tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69815845093589271112024-03-13T19:26:15.596+00:00Chick Thing Poems"What is it about meter and cadence and rhythm that makes their makers mad?" - Susanna KaysenSarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04949191715729638530noreply@blogger.comBlogger44125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6981584509358927111.post-33074534343086293632011-05-29T12:01:00.002+01:002011-05-29T12:01:51.654+01:00Another sexual health poem.“I just want you to tell me how it works,<br />
A woman’s tuppy. You know what I mean<br />
What’s in there, and how does she keep it clean?<br />
What hidden danger in the hoo-hah lurks?<br />
<br />
I’ve always wondered, and I’ll never know<br />
Because I’m pretty certain that I’m gay.<br />
And you’re a married lesbian, so hey!<br />
You’ll know about a lady’s down-below<br />
<br />
How can it stretch to let a baby out?<br />
Why is it only some of them are hairy?<br />
And are they all the same, or do they vary?<br />
I don’t want to be left in any doubt.”<br />
<br />
From this young scholar all of us should take<br />
Our cue: Seek knowledge for its own sweet sake.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04949191715729638530noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6981584509358927111.post-23852567363724632992011-05-17T13:25:00.002+01:002011-05-17T13:25:48.060+01:00A SonnetJust a change of pace from all the sestinas...<br />
Based on an anecdote I heard from a sexual health outreach worker.<br />
<br />
The lad comes in. He’s got a worried frown.<br />
“This girl: I’ve not been with her all that long<br />
I know what breasts should look like, hers are wrong.<br />
They go all floppy when she’s lying down!<br />
<br />
She says I’m being daft. And now she’s got<br />
The face on. Thinks she dun’t give me the horn.<br />
She’s fitter than the girls I watch in porn<br />
But if their boobs are normal, hers are not.”<br />
<br />
I’m trying not to laugh. I reassure<br />
Him that his girlfriend’s absolutely fine<br />
And that perhaps this panic is a sign<br />
That he needs to get out a little more.<br />
<br />
And though those porno girls are really foxy<br />
They shouldn’t cause low self esteem by proxy!Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04949191715729638530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6981584509358927111.post-39867834272536437332011-05-10T07:35:00.000+01:002011-05-10T07:35:36.217+01:00My (least) Favourite WordsOld one, this. I'm sure I've put this out there before, but I can't find it. So in response to a twitter question about favourite words from Oliver (@inkwrite), voila!<br />
<br />
3: Verbal Abuse<br />
I’m what is often called a Linguaphile<br />
Delicious words - like that one - make me smile<br />
Their schwas and plosives music to my ears<br />
Their haunting diphthongs moving me to tears<br />
<br />
Festoon, Contagion, Trenchant, Stalagmite<br />
The meaning’s meaningless. They just sound… right<br />
But there are also words that I abhor<br />
Incentivise, Hydrangea, Slate, Galore.<br />
<br />
<br />
My hatred is irrational, unjust<br />
So overcome my bigotry I must!<br />
It’s never pleasant to discriminate<br />
I’ll try to curb and overcome my hate.<br />
<br />
<br />
But there’s no help for such a hopeless case<br />
If only it were gender, age, or race<br />
Oh, find a self-help group for me to join<br />
And help me learn to love Abode and Groin!<br />
<br />
<br />
Alas, it’s far too late for me to change<br />
I can’t accept Indebted, Awkward, Mange,<br />
So now I say it, loud and with impunity:<br />
My poetry’s not equal opportunity.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04949191715729638530noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6981584509358927111.post-87009527927161450502011-04-08T12:08:00.001+01:002011-04-08T12:16:57.203+01:00Strange DreamPoemI dreamt this, some of it word for word. I'm quite odd.<br />
<br />
A trip to the zoo?<br />
What a treat!<br />
How 'bout you?<br />
You can come too – stay all day.<br />
The sun's shining, <br />
We walk on the grey<br />
Gravelled paths and we Keep Off The Grass<br />
Where, last time, we heard mallards laughing.<br />
But today there's a pall,<br />
A bad taste in my mouth.<br />
Bitter air going into my lungs<br />
And the animals' eyes<br />
Are all following me, <br />
Open wide and alarmed<br />
Terrified.<br />
As I pass by their cages.<br />
It's changed.<br />
There are fear and betrayal<br />
That weren't here before<br />
In those eyes.<br />
And there's fewer here now than there were:<br />
Many cages are empty.<br />
The zookeepers, why are they smiling?<br />
Greasy faces, complacent, replete,<br />
They are grinning and licking their lips<br />
As the animals cringe.<br />
<br />
The keepers are eating the beasts.<br />
Every day they take more,<br />
Cook them up<br />
And then feast.<br />
Rare creatures are going extinct<br />
Served up rare with fine wine.<br />
The marmosets have been reduced, clarified to their essence<br />
and drizzled on fried polar bear.<br />
But it takes such a lot of the things<br />
To make so little juice, such a waste.<br />
But the flavour's incomparable, <br />
say the zookeepers, licking their lips.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04949191715729638530noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6981584509358927111.post-26328668114358509372011-03-30T10:22:00.001+01:002011-03-30T10:23:48.333+01:00New Home<b>My sestinas have a home of their own!</b><br />
<br />
Please visit them at <a href="http://sarahsestina.wordpress.com/">my new blog</a><br />
to see my latest efforts.<br />
<br />
Cheers,<br />
<br />
SSarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04949191715729638530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6981584509358927111.post-39621437942219481482011-03-29T08:18:00.001+01:002011-03-29T08:18:11.524+01:00Sestina Day Sixteen: Flying A whimsical one, inspired by the title of Adele Geraghty's collection of poems 'Skywriting in the Minor Key: Words, Women, Wings.' <br />Sheffielders: Adele will be our featured poet at Speak Easy, the spoken word open mic night at A-Pod, The Hubs, Sheffield. It's tonight! (29/03/11) Free entry, starts 7:30. Come on down! <br />Plug over.<br /><br />A little girl looks at the Sky <br />Through the high classroom window. She's writing<br />An essay. Except all these minor <br />Distractions are blocking the words.<br />She is dreaming of glamourous women <br />Who fly down and fit her with wings <br /> <br />And she floats on her butterfly wings<br />Through the window and into the sky<br />And she's one of the magical women<br />Who thrill the whole world with their writing<br />And suddenly all of the words<br />Tumble out of her mouth in a minor<br /><br />Key. Now she is singing, B minor<br />A dirge for a beetle whose wings<br />Were pulled off, and her heartrending words <br />Buzz and flutter up into the sky<br />She is laughing and singing and writing <br />Her dad always told her that women<br /><br />Were just, after all, bloody women<br />And could only be trusted with minor<br />Tasks: cooking, and cleaning. Not writing.<br />Never mind spreading her wings:<br />If she kept gawping up at the sky<br />Then no man would want her, mark his words. <br /><br />As she soars, she remembers his words<br />And she falters, descends, but the women <br />All hoist her up into the sky<br />And she smiles, disregards him. a minor<br />Impediment. Glides on her wings<br />She is laughing and singing and writing<br /><br />She's back, and she cannot stop writing<br />Her paper is crowded with words<br />About cruelty and beetles and wings<br />And beautiful, bright, flying women.<br />The essay was 'being a miner'<br />But she wants to aim for the sky<br /><br />The girl found her wings, and kept writing.<br />Joined the women who reach for the sky<br />Saw her words become major, not minor. Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04949191715729638530noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6981584509358927111.post-48740314542549500022011-03-27T15:50:00.002+01:002011-03-28T00:13:32.678+01:00Sestina Day 15: Dear Japanese Power CompaniesI feel awful about Japan. So sad, so worried for all those people. But also I feel unadulterated rage at those who thought nuclear power plants with dodgy safety records were a good idea at all, let alone on fault lines.<br />
<br />
The sestina thing seems to have me swinging between goth and ranty zealot. Guess which today's is...<br />
<br />
I have some basic groundrules for survival:<br />
Don't wrap yourself in tinfoil on a mountain<br />
During a thunderstorm. Do not drop acid<br />
While you have access to a 10th floor window<br />
Avoid spoiled food, but really, most important<br />
Don't build nuclear power plants on faultlines<br />
<br />
Don't build nuclear power plants on faultlines<br />
If you care anything about survival.<br />
I cannot stress enough just how important<br />
This rule is. I will shout it from the mountain<br />
Tops. I'll scream it from the window<br />
It's burned into my brain as if with acid.<br />
<br />
And radiation burns you worse than acid.<br />
Don't build nuclear power plants on faultlines<br />
You wouldn't throw a bomb through your own window.<br />
Why would you sabotage your own survival?<br />
It's like throwing your body from a mountain<br />
Except considerably more important.<br />
<br />
Because while you are not all that important<br />
By which I am not trying to be acid: <br />
It's really true! It's not you up that mountain<br />
(Don't build nuclear power plants on faultlines.)<br />
It's everyone. It's everyone's survival.<br />
That you're proposing throwing out the window.<br />
<br />
I realise I've kind of missed my window.<br />
For warning you, but really, it's important.<br />
I hope it's not too late for our survival.<br />
But really are you idiots on acid?<br />
Don't build nuclear power plants on faultlines!<br />
I'm going to be a hermit on a mountain<br />
<br />
I won't be too much safer up a mountain<br />
As I look fearfully out of the window<br />
“Don't build nuclear power plants on faultlines”<br />
I'll shout, please listen. This is so important.<br />
“I know I look like I took too much acid.<br />
But listen, or you've no hope of survival.”<br />
<br />
I see the faultlines clear as any mountain.<br />
I guess survival isn't that important.<br />
Open that window. Let me take this acid.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04949191715729638530noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6981584509358927111.post-126738534927897322011-03-27T09:26:00.003+01:002011-03-27T13:06:41.797+01:00Sestina Day 14: Oyster Rights!I have been challenged to write a sestina about yesterday's protests in London. That's not come out right, yet.<br />
In the meantime, I offer you a different protest manifesto: That of the oysters fighting oppression by the <a href="http://www.jabberwocky.com/carroll/walrus.html">Walrus & the Carpenter</a>.<br />
Just a bit of Lewis Carrol themed fun. <br />
<br />
You should never trust a walrus<br />
Or believe a carpenter<br />
For both will lead you down the sand<br />
To talk of kings and cabbages<br />
And though youll find it rather odd,<br />
You will not know you're to be eaten<br />
<br />
Many oysters have been eaten<br />
By the carpenter and walrus<br />
Anyone caught acting odd-<br />
Ly, looking like a carpenter<br />
And Telling you of cabbages <br />
And kings while walking on the sand<br />
<br />
Should be reported, for the sand <br />
Is where most oysters have been eaten<br />
Vinegar and cabbages<br />
Are danger signs, as is a walrus<br />
With a dodgy carpenter<br />
Whose words and actions seem quite odd,<br />
<br />
Do not assume that these 2 odd-<br />
Ball characters are kind. Like sand<br />
They're shifty. watch the carpenter<br />
Especially or you'll be eaten.<br />
He's the greedy one. The walrus,<br />
Though he'll talk of cabbages,<br />
<br />
likes oysters more than cabbages<br />
Which, we admit, is scarcely odd<br />
An ocean carnivore, the walrus<br />
Is the terror of the sands<br />
And all he's ever done is eaten<br />
Decent oysters. Carpenter:<br />
<br />
Go home! Oh leave us, carpenter!<br />
Go back to eating cabbages!<br />
We oysters don't want to be eaten<br />
And anyway we taste quite odd.<br />
The carpenter must leave our sands -<br />
And he can take his friend the walrus!<br />
<br />
We'll stay uneaten, carpenter!<br />
Go, Feed the walrus cabbages!<br />
Leave us: the oddballs of the sand!Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04949191715729638530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6981584509358927111.post-73512646450452283632011-03-26T09:42:00.002+00:002011-03-26T15:00:51.640+00:00Sestina Day 13: Big Bad WolfDay 13, even if it's not a Friday, seems an appropriate day to do a really dark poem, (which was kinda going to happen anyway with keywords from @NecroNeil - check out his awesome horror zine <a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/52630287/necronomicon-15-fanzine-uk-zine-horror">necronomicon</a>) <br />
This sestina turned out even darker than I thought, and I owe debts of inspiration to Angela Carter and Francesca Lia Block for the Red Riding Hood theme.<br />
