Tag Archives: writing

Made for Each Other

Poem
 
They were made for each other.
He was a trainspotter,
And she was chuffed to have met him.
She was a Pisces
And he looked a bit like a trout.
They were definitely made for each other.

His favourite music was grime.
And she worked for Windowlene.
She liked doing jigsaws
And he liked eating biscuits.
They both started with the edges first.
 
I love you to the Moon and back, he said.
She said, what if it’s a full moon?
He said, I’ll come back when it’s empty.
He said this with a twinkle in his eye
Which he was due to see the doctor about.
He said he was an artist, a genius
when he had a brush in his hand.
She said, great,
I need the bathroom decorating.
 
He was a locksmith.
She held the key to his heart.
The other was left with a neighbour.
They composed a melody about Haribo Gummi bears.
When they were together
They made such sweet music.
 
She only celebrated World Book Day
Which is just as well because
He had a collection of atlases.
One day they were walking when a
Protractor fell from the sky.
He looked into her eyes and said,
‘heaven must be missing an angle’.
 
He was a pessimist.
She told him to stick his chin out.
It didn’t work.
The bus went straight past.
She told him that she was an optimist.
He said, so’s my sister.
She works in Specsavers.
 
She was so resourceful.
When the cat died she turned it
Into a footstool.
It looked awful
But at least it was made from Scratch.
They both loved animals.
He said, have you seen the dog bowl?
She said, yes, and he’s good
At snooker, too.
 
They had similar interests.
He read War and Peace
And she posted a lot on Twitter.
Both have 280 characters.
He was a terrible speller.
He made a big banner,
WILL YOU MARRY ME?
She said,
Who’s Mary?
 
He said,
Will you always remember me?
She said, yes.
He said,
Will you always always remember me?
She said, yes, yes.
He said,
Will you always always always remember me?
She said, yes, yes, yes!
He said, knock knock?
She said, who’s there?

My Set Last Night in Torquay

Hello, here’s what I got up to in Torquay last night. The poems I performed were:

Badger / EastEnders

I Wish I Lived In A Bungalow

Seaside Soul

Instructions for my Funeral

Light Verse

Made For Each Other

Blue Walnut, April 2024

Ode to a Poet Called ‘Tom’

Let’s face it, there are far too many spoken word artists and poets called Tom. This poem was written about six years ago and it’s about one of them. Or maybe all of them. Or none of them. Anyway, you decide!

It was filmed about six years ago, too, by John Tomkins.

Tom

Chisel-chinned trendy wordsmith
All teeth and tan and hair
That looks like it could be easily quiffable 
So young and clean he's probably easily sniffable 
Thou hipster Ginsberg with a 
Conscience so hot it can
Warm the coldest day with the
Fires of righteousness,
Whose words ooze sensibility,
How pained his outlook, this
Zeitgeist-bending Twitter-trending
Hot young thing, this
New kid on the writer's block, this
Prototype Byron with exuberant facial expressions
This slam-winning rhyme-spinning nonchalant
Thin thin slip of a lad with a gob that spews
Perfect indignation in just the right amounts
With controlled anger
And lots of dramatic




Pauses.

Oh god, I wish he was me.

I wish I could be him, I wish me and him
We're mutually interchangeable,
He's so brilliant, like the brightest object
In the known galaxy, a supernova,
A thousand fires of phosphorus force
Brilliant at what he does,
Brilliant at capturing souls 
Brilliant at poetry
I bet he's brilliant at everything
I bet he's never lost a game of Buckaroo.

He's brilliant and sexy and worthy and oh so right
And sexy and coolly infused into the very now
And sexy and young with the most perfect skin
That he should merely stand at the mic and open
His mouth and utter two syllables for me to become as blustered 
As a Victorian gentleman whose just
Caught his first glimpse of ankle.

And I want to speak to him, I want to commune with him,
I want to tell him: good stuff, man,
You've opened my mind to new possibilities 
And then trampled on it with your youthfulness,
In your trendy converse all stars with no socks,
As you lift the night completely to the very pinnacle
Of absolute truth
And by turns reminded me that my own youthfulness
Is now as relevant and erroneous
As turning up at an otter convention
With a stoat.

Oh, this slippy hippy snake-like lad,
All very subtle and very emotey 
If you didn't know any better
You'd think him a bit scrotey,
So slight and wild in the night,
Afire with the rhythms of poets past,
I want to speak to him
Whisper so subtly into his ear,
Blow me,
Blow me away with your words.
I love your body
I love your body
I love you body
Of work.

