Poem for a friend who has come off the rails

Today’s daily poem podcast is about a friend who has come off the rails somewhat.

<div style=”font-size: 10px; color: #cccccc;line-break: anywhere;word-break: normal;overflow: hidden;white-space: nowrap;text-overflow: ellipsis; font-family: Interstate,Lucida Grande,Lucida Sans Unicode,Lucida Sans,Garuda,Verdana,Tahoma,sans-serif;font-weight: 100;”><a href=”https://soundcloud.com/robertdgarnham&#8221; title=”Robert Garnham” target=”_blank” style=”color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;”>Robert Garnham</a> · <a href=”https://soundcloud.com/robertdgarnham/videotomp31595319290691-m4a&#8221; title=”Daily Poem 38 : A friend has come off the rails” target=”_blank” style=”color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;”>Daily Poem 38 : A friend has come off the rails</a></div>

A lockdown Skype conversation (from March 2020)

March seems such a long time ago and the world has already changed so much. Glad that the rush on toilet rolls has calmed down.

A and B are speaking to each other over Skype.

A
So he says, he says, he can’t understand why there are so many cars parked outside people’s houses when they’re all meant to be at home. So I say, well, people are at home, aren’t they? That’s where there’s all these cars parked outside. But he still doesn’t get it. They’ve got to be visiting people, haven’t they?, he says, I’ve never seen so many cars parked in the road. So I says, where else are these cars gonna go? They belong to the people in the houses and usually they’re at work and stuff, and he says, yeah, but they all had to go out and get the cars from somewhere.

B
What a nob.

A
And he’s still going on about it. Cars, he keeps saying, look at them all parked out there! He’s standing at the window. And all these people are meant to be at home. And I lost it, I said to him, we’ve just been through this!

B
Heh-heh.

A
And then he’s in the supermarket, right? This is before it all kicked off, he’s in the supermarket and he phones me and he says, all the bread’s gone! The vultures have bought up all the bread and now there’s none! And I need bread! I’m desperate for it! And I says to him, I says, go to the bakery, I was in there just now and they had loads, and he says, what? The bakery? I’m not paying their prices!

B
Your brother is such an idiot.

A
So what have you been up to?

B
Not a lot. I went to the bins, earlier. And then I thought afterwards, oh, does that count as my one exercise for the day?

A
Ha ha.

B
Am I not allowed out now for a walk because I’ve gone to the bins? Mind you, it was further than I went yesterday.

A
I tell you what I don’t get.

B
This isn’t that thing again is it? The helicopter thing? I told you that was fake news.

A
Debs sent it to me.

B
Oh so it must be true! Helicopters coming over at night to disinfect everything. Don’t leave your windows open. Never heard such nonsense! What about all the wildlife? And farm animals, and crops, and every other living thing on the planet?

A
All right, all right, so it wasn’t true.

B
And where are we suddenly going to get all these helicopters from? And how are they going to carry all that disinfectant? And why would the government announce it over Instagram?

A
Yeah, yeah.

B
How many people did you send it to?

A
Everyone. Anyway, I tell you what I don’t get.

B
Hang on a minute.

A
What?

B
Bogey.

A
What?

B
You’ve got a bogey.

A wipes his nose several times on his sleeve.

B

So what don’t you get?

A
I tell you.

B
Go on.

A
They say you’re not meant to touch hands, right? And someone suggested doing that elbow bump thing. Well that’s ok, isn’t it. But aren’t these the same elbows that we’re meant to be closing toilet doors with? Aren’t these the same elbows that we’re meant to be sneezing into? Can’t be hygienic, can it?

B
You’ve got a point.

A
It’s true though, isn’t it?

B
You think we’re all spreading elbow germs, now?

A
We’ll survive the flu and we’ll all die to some new elbow disease.

B
There’ll be some government advice, we will all have to wash our elbows. Boil our elbows. And it will be just like a night club, the hottest joint in town.

A
What’s that? I don’t get it.

B
Never mind. Hey, do you know Justin?

A
Justin who?

B
Berwell. Justin Berwell. Actually you might not know him because we went to different schools. Berwell. Emigrated to Australia, they got the same rules over there about staying at home as we have. Anyway, he’s got this company selling these miracle diet pills. It’s all a scam. These shoddy airbrushed before and after pictures. He’s flogging these dodgy diet pills. And he has the cheek to change his profile picture to the words I deserve respect, I’m a health worker!

A
I suppose he is, in a way.

B
Diet pills, though?

A
It’s healthy.

B
It can’t be, I’ve seen the adverts.