<br />
Big Bad Wolf<br />
<br />
I never thought there would be so much blood.<br />
Your face, my hands, the bedroom floor are dark<br />
With it. I pause and look out at the woods<br />
Outside the window. Maybe under dirt<br />
And fallen leaves i'll hide your corpse, my love.<br />
And then I'll wash the bloodstains from my hands.<br />
<br />
You thought my fate lay in your pretty hands.<br />
Because my love for you raged in my blood<br />
Like a disease. My desperate, fevered love<br />
Made every day away from you seem dark. <br />
You used to look at me like I was dirt<br />
You'd trodden in while walking in the woods. <br />
<br />
I used to watch you walking through the woods,<br />
Red hood pulled up, a basket in your hands,<br />
Daintily stepping through the leaves and dirt<br />
I'd watch you, and I'd feel that rush of blood<br />
Course through me, crouching silent in the dark.<br />
A mix of lust and rage and hate and love. <br />
<br />
And so I followed you, my little love,<br />
Until I knew your movements through the woods<br />
To this old house you'd tiptoe through the dark.<br />
To visit granny, kiss her wrinkled hands. <br />
I watched you, smelt you, and it set my blood<br />
To boiling in my veins. I'm low as dirt.<br />
<br />
And you are pure and clean. But from this dirt<br />
There grew the deadly roses of my love.<br />
I longed to taste you: lick your sweat, your blood,<br />
So I came to the cottage in the woods<br />
And throttled the old bitch with my bare hands<br />
And waited for your footsteps in the dark.<br />
<br />
Your skin so pure and white, your eyes so dark,<br />
Even your shoes were free of forest dirt,<br />
I hardly dared to touch you with my hands<br />
to quench my hate and consummate my love.<br />
Nobody heard you screaming in the woods<br />
Your hood lies on the floor, red as your blood.<br />
<br />
I kiss your hands, and stare into the dark.<br />
There's so much blood. I'll hide it in the dirt.<br />
Red hooded love, I'll leave you in the woods.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04949191715729638530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6981584509358927111.post-2316367613998531792011-03-25T07:11:00.000+00:002011-03-25T07:11:50.409+00:00Sestina Day 12: Feminist DiatribeSo, this was interesting. <a href="http://www.sitawa.blogspot.com/">Sitawa Wafula</a>, a lovely women I met on Twitter, suggested some keywords for me that were bound to lead to quite a political, feminist poem. I'm usually quite comfortable writing poetry about my politics, but it's rarely what you could term earnest or sincere. <br />
These keywords, combined with the form, forced me to be just that, which felt very unnatural for me. Also, unlike with other sestinas I've done, I just wasn't willing to let the structure take over and dictate how it turned out. So I was fighting the structure every step of the way to write this feminist poem. Ooh! There's a metaphor in that!<br />
One of the ideas of this project was to challenge myself - bring me out of my comfort zone of cutesy-pootsey rhymes. That's certainly happening.<br />
Actually this may be a sestina, but I don't think it's a poem. It's just kind of a rant. In sestina form.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Sometimes I work myself into a state<br />
Of apoplexy when I see how women<br />
Are shunned and disrespected by my culture.<br />
We make up over half the population, <br />
And yet for equal rights we must take action,<br />
For patriarchy makes us vulnerable<br />
<br />
But really, why should we be vulnerable?<br />
We're not in some pathetic, weakened state.<br />
We're physically strong, we can take action,<br />
Support ourselves as well as other women,<br />
A vibrant, worldwide female population:<br />
Why are we so restricted by our culture?<br />
<br />
It's said that I am from a liberal culture:<br />
To sexism I'm not as vulnerable<br />
As many in the female population<br />
Who find their freedom crushed by fascist state<br />
by quaint traditions" that devalue women<br />
Or by religious bigotry in action.<br />
<br />
And yet it's frowned upon when I take action<br />
To challenge sexism within my culture<br />
Dismissed and mocked by men, attacked by women<br />
When I point out that we're still vulnerable<br />
To ridicule and judgement when I state<br />
Respect's due to the female population<br />
<br />
Within, of course, the wider population.<br />
It would be lovely if more men took action<br />
To challenge sexism within the state<br />
Or worked towards a far more equal culture.<br />
Both men and women can be vulnerable<br />
Or strong. But sometimes women<br />
<br />
Do not defend the rights of other women<br />
That's how half of the human population<br />
Though not outnumbered, are still vulnerable<br />
Because we're told that we cannot take action<br />
We mock the ones who want to change the culture<br />
So feminism's in a dreadful state!<br />
<br />
We are not vulnerable unless, as women<br />
We don't take action to improve our state.<br />
Our population can reclaim our culture.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04949191715729638530noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6981584509358927111.post-33515385085578190662011-03-24T06:05:00.003+00:002011-03-24T18:03:48.402+00:00Sestina Day 11: Twisted VerseWeird one today, folks. Not your average sestina.<br />
Two sets of keywords, one makes up the end words of the lines as usual, the other makes up the start words.<br />
And every stanza they switch places.<br />
Argh.<br />
Apparently this is an entirely new variation. If anyone knows different, drop me a message. <br />
Emma Jane Davies and her mythic keywords are to blame for the theme!<br />
<br />
Howl, fellow wolves, and greet the rising moon!<br />
Owl spreads her wings for she will join us soon.<br />
Dark shadows hold dominion over Earth<br />
Bark, brother wolves, and herald midnight's birth!<br />
Red sun went down, and we, the fierce and wild<br />
Fled from the day to greet Diana's child.<br />
<br />
Childsplay, the hunt. From human eyes we fled<br />
Moonlight shone down, and made us want to howl<br />
Wild children with our teeth and claws stained red<br />
Soon we will join the badger and the owl<br />
Birthing the night, we slaver, pant and bark<br />
Earth turns away from sunlight into dark<br />
<br />
Darkness now spreads its cloak across earth<br />
Fled is the bright one, daylight's only child<br />
Barking, the wolves bear witness to the birth<br />
Howling, we greet the daughter of the moon<br />
Owls circle her, and then we know that soon<br />
Red blood will spill, rejoicing in the wild.<br />