And at the break, people are talking,
Eulogising, rhapsodising 
And it's all about him, oh,
For he's so intense and righteous and theatrical
And oh,
He's so vibrant and ravishing and clever 
And oh,
He's so visionary and brash and emotional
And oh,
Not only that but he's got the kind of forearms
That could easily operate a butter churn with
Hardly any trouble at all,
(This gig being in an arts centre in Dorset,
Where butter churns are obviously still a thing).

I follow him,
Through this crowd of admirers and acolytes 
Tiptoeing on the periphery
Of a youthful mini mob
Suddenly aware that I'm the only one there
Who remembers the millennium
Or tamagotchis
Or the 1984 Olympics,

He makes a break for the bogs,
And now we're at neighbouring urinals,
The Fluorescent tubes of this magical wazza 
Gently caressing the soft hairs of his delicate chin,
His eyes scanning the blank tiled wall,
His sensitive nostrils
Taking in the pungent earthy aromas
In a venue where the Patrons are mostly
Vegetarian and as such
Relish the most intriguing bowel movements.
(As for myself, I've never
Had much of a sense of hummus).

His eyes almost feral and yet
With deep intelligence
As he concentrates in the matter at hand
With the same kind of intensity
He demonstrates at the Mic,
His pee stream strong,
And healthy, and forceful, 
It sounds like the Trevi Fountain
And certainly just as aesthetically pleasing.
He doesn't even fart.
Is there anything
He's not good at?

And I want to tell him
That I loved his poems.
All of his poems.
His poem about oxygen
Was such a breath of fresh air,
His poem about raspberries
Was surprisingly bitter,
His poem about the Mona Lisa
Was a masterpiece,
His poem about the perfect serve in tennis,
I couldn't fault it,
His poem about being woken by the smoke alarm,
Such an eye opener,
And I want to tell him
That I got the joke he put in
About de ja vue,
Even though I'd heard it before

And I want to tell him
That he's changed the way I look at the world.
And I want to tell him
That he speaks with a clarity of conscience so concise
He makes the Dalai Lama look like a mardy
Self-centred premiership footballer,
And I  want to tell him
That his voice is so silky smooth,
Listening to him is just like 
Nuzzling a mallard
And I want to tell him
That I'd pay him thirty quid and a packet of Frazzles
For just a very brief snog
And I want to tell him
That his skinny jeans  really
Leave nothing to the imagination.

And I want to tell him
That his work evokes such feelings within,
Destiny and timelessness,
The sheer manic dance of life,
Magic in the mundane,
A pounding euphoric oneness
That weaves us all into that
Inescapable yet brilliant tapestry of life,
This is what I want to tell him,
But instead I stare at his nob.

We wash our hands at the sink
And as I wait for the hand dryer
Which has all the power of
A gnats fart,
I say

Hey, good set,
And he says,
Cheers


Tomas – A Poem About Not Falling In Love

Tomas

I shouldn’t let it happen,
It really is quite stupid.
The way I sense in any man
The beating wings of Cupid.

You came and sat right next to me
And smiled and something passed.
Passengers both on a pleasure boat,
By its nature it couldn’t last.

We spent the day having adventures
In Fjords and on frozen seas,
Coupled by fate in a makeshift date
So relaxed and totally at ease.

I’ve always had a romantic side
And a lust for far-off places.
And a dream to find my one true love
Amid the world’s anonymous faces.

Oh Tomas, there was something strong
Between us, we each were a cure.
But I knew all the time there was something wrong
Love is seldom so convenient or pure.

It wouldn’t have worked, it couldn’t have worked,
There was no sense in trying.
If I were younger I would have stressed,
Said nothing, and spent the whole night sighing.

So I held back and let you go
And pretended it wasn’t worth it.
Sometimes life comes in monstrous waves
And all you can do is surf it.

We arrived at the dock in the harbour,
My heart beat its pumping refrain,
Left the boat on the gangplank together
Knowing I’d never see you again.

A Postcard from Tromso

I’d always wanted to come here, to Tromso. Ever since I was a kid, I loved anything to do with the Arctic. I’d read stories about Arctic exploration, the Yukon Gold Rush, the Inuit, the Sami, anything to do with life at the top of the world. I have no idea why this was. Perhaps it was the solitude that I aimed for. Which is just as well, because I’ve come here on my own. And I’m loving it.

This was going to be a grand affair, this trip. I’d fly to Stockholm and spend the night in a hotel they’ve made inside an old Boeing 747. I’d then catch the train up from Stockholm to the Arctic Cicrle. At Narvik, I was going to catch a six hour coach ride to Tromso, from where I’d first fly to Longyearbyen in Svalbard, before flying back, and getting a ferry boat down to Bergen. And from there I’d fly home. Well, scratch all of that. Instead I just flew to Tromso.