A
Makes people feel good about themselves, though.

B
It can’t be good if he’s involved. I remember him at school. He was so obnoxious. The geography teacher once asked us if we knew where the Great Plains were and he said the airport.

A
Admittedly, that’s quite funny.

B
Diet pills, though. It’s not the sort of thing you hear about, though, is it? On a train or something, the conductor comes over the intercom and says, ladies and gentlemen, this is an emergency, is there a miracle weight loss pill salesman on board?

A
Is this a bit?

B
A what?

A
A bit for one or your shows?

B
No, it’s real.

A
Haven’t they all been cancelled?

B
Most of them.

A
Even the fringe?

B
I don’t know, yet. Mind you, if gatherings of more than two people are banned, then at least my fringe show can still go ahead.

Silence for a bit.

A
I don’t get it.

B
Things have, er, they’ve kind of . .

A
Yeah.

B
It’s all about . . Carrying on, isn’t if? Because otherwise . .

A
The way I see it, as long as we keep this up.

Silence for a short white.

B
Listen, I’m going to need some hair clippers.

A
What for?

B
For making a meringue. For my hair! What else?

A
You gonna shave it all off?

B
No! I’m just going to trim it a bit.

A
Cut your own hair?

B
I watched a YouTube video showing how it’s done, I’ll be fine.

A
Funny you should say that. I was in the hairdressers the other day.

B
You’re bald!

A
I was waiting for my brother! Anyway, this yoot comes in, big hair, huge chin. I mean it. Never seen such a big chin. I thought, now there’s someone who could do with a chin-ectomy. Anyway, the yoot comes in.

B
Get to the point.

A
Says to the hairdresser, here, can you cut my hair so that it’s curly? And she says, I can’t do that! It’s impossible! And he said no, I saw this YouTube video showing how you can cut someone’s hair and it ends up curly, so can you do it with mine.

B
Heh heh.

A
And he wasn’t having it, he kept arguing about this video, and the hairdresser was saying that it can’t be done, and then my brother had a hair cut, she did a good job.

B
Well that just kind of fizzled out there, didn’t it?

A
Massive chin.

B
So what are you up to today?

A sneezes violently into the webcam camera and the screen becomes obscured with mucus leaving just a vague outline.

B
Oh for heaven’s sake!

A tries to wipe the camera to no avail and just makes it worse.

B
Try to use some kitchen towel.

A
I haven’t got any!

B
You haven’t got any kitchen towel?

A
I used it all as toilet paper!

B
Didn’t that . . Chafe a bit?

A
Like hell!

B
For goodness sake, what are you using?

A
Pants!

B
Pants?

A
Boxers.

B
Gross!

A
Boxer briefs, to be precise.

B
Yewww!

A
It’s not like you’re actually here.

B
Why have you got boxer briefs just lying round in your living room?

A
It’s hot in here, I just took them off.

B
I’m logging off, now.

A
Log off! Log off!

B logs off. The screen goes blank.

B whispers wistfully
Bye.

Where the hell is my train?

Today’s daily poem is about standing on a station platform wondering where the hell the train has got to.

<div style=”font-size: 10px; color: #cccccc;line-break: anywhere;word-break: normal;overflow: hidden;white-space: nowrap;text-overflow: ellipsis; font-family: Interstate,Lucida Grande,Lucida Sans Unicode,Lucida Sans,Garuda,Verdana,Tahoma,sans-serif;font-weight: 100;”><a href=”https://soundcloud.com/robertdgarnham&#8221; title=”Robert Garnham” target=”_blank” style=”color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;”>Robert Garnham</a> · <a href=”https://soundcloud.com/robertdgarnham/late-train-wav&#8221; title=”Daily Poem 36: Ballad of the Late Train” target=”_blank” style=”color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;”>Daily Poem 36: Ballad of the Late Train</a></div>