<br />
Wild eyed we yearn to tear into the red<br />
Earth is our hunting ground when it is dark<br />
Soon we must feed on flesh just like the owl.<br />
Child of the moon, show where our quarry fled<br />
Moon-daughter, hearken to our loving howl<br />
Birthed-of-Diana: listen to us bark!<br />
<br />
Barking,we chase our prey until the birth,<br />
Red in the east, of dawn. We love the wild<br />
Howl of our brothers underneath the moon.<br />
Dark creatures swarming all across the Earth<br />
Fled from the woods. each tender human child.<br />
Owl's voice should warn. 'Your fate will meet you soon.'<br />
<br />
Soon they will sleep, the badger and the owl.<br />
Birth of a new day makes us cease to bark<br />
Childlike we cower, from the light we've fled<br />
Wild though we are, we fear the rays of red<br />
Earth is our kingdom only in the dark<br />
Moonchild, return tonight to hear us howl!<br />
<br />
Fled is the owl, Night's child will call her soon:<br />
Moon, at your birth we'll bark and whine and howl<br />
Red lights the dark, and wild ones leave the Earth.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04949191715729638530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6981584509358927111.post-86264578058435256162011-03-22T13:15:00.004+00:002011-03-23T08:31:01.603+00:00Sestina Day 10: Beer and SpiritsToday's keywords are from <a href="http://apintfortheghost.blogspot.com/">Helen Mort</a>, a fabulous poet and lovely person.<br />
Three cool things about Helen:<br />
1) She's from Sheffield.<br />
2) She writes poems about ghosts and her surname means 'death'.<br />
3) She has an ace whippet called Bell.<br />
<br />
This sestina is inspired by Helen's collection of poetry 'A Pint For The Ghost'.<br />
<br />
The job was new to me, learning from scratch<br />
The names of all the ales, but then, I'm bright.<br />
Each customer I welcomed through the door<br />
And learned their names as well, in time, which pleased<br />
The regulars, who always stopped to speak<br />
To me as I was polishing each glass<br />
<br />
After my shift I'd stay and have a glass <br />
Or two of lager, listen to the scratch-<br />
y Jukebox, stop to hear the locals speak<br />
At first, it's true, I thought they weren't too bright<br />
But when I got to know them, I was pleased<br />
They told me tales of hauntings. I adore<br />
<br />
Such legends, and I'd often lock the door<br />
At closing time and, sipping from my glass<br />
write down the stories which had really pleased<br />
me in the empty pub. Sometimes a scratch<br />
Or rustle made me jump, but I was bright<br />
Enough to sit quite still and never speak.<br />
<br />
I'd hear these disembodied voices speak<br />
And feel a draught as if the bolted door<br />
was swinging open. Then I'd see a bright<br />
And eerie light which formed around my glass.<br />
As if a ghostly hand wanted to scratch<br />
A message on the bar. It wasn't pleased<br />
<br />
The presence I could feel, it was displeased<br />
Some evenings it would condescend to speak<br />
and say, “This rat's piss isn't up to scratch<br />
It's got no soul, I'd chuck it out the door<br />
Pour us some stout, I'll have it in a glass<br />
That's got a handle. I can see you're bright<br />
<br />
Enough, my lass, to know when it gets bright<br />
And full in here, us ghosts are never pleased<br />
But in the quiet moments, the odd glass<br />
Of porter is a lifeline, so to speak.<br />
So when you sense my presence, near the door,<br />
Pour me whichever ale is up to scratch.”<br />
<br />
I keep aside a glass, polished and bright<br />
You never hear him scratch: these days he's pleased<br />
Perhaps we'll hear him speak, he's by the door.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04949191715729638530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6981584509358927111.post-37834759298695698332011-03-22T07:43:00.003+00:002011-03-22T13:26:57.819+00:00Sestina Day 9: Drinking with JowOur friend Jow, who is also my wife's comedy writing partner in <a href="http://nowandvenn.wordpress.com/">The Venns</a>, and has office supply related fun at <a href="http://postitsaysitall.blogspot.com/">Post-It Says It All</a>, thought it would be funny to give me ridiculous keywords for today's sestina. Unfortunately for him, the only way I could get it to make sense was by writing a poem about Jow getting progressively drunker and talking more and more bollocks. Sorry. Great poetry it's not, but it was fun to write (and to research, come to that).<br />
<br />
<br />
I like pancake syrup whose hue and viscosity<br />
Has a high level of Verisimilitude<br />
With maple syrup. At breakfast, I groove<br />
To tunes on my iPhone. I hate sounding pompous<br />
But I do find bands like the Darkness superfluous<br />
I only listen to them when I'm bladdered.<br />
<br />
It's not every night I go out and get bladdered,<br />
I like amaretto because its viscosity<br />
Slips down a treat, leaving mixers superfluous.<br />
I'm not impressed by the verisimilitude<br />
Of certain copycat brands, though it's pompous,<br />
I find Disarrono does help me to groove.<br />
<br />
After the drinking it's time for a groove<br />
But I really can't dance till I'm utterly bladdered:<br />
When sober I just feel too stilted and pompous.<br />
My feet seem to stick to the floor with viscosity -<br />
Swayze and I share no verisimilitude -<br />
So I just drink till I don't feel superfluous.<br />
<br />
There are some people I do find superfluous:<br />
Poseurs and hipsters who think they can groove.<br />
They're not special: the mutual verisimilitude's<br />
Striking: can't tell them apart once I'm bladdered.<br />
They all stick together with sickly viscosity<br />
Get on my nerves, so pretentious and pompous.<br />
<br />
I guess you could say I'm the one who is pompous<br />
For calling those hipsters pretentious, superfluous,<br />
I'm talking bollocks though: blame the viscosity<br />
Of Disarrono. I'd quite like to groove:<br />
D'you fancy a dance? Now I'm feeling quite bladdered.<br />
And with a pissed newt I've got verisimilitude.<br />
<br />
I can pronounce words like verisimilitude<br />
Yep, Like A Boss, but you can't call me pompous,<br />
I just talk a whole lot of shit when I'm bladdered.<br />
Use lots of words that are really superfluous<br />
But I'm still awake, though not feeling too groov-<br />
y, Cause I've just thrown up with disgusting viscosity.<br />
<br />
When bladdered, these words such as verisimilitude<br />
Oh, and viscosity, make me sound pompous.<br />
