No sense of closure from that dream last night. You were back and dancing sublime and you said That those who live in cul-de-sac places Feel nothing but anger when the dreams refuse to come.
You would never have been so philosophical in real life, Though we both lived in dead-end places, Cul-de-sacs leading nowhere and bungalows of derision. There’s no place to go when there’s only one way in.
I’d like to be more adventurous and I'd like to take chance. I’d like to live, but just being with you Was adventure enough, and you said that you needed more Than love and security, and that defined our difference.
Only the one way in, and one way out, and you felt Hidden away from the world, and your dreams were on a Larger canvas, a widescreen for the soul, You said my focus was too narrow, that I was
Easily satisfied with the status quo, which is to say, The comforts of a life hidden from potential harm. And yet I’d dream the same dreams as any damn fool, And I’d write them in a notebook, closure or not.
And now those very same dreams exclude a man Who never sought finality. I look out at my cul-de-sac, Hidden off from the main road where dreams often die, Narratives which end far too neatly for my tastes.
Just for a minute I’d like to fall asleep and dream Of neat resolutions, and maybe from time to time, You’ll pop up and say hello, and wave, and we’ll be Ever so cosy in our cul-de-sac, with the world calling, But we won’t answer, and we’ll both be laughing.
No sense of closure from that dream last night. No sense of closure from that dream last night.
Greetings puny earth people. I come in peace. Take me to you leader! Actually, maybe not, I’ve seen him in action. Take me to the most Significant person, According to your Earth transmissions Take me to Rylan!
I am Zignor, Of the planet Pupaluvious 5, Which orbits a star Which until recently was called PUV 621R But Thanks to someone on your planet Buying its name as a fiftieth birthday present It’s now called Barry Jenkins. All hail Barry Jenkins! May death come quickly to his enemies.
I arrived just after lunch And I shall now attempt What appears to be your common greeting As it was the first thing said to me When I arrived. ‘You can’t park that there, mate’.
I have come to spread a Message of peace And if anyone says I haven’t then I’ll Punch their lights out. I saw your planet from Across the vast emptiness of space While lying in a field on Pupaluvious 5 And my first thought was, Oh, I’d love to go there And my second thought was Someone’s nicked my tent.
Pupaluvious 5 has eight moons. You’ve only got the one. Half of it was in shade tonight. I suppose It’s just a phase it’s going through.
Your puny planet is Ripe for alien invasion. We just don’t want to. It’s a sleepy backwater With terrible parking. It’s kind of the solar system’s equivalent to Newton Abbot. And every time we visit We feel we have to have a damn good shower. As I say, It’s the solar system’s equivalent to Newton Abbot. It smells a bit. Newton Abbot.
I suppose on your planet I’m known as an ET. Oh look, I heard someone say just now, An ET. Someone else said, What’s ET short for? And he replied, Because he’s got little legs.
I offered to take him To see Jupiter. He replied that if he wanted To see a gas filled giant, We’d visit his Uncle Darren.
But here I am, I come in peace. Here I am Don’t call the police. I’ve travelled far In an interdimensional zone On a spaceship made for one I was very alone I tried telepathy on Donald Trump. All I got was The engaged tone.
I leave you now, my interstellar friends. Once again, sorry about those EarthLink satellites I hit on the way down. Roswell was an insurance job. Let me finish with this saying From my home world, ‘Flooga zappy looppa-looga’, Which roughly translate as ‘Geoff, your Tentacles are showing’. Doreen, Beam me up, Doreen!
Yo-Yo: Ruminations of an Accidental Poet, published by Puddlehopper, is now available to purchase! Telling stories from fifteen years as a performance poet. Festivals, fringes, fleeting appearances on TV, filming, faffing around with props, flopping at slams, it has it all! Essays from Write Out Loud, Chortle, Litro Magazine and and Torquay Museum’s lecture series, and some written specifically for this collection. Plus one new poem! Details on how to order this book will be revealed shortly.
Here’s the blurb:
In 2008 Robert Garnham thought he’d give performance poetry a try, having never heard of it before. What followed was to be fifteen years of crazy poetry adventures in all sorts of different venues. These collected essays describe, with humour and warmth, gigs in every part of the UK (and further afield), shenanigans at music festivals, angst at the Edinburgh Fringe and every conceivable type of poetic misadventure.
‘As Robert Garnham has been a huge influence on me as a comedy spoken word artist, I read this collection of essays with great anticipation. It didn’t disappoint! A wonderfully entertaining read’. (CLIVE OSEMAN).
Robert has the chance to be on prime time TV! What could possibly go wrong? A comedy poetry show about not becoming famous.
Join performance poet Robert Garnham for his new solo show, Bouncer. When Robert is asked to perform on the UK’s biggest TV talent show, he dreams of fame and fortune and never having to leaflet in Edinburgh again! But of course, these things never go the way you want them to go . . . An hour of storytelling, poetry and comedy about fame, and hope, and dreaming.
‘Playful, warm . . Funny and always surprising’. (Write Out Loud)
‘Wise’. (Word NYC).
‘Clever and entertaining’. (Barnstaple Theatrefest).