The Approach

The approach

I could feel the engines throbbing through the joystick, the plane itself skimming the tops of the clouds throwing down a shadow of our outline, the folds and hollows of the piled cumulonimbus hiding within their fluffy exterior hail, thunderstorms, bad weather. It’s a position I’ve been in more times than I can remember, the pulsating turbofans of my craft a comfort, the juddering engines, the pulsating jets, the oscillating power units, all of them at my control.
Bing bong.
I speak into the cabin intercom using that practised drawl.
‘Aaaaaaaaand ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking, Captain O. Captain. Yes, I know my surname is Captain, you could say I was destined for this job. We’re about seventy miles from Westbury International. If you look out the port side windows, you’ll see a lovely view of the folds and hollows of the piled cumulonimbus. So we should begin our descent any time soon. Until then, please feel free to be lulled by the pulsating, oscillating, throbbing, juddering of the engines as they soothe us through the sky . . . You know . . . I might even sing to you’.
‘Don’t’, the First Officer suggested.
‘Cabin crew, prepare for . . .’.
‘Landing?’
‘Yes . . Yes . . .’.
Instinctively, I reached out a hand and stroked the topside of the cockpit controls.
‘Bring us home safely, old girl . .’, I whispered.
‘Captain O. Captain’, the First Officer, Ben, said. ‘You really are somewhat eccentric ‘.
I could feel the engines quaking and gibbering through the controls.
‘Ben . . .if that is your name . . . Flying is instinctive. It’s a relationship between not only the captain and their machine, but also solid metal and the laws of physics. It’s like an affirmation of . . I say, are you okay?’
The sweat was rolling down Ben’s face. His upper lip was glistening. He stared straight ahead as if not even noticing the folds and hollows of the piled cumulonimbus,
‘You see . . . The quivering engines . . .’.
All of a sudden Ben yelled, ‘Can’t you see it? Don’t you understand? You’re my father!’
I was silent for a couple of seconds.
‘But . . .’.
‘Don’t try to deny it. You know it’s true. I’ve been waiting years for us to be scheduled on the same flight, just so I could tell you this!’
‘But Brad, we have our pre-landing checklist . . ‘.
‘It’s Ben. Sod the pre-landing checklist! I rose up through the ranks just for this one day, and then the moment . . . The moment I’m with you . . I . . .’. Ben let out a sign, his head silhouetted against the folds and hollows of the piled cumulonimbus clouds. ‘I realise that I can never come between the love you have for aircraft’.
I could feel the vibrations and the trundling of the engines through the controls.
‘So your mother must be Sophie’, I whisper, ‘that winsome mechanic whose coquettish charms lit up the engineering hangar all those years ago, resulting in our tryst in the starboard fan cowling assembly . . .’.
‘That was twenty four years ago’.
‘Jeez, they’re letting you fly planes at twenty three years old, now?!’
‘Captain O. Captain. I mean . . Dad’.
The sun shines brightly on the folds and hollows of the piled cumulonimbus.
‘No time to talk, we’ve got to concentrate. Let’s get this baby on the ground ‘.
‘That’s what she said’.
‘Brad!’
‘Ben’.
We began our descent. The white fluffy clouds of the cumulonimbus gave way to a deep grey and the cockpit window was spotted with rain. A slight turbulence flexed our wings as the engines grinded and rattled through the controls. After a while we were out of the base of the clouds and the runway lights were in view.
‘Every landing’, I whisper, as we levelled and lined up, ‘is a controlled calamity’.
And the runway itself seemed to beckon us in. In much the same way that Sophie had beckoned me up into the starboard fan cowling assembly to show me an interesting leak. And then before we know it we’re down on the ground, wheels touching the runway, reverse thrust applied throwing us ever so gently into our harnesses.
‘You really only ever get one shot at this’, I tell him.
We taxi to the terminal building.
‘You really do . . ‘, I continue, my mind wandering.

An ode to Jeremy Wade

Today’s daily poem podcast is an ode to TV fisherman Jeremy Wade.

<div style=”font-size: 10px; color: #cccccc;line-break: anywhere;word-break: normal;overflow: hidden;white-space: nowrap;text-overflow: ellipsis; font-family: Interstate,Lucida Grande,Lucida Sans Unicode,Lucida Sans,Garuda,Verdana,Tahoma,sans-serif;font-weight: 100;”><a href=”https://soundcloud.com/robertdgarnham&#8221; title=”Robert Garnham” target=”_blank” style=”color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;”>Robert Garnham</a> · <a href=”https://soundcloud.com/robertdgarnham/a-poem-for-jeremy-wade-wav&#8221; title=”Daily Poem 33 : A Poem for Jeremy Wade” target=”_blank” style=”color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;”>Daily Poem 33 : A Poem for Jeremy Wade</a></div>

The Lock Keeper’s Violin

Today’s daily poem is about a lockkeeper who has an unusual request before he lets anyone go past.