But they are superfluous. Let's have a groove.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04949191715729638530noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6981584509358927111.post-18691611279796808592011-03-21T01:29:00.002+00:002011-03-22T07:58:34.895+00:00Sestina Day 8: Birthday SpecialThis one is for my lovely wife, who does awesome projects like <a href="http://nowandvenn.wordpress.com/">The Venns</a> and <a href="http://chartyourcycle.wordpress.com/">Adventures in Menstruating</a><br />
It's her birthday today.<br />
Anyone who knows my wife knows she has a giant brain which goes in 20 directions at once at any one time. The words for this sestina were chosen by her.<br />
I love you, honey. Happy Birthday.<br />
<br />
Birthday Sestina<br />
<br />
She goes up to the bar and orders Jack<br />
And Coke and then she laughs and flips her fringe<br />
Aside. She's feeling far from halcyon<br />
Her heavy backpack overflows with paper.<br />
"The kids were mad today. Must be full moon.<br />
I wish I hadn't come here on my bike.<br />
<br />
I really shouldn't drink and ride my<br />
bike,<br />
But on a day like this I find a Jack<br />
And Coke, sipped slowly, underneath the moon,<br />
Helps me relax. Oh shit! I think my fringe<br />
Needs cutting. Have you seen what's in the paper?<br />
What beers are on? Have you got Halcyon?"<br />
<br />
It's clear her mood is far from halcyon<br />
She's like a paperboy who rides a bike<br />
Through traffic when delivering the papers<br />
Her conversation swerves as she hijacks<br />
Her own thought train. She dances on the fringe<br />
Of lunacy, so maybe it's the moon<br />
<br />
Which sets her off. It couldn't be the moon...<br />
Up there it seems benign and halcyon<br />
But when it's full, those out there on the fringe<br />
of sanity, do wobble on the bike-<br />
Path of convention. Still, I don't know jack.<br />
She's far from mad. She sits and reads the paper<br />
<br />
And, in her head, prepares a research paper<br />
And marvels at the beauty of the moon<br />
Offers to buy a round and drains her Jack<br />
And Coke; this time she wants a Halcyon.<br />
Extolls the virtues of her folding bike<br />
And phones the hairdresser's to get her fringe<br />
<br />
Cut in the morning. Those out on the fringe<br />
Who only see chaotic mounds of paper<br />
And half formed thoughts of Shakespeare, haircuts, bike,<br />
Might scorn her childlike joy when the full moon<br />
shines down and makes her calm and halcyon<br />
For those who call her hyper don't know jack.<br />
<br />
Her folding bike, her cute and youthful fringe<br />
Won't tell you jack. Ignore what's down on paper:<br />
She's like the moon. Astounding, halcyon.<br />
<br />
xxxSarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04949191715729638530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6981584509358927111.post-44980334895796938022011-03-20T00:07:00.002+00:002011-03-20T09:41:41.226+00:00Sestina Day 7: Secret RecipeIt's been one week, to quote Barenaked Ladies, and I'm enjoying this more than can possibly be normal.<br />
Today's poem is for my lovely sister Jude, whose chosen keywords can be found in her comment on yesterday's post.<br />
Keep the suggestions coming!<br />
<br />
Secret Recipe<br />
<br />
To make the perfect juicy hamburger <br />
Requires a high degree of artistry <br />
I keep a secret blend of seventeen <br />
Exotic herbs, wrapped in a handkerchief.<br />
To bind the mince, I use one free range egg.<br />
The end result is always quickly <br />
gobbled.<br />
<br />
Before I found that recipe I gobbled<br />
All kinds of mediocre hamburger,<br />
Often made up of offal, salt and egg,<br />
You can't disguise bad food with artistry:<br />
They made me retch into my handkerchief<br />
Until one day when I was seventeen <br />
<br />
(I can't believe I was just seventeen),<br />
When sitting in a greasy spoon, I gobbled<br />
A meal that made me raise my handkerchief <br />
Up to my eyes because that hamburger<br />
Caused me to weep at such fine artistry.<br />
That perfect match of beef and herbs and egg.<br />
<br />
(Too many chefs forget about the egg)<br />
The radio was on: East 17<br />
were playing with their usual artistry.<br />
And as the other patrons sat and gobbled,<br />
I asked the chef about the hamburger.<br />
He wiped his hands upon a handkerchief <br />
<br />
- A nasty, greasy, filthy handkerchief -<br />
And said "Why should I tell some posh young egg-<br />
Head how to make my secret hamburger?<br />
You must be young: what sixteen? Seventeen?<br />
Since when have teenagers cared what they gobbled?<br />
But you, you really get my artistry!<br />
<br />
Not many recognise such artistry."<br />
He said, and wept into his handkerchief <br />
"For years I've seen my gourmet artworks gobbled <br />
Along with beans and sausage, chips and egg."<br />
And so, although I was just seventeen,<br />
He taught me how to make the hamburger.<br />
<br />
What you've just gobbled takes great artistry,<br />
Good steak minced fine, A handkerchief<br />
Of herbs, an egg, and luck when seventeen.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04949191715729638530noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6981584509358927111.post-86637863190293728912011-03-18T19:13:00.002+00:002011-03-19T00:38:30.765+00:00Sestina Day 6: BabywriterAnother science fiction sestina, this time inspired by the delightful <a href="http://http://www.emmajanedavies.com/">Emma Jane Davies</a>. One of her tweets referring to novice writers as 'baby writers' set us both off on a sci-fi tangent, and she gave me some excellent keywords!<br />
My favourite so far, I think.<br />
<br />
Babywriter<br />
<br />
I take my pen and start to write the foetus.<br />
Dipping my quill into the seething ink<br />
Which, sapient, awaits life in its tube<br />
I fill the world with verbal progeny<br />
On artificial vellum leaves they spawn<br />
And issue forth from my life-giving word.<br />
<br />
They say in the beginning was the Word,<br />
But once upon a time the human foetus<br />
Grew in its mother's womb, from father's spawn<br />
Back then, the source of life was never ink.<br />
From lust and pleasure came our progeny.<br />
But now it's just the writers and the tube.<br />
<br />
We sit at desks around the metal tube.<br />
Creating life with every written word.<br />
The virus came and killed our progeny<br />
And, in the womb, wiped out each new-formed foetus.<br />
We found we could survive by using ink<br />
And now through words alone can humans spawn.<br />
<br />
We've learned to love our pretty, wordborn spawn,<br />
And venerate the life within the tube.<br />
As long as we can write our dreams in ink,<br />
The human race can live in written word.<br />