‘There’s warmth in his whimsy, it’s sturdy not flimsy’. (Matt Harvey)
‘Witticism, wordplay and wistful romanticism’. (Dandy Darkly)
On a cold, January evening, I caught a train from Devon to London. I was looking for some sense of magic in the air, a barely-perceptible tingle as if fortune were tickling my conscience and smoothing the way to a stardust future. But the train was cold, and dinner was a chicken tikka pasty I’d bought from the convenience store next to the station.
The countryside was hidden in darkness. Beyond the reflection of my own face I could make out tiny villages, clusters of lights in the middle of nowhere, lonely cow barns lit up against the frost, and I thought, do any of these people also dream of everlasting fame?
It pains me to write this letter, but circumstance has forced my hand. For many years, the Brixham Town Scone Society website has been a valuable tool for members to connect, ask advice, share cooking tips, and buy and sell both equipment and ingredients. There have been no complaints and many of us have both enjoyed, and taken advantage of, this wealth of scone-cooking know-how just a click of the mouse away. However, lately it has come to the attention of this committee that the Classified section of the website has been coming under some abuse from certain members whose interests lay beyond mixing methods and how to create a really cracking milk glaze. The problem first came to light when it was pointed out to me that a lot of our newer subscribers to the website, who filled in the online form, listed the classified section as their main motivation for doing so, yet almost all of them answered the question ‘How many hours a week do you spend cooking scones?’ with the response, ‘None’, and in a lot of cases, ‘I do not like scones’. This was somewhat perplexing and an investigation was launched in case there were some confusion in the title of our website, (Scones A-Plenty.com), or indeed if there were some new boy band or comic perhaps titled ‘Scone Man’, that was leading to this sudden influx in new members. However, after a terrible mix-up (no pun intended) the other day in which one of our senior committee members, Maureen Hepplethwaite, found herself not at a scone cookery demonstration as she had been expecting, but at a swinger’s sex party, it was decided that action was needed. The first thing we noticed was the number of young men offering a variety of different shaped spatulas for sale in the classifieds. While these are great implements in the mixing process, it is probably more common in the scone community to use wooden spoons, so I think it’s fair to say that this raised a few eyebrows among the committee. Most of these spatulas were advertised as being new, ‘or in new condition’, while some were being offered in a slightly battered state. At this stage, alarm-bells didn’t actually start ringing. The admin behind running a pro-scone website means that some matters don’t actually get attended to until there’s some kind of emergency. The Great Flour Shortage of 2005 was one such calamity, and equally fraught was the resignation of our chairman in 2009 when he announced that frankly, he preferred muffins. We then noticed the alarming number of society members offering scones of varying states of completion, some of which were ‘ready to pick up now’, others were, ‘come and collect’, while many were ‘lacking one final ingredient’. ‘Already in the mixing bowl’, apparently, (and according to Reginald, who does not proclaim to be an expert on such matters), means that the ‘seller’ is willing to conduct the process in their own home. ‘On the baking tray’, apparently means that they are willing to travel. And it’s anyone’s guess what ‘ready to be consumed with fresh fresh salad’, means. Suspicions were raised further when Phil Burton (member since 1988), advertised that he had a home-made ready mix featuring fresh sultana pieces and fruity chunks only to receive an email which read, ‘You’re a dirty boy, oh my, you’re a dirty boy!’, followed by someone's phone number. Dear society members, this will just not do. To get to the root of the problem, we have employed a code-breaker whose previous area of expertise was the Egyptian hieroglyphs and also the mating call of the common sparrow. And it was no surprise to learn that the codes adopted by many of the users of our classified pages were also a base form of mating call in themselves . Once she had explained what many of the codes and terminologies were, I, as your brave Chairman, decided to pose online as one of these lovelorn scone-bakers with an advertisement composed specifically to entrap the guilty. Spatula for sale (or rent). Slightly rusty yet ergonomically designed to offer maximum stirring. Mixture in bowl yet also functions on the tray. Fellow mixer must have GSOH. No salad please. Jam and cream to spread as desired. Satisfaction guaranteed. Stirs in an anti-clockwise or circular motion. Alas, the only reply to my classified ad was from another society member who offered me a ‘lasagne’. ‘I don’t get it’, I said to the code-breaker. ‘Nor do I’, she replied. And just to be safe, I haven’t eaten a lasagne since. Dear society member, it is time to put an end to this, and the decision was recently taken at a committee level to put an end to the classified section of our website. We understand that this may very well reduce the number of people who have joined our society, (over twenty thousand new members in the last six weeks, a figure which still manages to perplex us), but we believe that this is the safest method to rid our wholesome community of undesirable attention. Like many of you, I started out as a young man with a head full of ideas and dreams intent on devoting my life to the construction and consumption of the humble scone. Starstruck by such scone-bakers as Ethel P. Anderson and Audrey ‘Iron Knuckles’ McGinty, I saw the society as a means to connect with like minded souls whose purpose and heart were in a similar vein to my own. It has been nothing short of tragic to see our fine institution highjacked by those whose thoughts remain as base as their own animalistic instincts. I see this as an opportunity to root out these wrongdoers and make our society safe again! The moment I’ve finished writing this email, I shall be visiting the committee where no doubt we shall be indulging in the wholesome pursuit of the perfect scone. And yes, fellow committee members, thanks for asking, I shall definitely be bringing my own spatula.