<div style=”font-size: 10px; color: #cccccc;line-break: anywhere;word-break: normal;overflow: hidden;white-space: nowrap;text-overflow: ellipsis; font-family: Interstate,Lucida Grande,Lucida Sans Unicode,Lucida Sans,Garuda,Verdana,Tahoma,sans-serif;font-weight: 100;”><a href=”https://soundcloud.com/robertdgarnham&#8221; title=”Robert Garnham” target=”_blank” style=”color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;”>Robert Garnham</a> · <a href=”https://soundcloud.com/robertdgarnham/the-lock-keepers-violin-wav&#8221; title=”Daily Poem 32: The Lock keeper's Violin.wa” target=”_blank” style=”color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;”>Daily Poem 32: The Lock keeper's Violin.wa</a></div>

Asking for a bag at the checkout in the supermarche in Paris

<div style=”font-size: 10px; color: #cccccc;line-break: anywhere;word-break: normal;overflow: hidden;white-space: nowrap;text-overflow: ellipsis; font-family: Interstate,Lucida Grande,Lucida Sans Unicode,Lucida Sans,Garuda,Verdana,Tahoma,sans-serif;font-weight: 100;”><a href=”https://soundcloud.com/robertdgarnham&#8221; title=”Robert Garnham” target=”_blank” style=”color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;”>Robert Garnham</a> · <a href=”https://soundcloud.com/robertdgarnham/at-the-supermarche-in-paris&#8221; title=”Daily Poem 30: At the supermarche in Paris” target=”_blank” style=”color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;”>Daily Poem 30: At the supermarche in Paris</a></div>

Today’s whimsical poem is about asking for a carrier bag in a French supermarket.

An interview with Mary Dickins

When I first started performing I would travel up to London every month or so and perform at open mics. This was a great way to meet new people and see other poets. One of the biggest and noisiest nights was Bang Said the Gun, which took place at the Roebuck pub near Borough, and I would go often, sometimes just to sit and watch, and sometimes to perform.

It was at one such evening that I first saw Mary Dickins. I fell in love with her poetry immediately. Joyous, funny, an delivered in a deadpan that added to the comedy. We would later work together making TV adverts for a certain building society, and at one or two corporate events. Mary’s poetry has a joyful playfulness which masks a serious subtext. Well observed descriptions of every day life combine with a true poetic sense of wonder.

Mary’s book, Happiness FM, has just been published by Burning Eye, and I thought I’d use this as an opportunity to interview her.

How did you get into writing poetry?

I have a distinct memory of writing my first poem when I was four. It was a nonsense poem called “The man wrapped up in a Pin” and it rhymed. I was much more excited about it than the rest of my family. Throughout my life I’ve used poetry and creative writing as a therapeutic outlet but I saw it as more of a hobby and I never thought my work was ‘good’ enough for performance or publication until much later.

I’ve seen you loads of times performing on the London spoken word scene. How did you start performing live?
I have always been interested in the performance aspect of poetry and in my professional life was a conference speaker and lecturer but it wasn’t until I was 60 and attended an Arvon course run by Matt Harvey and Kate Fox that I got the confidence and self-belief to give my poetry a try. This led me to do open mic at the brilliant Bang Said the Gun and for the first time I experienced a really noisy and enthusiastic response. I thought that was wonderful and I wanted more.

Who are your influences as a poet and artist?
My influences are many and varied. I was very taken by the Liverpool poets and the irreverent breath of air that they brought to the poetry establishment in the 60s..  I was an early and devoted fan of John Cooper Clark and John Hegley and also poets such as Maya Angelou and Grace Nicholls. I am now an avid reader of all kinds of poetry and I think I probably take a little bit from everyone I like.

Your collection Happiness FM has a bright, upbeat feel. Was this a conscious decision at the start of the project?
I do feel that the best poetry is usually uplifting in some way so I suppose I do aim for that. I guess this evolved as I thought Happiness FM made a good title poem. My daughter Hannah designed the cover around that and together we aimed for an eye catching joyful feel. I was worried about the irony bringing out  a book with this title at a time when the vast majority of people were feeling singularly unhappy then I thought maybe it could bring a little joy into my readers lives.

You have a wonderful knack at finding the eccentric and the odd beneath everyday reality. How did you develop this quirky worldview?
Is it me that’s quirky? I always think it’s everybody else. I think that feeling excluded while growing up (long story) made me into an acute observer and gave me the ability to step back and view reality objectively. Let’s face it there is plenty about the world that is eccentric and odd so there is no shortage of ideas.