They grow up fast. Soon they will write each foetus<br />
They will forget that they're our progeny.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, we're scared of our own progeny.<br />
Fleshborn, they call us, or organicspawn.<br />
They snigger when I say I was a foetus<br />
Inside my mother, never in the tube.<br />
And ask me how, if never born of word.<br />
I understand the passions of the ink?<br />
<br />
I tell them fleshborns first created ink,<br />
To write our stories, not our progeny.<br />
They stare at me, and don't believe a word.<br />
What is ink for, to them, if not to spawn?<br />
The wordborn have no stories, and the tube<br />
Can only fill our pens to write a foetus.<br />
<br />
I write the words down in the living ink<br />
Another foetus joins my progeny<br />
Organicspawn: the servant of the tube.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04949191715729638530noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6981584509358927111.post-73915470977053616282011-03-18T07:38:00.001+00:002011-03-19T00:29:39.470+00:00Sestina day 5: A Cautionary TaleThe other day I was at a literary salon at <a href="http://bankstreetarts.com/">Bank Street Arts</a> in Sheffield. The idea was that we could have a poetry reading where the audience weren't afraid to heckle, challenge and otherwise bother the readers. This I approve of. The painful, martyrish, polite restraint that pervades spoken word audiences gets on my nerves. Imagine what would happen at a comedy or music open mic night if you totally bombed. The audience would let you know. It would be unpleasant, but then you could choose to give it up, change your material or soldier on, assuming that they'd get it eventually. At a spoken word night, it takes a certain amount of self awareness, and ability to read the mood to know if the silence is stunned awe or embarrased, barely contained snorts of the wrong kind of mirth. And if you haven't got much self awareness or ability to read the mood, you are very likely to mistake the latter for the former.<br />
So, in theory, challenging this seemed great, and I was honoured to be asked to read at the first one.<br />
But.... I dunno, sounds a bit pretentious, doesn't it?<br />
I think it was OK, a couple of moments that made me cringe. I think sometimes we were all trying a bit too hard to get it right, and still worried about hurting tender poets' feelings. Actually, I had a really nice time.<br />
I explained the sestina-a-day thing (hmmm...worrying about seeming pretentious? it's posssible the horse has bolted through that particular stable door) and was givensome deliberately problematic words.<br />
So, Bank Street Arts Salonniers, this one's for you. Take heed. And enjoy the homophonic cheats further down.<br />
<br />
He looks up witty things to say on Google<br />
Finds famous epigrams on Wikipedia<br />
To sprinkle in his speech. Wears corduroy<br />
To look Bohemian: pretentious bastard.<br />
His glowing auburn skin is soaked in spray-tan.<br />
Surrounded by young, sycophantic belles,<br />
<br />
He's propping up the bar until the bell s<br />
-Ounds for last orders. On his phone, he Googles<br />
To see where else he can show off his spray-tan<br />
And brags “It's not on Wikipedia, <br />
But I know this new club, though it's a bastard<br />
To get in, if you're wearing corduroy,<br />
<br />
But I don't give a shit. My corduroy's<br />
A statement. I'll get in. I mean, hell bells!<br />
This scene would fold without me. If some bastard<br />
turns me away, he'll see, if he checks Google<br />
Or else my page on Wikipedia<br />
That I'm not just a pretty face.” His spray tan<br />
<br />
Confirms that statement. (Note: he got that spray-tan,<br />
Which, sadly, clashes with his corduroy,<br />
Because an article on Wikipedia<br />
About 'ironic chic' was ringing bells<br />
With him, and so he bought a can on Google.<br />
Now goes by 'Rusty Irony' – smug bastard.<br />
<br />
Fast forward to that club. The slimy bastard<br />
Got in, despite his corduroy and spray-tan<br />
And now he's boasting of the hits on Google<br />
His name is getting these days “Cor! Do roy-<br />
Als feel as loved as this?” Those belles<br />
(Who looked him up today, on Wikipedia,<br />
<br />
To see if he was 'hip', for Wikipedia<br />
Is actually a great "who's who" for bastards.)<br />
Giggle on cue. One young, lurex-clad belle<br />
Seems rather keen. He swoops. His prey tan-<br />
Goes with him. Lurex and corduroy<br />
Ignite with friction: look it up on Google.<br />
<br />
Fire engine bells - it says on Wikipedia,<br />
And also Google - couldn't save the bastard.<br />
It burns fast, spray-tan, so does corduroy.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04949191715729638530noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6981584509358927111.post-74016152399110314212011-03-17T08:17:00.000+00:002011-03-17T08:32:03.722+00:00Sestina Day 4. Advice for Alien Spies.Well, when people like my new friend Kiri give me<span style="font-weight:bold;"> keywords like ketchup, monocle, birdbath, squash, gargoyle and alienation</span>, it's not going to be the most straightforward of poems. <br />So, this sestina has a backstory. A race of Gargoyle-like aliens have sent spies ahead to integrate into human society prior to a massive invasion. The aliens require high levels of sugar and salt to survive in our atmosphere. The following is a transcript of the instructions issued by the mothership to the Gargoyd spies.<br />This also seemed to good time to venture away from the safety net of iambic pentameter. Um... enjoy...?<br /><br />The best thing for blending in quickly is ketchup<br />Eat it on all meals. Please wear a monocle<br />To seem more eccentric. and also a birdbath<br />Is there for the birds, it is frowned on to squash<br />Yourself into a birdbath and squat like a gargoyle.<br />Avoid all sensations of alienation.<br /><br />To combat the nausea and alienation,<br />We can't stress enough that your best friend is ketchup<br />Dont be dismayed if you find that your gargoyle<br />Features are showing, 'cause wearing a monocle<br />May hide the seams if you totally squash it<br />Right to your eyeball. Hang out near a birdbath<br /><br />We're told older humans enjoy watching birdbaths,<br />That viewing small birds combats alienation.<br />Some elderly humans play games such as squash<br />But this isn't compulsory. Stick to the ketchup<br />And those dressed as males may favour the monocle<br />You'll be observed by our surveillance gargoyle<br /><br />Our cameras are hidden in each churchyard gargoyle<br />And there is a microphone under the birdbath<br />The tracking device that's concealed in each monocle<br />Keeps you in touch with the Alien Nation<br />Replace vital sugars and salts using ketchup<br />We've found it delicious on butternut squash.