There were adventurers on the plane. Three men in their early thirties. Facial hair, and laptops. They were tapping away, writing articles about snowboarding. One of them was reading a book about Shackleton. Another was reading a book about avalanches. After a while they finished typing and then they started talking. ‘Been to Bristol?’. ‘Yeah. Bristol’s shit’. ‘What was that bar you went to in Brighton?’ ‘Oh, that one? It was shit’. ‘Is Jason still seeing Melissa?’ ‘No, they moved to the USA, but then he realised that the USA is shit’. ‘What do you think of this coffee?’ ‘It’s shit’.

When we got off the plane we were shepherded into buses and someone complained in a very English accent that it was bloody cold, and that they should shut the doors, and hurry up. And I thought, well, what do you expect? We’re north of the Arctic Circle, here. Perhaps she was similar to the sorts of people who are upset because they didn’t realise there would be fish in the sea. I then had my passport stamped by a very friendly border control officer who welcomed me to Norway.

And yes, it’s cold. They had snow last week, it’s all still heaped at the sides of the roads and it’s turning a sort of grey colour. One of the first places I went to was the museum of Polar expedition. It was set up inside an old wooden building and I thought, hmm, just one stray match and this whole place could go up at any moment. They’d put in an exhibition in one of the rooms of LGBT life in Tromso. I overhead someone describing it to his friends in broken English. ‘Gay. Not as in happy, but as in homosexual’. One of the exhibits mentioned a book published in the last century about a lonely miner who comes to Tromso and finds himself falling in love with a young man, but then, just when he’s getting very anxious at this turn of events, they turn out to be a woman. So that’s OK, then.

There was a plentiful supply of stuffed animals on display at the museum including what has to be the most worried-looking bear I’ve ever seen.

I went to the aquarium next, where I communed with a seal. It popped its head out of the water and we looked at each other, and I smiled, and it seemed to smile back. And I did think, well, if you want to see some seals, you can just stay in Brixham. But it was worth it to find out that the French for seal is phoque. And to hear some French tourists behind me talking about the phoques. 

I managed to negotiate the local bus network and buy the equivalent of a Dayrider, then went over to the next island and caught a cable car up to the top of the mountain. I don’t know why I didn’t expect it to be snowy and cold, but there you go. It was absolutely beautiful. It was the coldest I’ve been in years, but at the same time so very much what I’d wanted when I started this trip. And it seemed to take me to those teenage years reading all about snowy wastelands, even though Tromso was right there. And when I went back to the cable car station to come down again, I found what has to be the toilet with the best view in the world, of the water and the bridge and the town far below and the mountains and the snow.

As I am a man of culture, I then went back into the town and found what purports to be the most Northern branch of McDonalds in the world. And by this I don’t mean that there are men in there wearing flat caps and talking about pigeons. I mean that it’s apparently the most geographically north branch in the world. And yet, like any McDonalds, there was a table occupied by eight teenagers all surrounding one small Diet Pepsi.

The next day I had myself a little adventure. I got myself a place on a tour boat, travelling around the fjords and seas around Tromso, and it was really quite staggering. The scenery here is unlike anything I’ve seen anywhere else: snow capped mountains, deep valleys, forests. At one point we came into a fjord that was completely frozen, and it was explained that for this to happen there has to be a source of fresh water, which freezes at a higher temperature than sea water. For someone who lives near the sea, to see it actually frozen was mind boggling.

We then visited a traditional fishing village where fish are left to dry in the air. These triangular structures were covered in netting and an electric wire to stop them from being taken by predators. The electric wire was right next to a very slippery ice-packed path on which I was struggling to navigate. It was a case of either fall over, or grab on to an electric wire. Or try not to do either.  The smell of the fish was actually quite pungent. The wind whipped up this valley and, although not as cold as the day before had been on top of the mountain, I was certainly very chilly indeed. We then went inside the fish factory to look at monkfish and wow, what an ugly creature they are. The males are sixty percent smaller than the female and because it takes so long to find each other, when they mate the male actually fuses to the body of the female. I made a mental note to look up monkfish later on, as well as Greenland sharks, which are quite fascinating.

So it’s been an amazing time here and I’ve met all kinds of wonderful people. Everyone speaks amazing English, which is convenient, but does tend to make one feel guilty. Tromso really is a magical place and I could certainly see myself living here, if only I could manage the winter months without any sun at all. But it’s more or less the same in Paignton.

Here are a couple of poems, starting with this one which I posted earlier today:https://professorofwhimsy.com/2024/03/22/the-bear/

Tomas

I shouldn’t let it happen,
It really is quite stupid.
The way I sense in any man
The beating wings of Cupid.

