wine is spilled.

 

We can’t rewind, turn back the clocks,

protect from martyrdom Jo Cox

by thinking In and Out the box.

On both our Houses there’s a pox!

 

The Lions who Squeaked

Talk not to me of Lions who roar.

They’re mice who couldn’t even draw

with Iceland’s griffins-dragons-bulls.

The nation, shaken to the core,

 

with eyes shut tight, reflects and mulls

on Welsh relationships and pulls

out all the stops, drops red and white

and wears St. David’s leek which dulls

 

the pain of watching England’s plight,

our team exposed by Northern light

and ending up a standing joke.

for putting up a spineless fight.

 

And Iceland, just the size of Stoke,

can claim it’s they have hearts of oak.

You’ll hear folk hark back to Cod War

as Europe disappears in smoke.