Your poetry can also be deeply serious. Do you think it is a poet’s duty to look at the bigger issues in society and life?
I’m not sure about the word ‘duty’ as this rather saps the enjoyment out of it. Poets describe and interpret the world around them and also chronicle the times they live in so the bigger issues are pretty hard for any of us to avoid. Exploring identity, for example, inevitably leads to us to examine and challenge existing values and systems. Poetry can be a powerful tool for change and personally I do like my poems to contain some kind of social comment however oblique. I think anyone with a public platform has a responsibility to try to make the world a better place and that includes poets. I want the poets I admire to have integrity and be truthful. But they should be allowed to express themselves as they choose.

What is your writing process? Do you have a specific time and place for writing?
I’ve never been very good at keeping to a self-imposed writing schedule although I can be disciplined and dogged if the situation calls for it. A lot of my writing takes place in my head and I find that 2am in the morning is the time when random ideas and solutions suddenly emerge. This means that the kitchen table is often littered with strange and obscure post it notes to self in the morning.  I find poetry courses and writing groups very useful as they give you homework deadlines and a reason to persevere.

What was your best ever gig as a performer?
It has to be when I won the Golden Gun at Bang Said the Gun a few years ago. I performed a somewhat blasphemous poem called “The Richard Dawkins Delusion by God” and Andrew Motion who was Poet Laureate at the time and also performing said how much he liked it. I floated home on the tube that night.

What are you working on at the moment or what will your next project be?
Well this is the rub. At the moment my biggest challenge as someone in a vulnerable category for Coronavirus is how to maintain a poetry presence and promote the book. Luckily there are online opportunities at the moment and I hope these continue as there are a few of us who might be stranded if they don’t. I have a number of new poems up my sleeve so I am looking towards the next collection.

What advice would you give someone who would like to follow on your footsteps and be a poet and a performer?
Don’t wait as long as I did but at the same time it’s never too late to start.

Thoughts from a Cambridge hotel

Cambridge.

I was sitting in the hotel reception area this morning waiting for the man behind the desk to stop pretending to be busy. I knew that he was pretending to be busy because he was tapping away on a computer keyboard and huffing. And this is exactly what I do whenever I don’t want to be interrupted, or if I’m on a train and I don’t want anyone to sit next to me. He had very prominent eyebrows, in fact you might even call them purposeful. The left one looked like it knew what it was doing, the right one looked like it was doing its own thing, but the cumulative effect was that they were making a statement. His eyebrows were saying, we go to places you can never imagine.

From where I was sitting I had a good view into the adjacent breakfast room. It was a buffet style breakfast and I could see other guests loading their plates and bowls and filling cups from a coffee machine. They’d tried to sell me a breakfast when I’d booked in, even though the room had already been paid for. They were quite insistent that I bought a breakfast but at nine pounds I thought it somewhat exorbitant.

My parents always used to stay in places where you had a buffet breakfast. My dad would always eat too much but he would be too embarrassed to be seen getting so much food, so he used to get my mother to pile extra food on her plate, too.

A very middle class looking white couple come in with their son. They’re all smiley and looking well to do, all pastel clothing and beige chinos, while their son is an emo goth, looking very sullen, with his trendy long hair and glum expression. He lurks behind them, scowling, fed up with the world and he injustice of it all. Or maybe he was still seething over the price of the buffet breakfast. And I think, what have you possibly got to be miserable about? Your parents look nice and they’re wearing nice clothes. And the sun is shining. And you’re young and you’ve got the whole of the rest of your life in front of you. He stands behind them at the self service buffet, then gets to the front, fills up a bowl of cornflakes, goes to put milk on, and the canister has run out. And I thought, there, that’s given you something to be miserable about.

So I go to the desk to book out once Eyebrows has looked up from his keyboard and let out a sigh.
‘Room 111. It’s all paid for, I believe’.
‘Yes, it was prepaid’.
He takes my room card.
‘You haven’t paid for your breakfast’, he says.
‘But I haven’t had a breakfast’.
‘Yes, but you haven’t paid for it’.
‘I didn’t want a breakfast’.
‘My colleague has put you down for a breakfast’.
‘I said I would think about having a breakfast. And now I’ve thought about it, and I don’t want one’.
‘But you haven’t paid for if’.
‘Just as well, then’.
‘So you need to pay for the breakfast’.
‘But I haven’t had one, and I’m not having one’.
‘Anyway, you need to pay for it’.
‘Why should I pay for it when I didn’t ask for it and I didn’t want it?’
‘Because my colleague says that you wanted one’.
‘But I didn’t want one then, and I don’t want one now’.
‘So how are you going to pay for it?’
‘I’m not going to.’
He lets out a huff and slams the printed receipt on the desk.
‘Good bye’, he says.
I take the receipt and I leave. And as he door closes behind me I do begin to feel a little bit peckish.