This is a poem about a man who’s obsessed with his record collection. Taped live at Exeter’s Taking the Mic, November 2023. I hope you like it.
Rekkuds
Rekkuds
I like my rekkuds I’ve got one or two Playing my rekkuds Is something I do.
They’re mostly jazz, The rekkuds I play. Whenever I listen The world melts away.
I went to the rekkud shop and I said to the chap in there, I said, I thought you liked jazz?, and he said, I do like jazz, And I said, if you like jazz so much, Then how come you ain’t bought any of these rekkuds?
I like my rekkuds. 33 rpm I go home at night I’m surrounded by them.
I went to this party and this bloke says to me, got any Kylie Minogue? I said, bugger off with your Kylie Minogue.
I like my rekkuds. They’re mostly jazz. I play them loud So I can hear them When I’m having a wazz.
I went to the hardware shop the other day and I bought a bucket, Just a plain ordinary bucket, and when I paid for it, The bloke behind the counter looked at my bucket And he said, ‘Enjoy’. How the bloody g hell am I meant to enjoy a bucket?
I like my rekkuds. Of that I’m quite certain. I play Frank Sinatra in the shower. I face the vinyl curtain.
I saw a friend of mine, I asked him what job he had now, He said, beefeater. He meant the restaurant but I said, oh, You mean the Tower of Lunnon? Nobody laughed. Why didn’t you laugh, I asked my mates, you miserable lot. They said, We would have done, if we’d have known it was funny.
I like my rekkuds. I left a Thelonious Monk rekkud in the car. Someone broke in And added two more.
I treat my body like it’s a temple. Shame it’s been Converted into a Wetherspoons.
I like my rekkuds. I like this poem. I’ve made it to the end, for once. Must be some kind of Rekkud.
This month I had great fun making a filmed version of my Edinburgh solo show, Bouncer, with film maker John Tomkins. On a sunny morning, we booked. A beautifully sparse room at Paignton’s library and filmed the whole show, which John has edited wonderfully. I can’t wait for you to see the results.
The film takes place entirely with me seated at a desk, which is something that I’ve wanted to do with a solo show for quite some time. I think it really adds to the project. Here is a trailer for the film, which might give you some idea of how it looks:
So what is Bouncer about?
“Robert has the chance to be on prime time TV! What could possibly go wrong? A comedy poetry show about not becoming famous.
Join performance poet Robert Garnham for his new solo show, Bouncer. When Robert is asked to perform on the UK’s biggest TV talent show, he dreams of fame and fortune and never having to leaflet in Edinburgh again! But of course, these things never go the way you want them to go . . . An hour of storytelling, poetry and comedy about fame, and hope, and dreaming.”
At the same time, I shall also be releasing a self-made video diary about the process behind learning the lines for the show. ‘Learning Bouncer’ was filmed from December 2022 onwards up until a point in which I believed I’d learned the whole show. Of course, I then rewrote big chunks of it!
These will both be ready from November 1st and you will be able to stream them from my website.
It’s not the countryside, he protested. Just an enclave of the city. The actual city. London, he said, Like I had to be reminded which city. It might look green but we got that Big city vibe going on, Urban infrastructure, neon, Oyster cards. What about all the tractors?, I asked. What tractors?, he said. And at that moment, a tractor chugged past.
That’s highly unusual, he said. We don’t often get tractors here, Because this is the city. I’m as shocked as you are. Chug chug chug chug chug went Another passing tractor. There goes another tractor, I said. I didn’t see one. Are you sure it wasn’t a double decker bus? And then another tractor chugged past.
It’s the pulsing throb of metropolitan energy I like, He said, Looking wistfully at a cow shed. And a tractor chugged past. You can even see Canary Wharf If you go on the roof And then climb into a hot air balloon And go up and bring a telescope. It’s right there, Canary Wharf, That’s how urban this place is. That thatched roof gets a bit slippery if it’s Been raining. And then another tractor chugged past.
The traffic is so bad, he said. The other day I ordered a pizza. The Deliveroo cyclist took nine hours. He had to sleep on my sofa. His big Deliveroo box frightened the hens. Hens?, I said. City hens, he said. And then another tractor chugged past.
I thought to myself, (Because you can’t think to other people), I thought to myself, I’ll let him enjoy his delusion, For geographically he may be nearer Yeovil, But at heart he’s a city boy And he’s got that city life And he’s got that city buzz And sure, he swears blind that the sign on the bus stop Which reads Farmers Market Every Tuesday Is actually graffiti in rhyming slang for Darren Is A Tosser In a new kind of rhyming slang That’s so modern that it Doesn’t even rhyme, But he’s a city boy.
And then another tractor chugged past. And another tractor chugged past. And then two tractors chugged past. And then a combine harvester chugged past. And then a tractor chugged past. And I asked, What’s with all these tractors? And he said, I don’t know, it’s weird, isn’t it? Let’s go and make out in the turnip field.
Robert Garnham 