<br /><br />The humanoid species are easy to squash<br />Phase two will involve you reverting to gargoyle-<br />Mode and controlling the masses through Ketchup<br />For more on this plan stay in range of the Birdbath<br />And try to blend in, because alienation<br />Will hinder our plans. We can see through your monocle.<br /><br />When battle commences you'll find that your monocle<br />Serves as a mind control beam that can squash<br />All the human resistance of Alien Nation<br />And soon, when the dominant species is gargoyle<br />We'll laugh at them, twitching like birds in a birdbath<br />And then we will feast on them, smothered in ketchup.<br /><br />The Alien Nation needs you and your monocle<br />To utilise Ketchup when starting to squash<br />All the humans. Each Gargoyle report to your birdbath.<br /><br />My mind worries me.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04949191715729638530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6981584509358927111.post-81645367490853843152011-03-16T18:11:00.000+00:002011-03-16T18:17:26.367+00:00Sestina Day 3.2: For KBKate Bornstein is probably, of all the people I feel I know, but really I've just read their books, the person I admire the most in the world.<br />Anyone (most people I've met) who has become embroiled with me in an argument about gender and sexuality can blame, or rather credit, Kate's work for challenging, inspiring and politicising me into the gobby, queer, poke-gender-binary-with-a-stick-and-see-what-happens feminist/heretic you see before you today.<br />And I'm absolutely not going to go all high pitched and swoony about the fact that she has on occasion, tweeted me. Or that today's (extra) sestina's keywords were suggested by her.<br />Happy belated birthday, Kate. A soppy romance from one Piscean to another.<br />(SQUEEEEEE! *thud*)<br /><br /><br />You took my hand and led me to the green<br />And purple of the moorland. It seemed endless<br />You said 'I come here when the world goes mad<br />The birds and flowers give me sanctuary'<br />And at the time I thought you rather silly<br />And wondered when on earth we'd get to fuck<br /><br />I felt it was a given that we'd fuck:<br />Why would you bring me out into the green,<br />away from all the crowds and from the silly<br />Gossips whose insinuations endless-<br />Ly upset you and disturbed your sanctuary<br />If not to fuck? I thought you must be mad.<br /><br />But still, there seemed no point in getting mad<br />I mean, you seemed to like me. How the fuck<br />Did that happen? I'd searched for sanctuary<br />In love before but only found the Green-<br />Eyed Monster, and the tears and endless<br />Arguments just left me feeling silly.<br /><br />But then you came, and never called me silly<br />And what my other lovers saw as mad-<br />Ness, you referred to as my endless<br />Store of creativity. I loved to fuck.<br />As much as you loved walking in the green,<br />Wild, open spaces, seeking sanctuary<br /><br />I'd never thought that you'd need sanctuary<br />You always seemed so calm, while I was silly<br />You told me that you tried to hold the green<br />Inside yourself to keep from going mad<br />When dealing with the daily awful fuck-<br />Ing tragedies that, sometimes, seemed so endless<br /><br />I'd always tried to push away the endless<br />Sadness in me; not by seeking sanctuary<br />Instead, distraction. Dancing, drinking, fuck-<br />Ing till I felt carefree and silly.<br />But inside I was slowly going mad<br />Till you showed me the peace in hills of green<br /><br />And when we fucked, I knew our love was endless.<br />Just like the green that is our sanctuary.<br />And being silly stops us going mad.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04949191715729638530noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6981584509358927111.post-64762321844521982192011-03-16T00:46:00.001+00:002011-03-16T00:52:56.193+00:00Sestina Day 3. HauntedOK, I should pace myself on this marathon (I've decided to do 100 of these, one a day), but it's technically Wednesday, so to hell with it, here's another.<br /><br />This time, the words (passed surface doorway light place house) were suggested by @OliverMantel, from Twitter. Hello, Oliver.<br /><br />It came out pretty dark, which wasn't inherent in the words, so it must be me.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />She seemed to see a shadow as she passed:<br />A ghostly face in each reflective surface,<br />A silhouetted figure in the doorway.<br />She hurried onward in the fading light,<br />feeling the chilling malice of the place,<br />she longed to get away from the old house.<br /> <br />She'd felt she ought to see her childhood house<br />Because well over 80 years had passed<br />Since anyone had occupied the place,<br />She had imagined dust on every surface<br />Her mind's eye casting a nostalgic light,<br />The evening sunbeams streaming through the doorway<br /><br />These thoughts had opened up a sort of doorway<br />Inside her head. She'd giggled with delight<br />Remembering the joy in her old house<br />Before the night her loving mother passed<br />Away, and though he seemed fine on the surface<br />Her father somehow never found his place<br /><br />But yes, the house had been a happy place<br />The memories came flooding through the doorway<br />She and her brother, skidding on a surface<br />Of polished wood, that velvet tasselled light-<br />Shade that she'd stroke each time she passed,<br />The marble dog that stood before the house<br /><br />So thinking that she'd like to see the house,<br />(And maybe tidy round the dear old place<br />Put ghosts to bed and exorcise the past)<br />She knew as soon as she could see the doorway<br />Which seemed to glow with some unearthly light<br />That those horrific memories would surface<br /><br />The spattered blood she'd found on every surface<br />The awful silence filling up the house<br />Her baby brother, lying in the light<br />Of evening sunbeams, when she'd found the place<br />Her father'd strung himself up in the doorway<br />His last attempt to uncreate the past.<br /><br />The house is old, and as the horrors surface<br />She leaves the past behind, enters the light.<br />Deserts that place, and passes through the doorway.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04949191715729638530noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6981584509358927111.post-29907852177789046482011-03-15T13:51:00.001+00:002011-03-15T13:51:11.185+00:00Sestina Day 2: tits, arse and... liver?Today's keywords were suggested by the filthyminded @hannahthehobbit. I don't know where she got 'liver' from. Right old spanner in the works! <br /><br />You must admit I have amazing tits<br />And noone here has such a perfect arse <br />Mine is the name on everybody's lips <br />Hot property, they'd like to get their fingers<br />On my assets. Yes, a humble lass from Liver-<br />Pool made good. But I don't know... Sometimes I feel <br /><br />Nostalgic for the days when I could feel<br />Some vestige of sensation in my tits<br />And when I hadn't trashed my pickled liver<br />But poverty's a right pain in the arse<br />So i just smile andflirt when someone fingers<br />My thigh. I smile with artificial lips.<br /><br />I love my collagen injected lips:<br />It really makes a difference I can feel<br />When smearing on the lipgloss with my fingers<br />I love my perky double D cup tits<br />I've got no time for you if you're an arse<br />About my looks. I have been a hard liver-<br /><br />I hate to think about my poor old liver<br />You drink a lot when giving rich men lips-<br />Ervice. You kiss a lot of arse.<br />And somehow all those drinks help you to feel<br />Less bothered as you smile, and show your tits,<br />And try to dodge their sweaty sausage fingers<br /><br />I miss my mother's food: chips and fish fingers<br />Or else a lovely steaming plate of liver<br />And onions, but these great pretentious tits<br />Serve caviar which bursts between your lips<br />And doesn't fill you up. instead they feel<br />You up. His hands are never off my arse.<br /><br />But he is such a grateful little arse <br />I make more cash than if had light fingers<br />Its easy work. I don't want you to feel<br />Sorry for me. Well, maybe for my liver<br />But I know what I'm doing. Read my lips:<br />I've really made my living out of tits<br /><br />And when I feel he's too much of an arse<br />Grabbing my tits, I slap away his fingers.<br />I'd eat his liver whole, and smack my lips.<br />Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04949191715729638530noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6981584509358927111.post-89279872995670278492011-03-14T09:15:00.000+00:002011-03-14T09:19:02.861+00:00Sestina A DayI'm reviving this defunct old thing to challenge myself to write a sestina a day. they may not be good, but they scratch an itch in my brain. suggestions of sets of six key words very welcome.<br /><br />This first one was suggested by Geraldine Byrne, who gave me the keywords 'damp, smoke, green, dark, stolen, free.'It is, as yet, untitled.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The flat is small and cold and smells of damp <br />and unwashed bodies, and the fragrant smoke <br />of cannabis, a sticky bag of green <br />lies on the floor. The room is growing dark <br />There's music coming from an ipod (stolen)<br />The lad is good at living cheap or free<br /><br />He knows that he is lucky to be free<br />He'd rather be here in this tiny, damp<br />and smelly flat. Than inside. Cos he's stolen<br />More than ipods. And he tends to smoke<br />The kind of thing you purchase after dark<br />On street corners. He likes to see the green<br /><br />Of city parks. In prison there's no green.<br />There have been times he nearly lost his free-<br />Dom, sent him running through the dark<br />The cops in hot pursuit, his forehead damp<br />But he can vanish like a puff of smoke.<br />He's not amoral. Everything he's stolen<br /><br />Has been from rich old bastards, who have stolen<br />From us, the poor, for years as a green-<br />Eyed girl once said. She taught him how to smoke,<br />How to rebel, ignore the state, live free<br />A scared young runaway, afraid and damp<br />Lost in the freezing city after dark<br /><br />Hers was the voice who called him from the dark<br />She shared with him a sandwich that she'd stolen<br />And said she knew a squat. Warm, not too damp<br />Where he could crash. Her eyes were emerald green<br />She said since she was 13 she'd been free<br />Her voice was low and scratchy from the smoke<br /><br />Back at the squat she'd offered him a smoke<br />They'd cuddled close together in the dark<br />The boy felt that, at last, he might be free<br />To leave the past behind, a childhood stolen<br />And gaze intently into eyes of green <br />Remembering, his cheeks are growing damp.<br /><br />But thoughts are free, and, when he starts to smoke<br />Though cold and damp, he doesn't mind the dark<br />Thinking of stolen kisses, eyes of green.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04949191715729638530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6981584509358927111.post-10480242949372356112010-08-08T09:53:00.000+01:002010-08-08T10:18:52.950+01:00OK Julie, you're not a Dyke.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04949191715729638530noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6981584509358927111.post-39975228163785713002009-05-23T21:03:00.000+01:002009-05-23T21:17:46.970+01:00New ProjectLately I've been a regular at a new monthly spoken word night in Sheffield - Speak Easy. It's run By John Turner, a local legend whose alter ego, the Saga Lout*, causes affray at a variety of venues in the region.<br />John is largely responsible for me winning contests in that he bullies me into entering them in the first place, so I'm trying to return the favour - and do my bit to keep the momentum of the well intentioned but sporadic spoken word scene in Sheffield on the up, I'm helping organise and promote it. <br />So, fully equipped with the knowledge that the two of my three followers who aren't me are on different landmasses to me, I say to you: Come to Speak Easy! 25th of June, Sheffield Hallam Union, 7:30. Be there. In spirit at least!<br /><br />*Translation for non-brits: Saga: Holiday Company who cater to the over 50s, encouraging them to blow the kids' inheritance on cruises<br />Lager Lout: British phrase referring to a young man who drinks beer and causes trouble.<br />Saga Lout: John.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04949191715729638530noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6981584509358927111.post-43440410410448149442009-05-19T17:48:00.000+01:002009-05-19T17:51:30.759+01:00PUBLISHED!!!One of the competitions I entered has come up trumps. I didn't win, but I did make the top ten and I get to be in an anthology with Earlyworks Press. I also win the grand total of £5 (my entry fee) and a free copy of the book. And the right to call myself a published poet. Booyah.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04949191715729638530noreply@blogger.com2