You came and sat right next to me
And smiled and something passed.
Passengers both on a pleasure boat,
By its nature it couldn’t last.

We spent the day having adventures
In Fjords and on frozen seas,
Coupled by fate in a makeshift date
So relaxed and totally at ease.

I’ve always had a romantic side
And a lust for far-off places.
And a dream to find my one true love
Amid the world’s anonymous faces.

Oh Tomas, there was something strong
Between us, we each were a cure.
But I knew all the time there was something wrong
Love is seldom so convenient or pure.

It wouldn’t have worked, it couldn’t have worked,
There was no sense in trying.
If I were younger I would have stressed,
Said nothing, and spent the whole night sighing.

So I held back and let you go
And pretended it wasn’t worth it.
Sometimes life comes in monstrous waves
And all you can do is surf it.

We arrived at the dock in the harbour,
My heart beat its pumping refrain,
Left the boat on the gangplank together
Knowing I’d never see you again.

Phytoplankton

Phyto-phyto -phytoplankton 
Phytoplankton, phytoplankton.
Phyto-phyto -phytoplankton 
Living in the sea.

It’s what the molluscs eat,
it’s how they get their meat.
If you should ever greet a krill
Give some to them, let them have their fill
Say here’s a bowl of 

Phyto-phyto-phytoplankton 
Phytoplankton, phytoplankton.
Phyto-phyto-phytoplankton 
Living in the sea.

It harvests CO2.
And gives us oxygen too.
Is there anything it cannot do?
(Well, apart from operate a fork lift).

Phyto-phyto-phytoplankton 
Phytoplankton, phytoplankton.
Phyto-phyto-phytoplankton 
Living in the sea.

It’s incredibly beneficial.
And any whale or fish’ll 
Tell you that it does the planet well
Rolling on the ocean swell.
What was it again?

Phyto-phyto-phytoplankton 
Phytoplankton, phytoplankton.
Phyto-phyto-phytoplankton 
Living in the sea.

I went round Janet’s house last night.
I said, this is a cracker of a salad,
What’s the secret ingredient?
She said

Phyto-phyto-phytoplankton 
Phytoplankton, phytoplankton.
Phyto-phyto-phytoplankton 
Living in the sea.

I gave some to a crab
Share it with your friends, I said.
I won’t, he replied.
Such a shellfish attitude!

Phyto-phyto-phytoplankton 
Phytoplankton, phytoplankton.
Phyto-phyto-phytoplankton 
Living in the sea.

I saw a krill with a black eye
Jeez how did that happen?, I asked.
Take this advice, said he,
You don’t want to

Phyto-phyto-phytoplankton 
Phytoplankton, phytoplankton.
Phyto-phyto-phytoplankton 
Living in the sea.

Phyto-phyto-phytoplankton 
Phytoplankton, phytoplankton.
Phyto-phyto-phytoplankton 
Living in the sea.
Living in the sea.
Living in the sea.
(Living in the sea . . ).

The Bear

Since arriving in Arctic Norway, I’ve really been immersing myself in local history and culture.

The Bear

Culture does you good.
And I mooch round museums
In cities far flung,
And I respect a country’s way of life,
Symbols of nationhood 
Displayed and put on show
Behind glass screens,
and I stroke my chin and nod
So that others in the museum 
Assume I understand everything 
Which I don’t really
Because basically
I’m a tosser.

And yet this veneer of respectable
Appreciation was today
Obliterated totally
The moment I encountered
In a social history display 
Of Arctic artefacts
The crappest taxidermy
I ever did lay my eyes upon.

It was a bear.
A proud and ferocious bear
A fierce and efficient killing machine
It had eyebrows
Do bears have eyebrows
This bear had eyebrows.
Why the hell did it have eyebrows?

The moths had been at it.
It was a shag of a bear.
It smelled of furniture polish and bacon crisps
They were using it to wedge open a door.
There was very little actual bear content
It’s fur was held together by Velcro
If I’d seen that lumbering towards me across the tundra
I’d have just laughed.

Anatomically, it looked more like 
My Aunt Janice
Though not quite so fierce.
It was holding a stick
As if it were about to stop the cat
From scratching the furniture.
One of its fake eyes bore deep into your soul.
The other was looking at the gift shop.

It didn’t have teeth, or fangs.
It had lips.
And the lips kind of formed what looked more
Like a slightly irked grimace.
it didn’t look like it wanted to kill you,
It looked more like it had received
A parking ticket,
Or lost the receipt for that duvet
It wanted to return 
Or had just discovered that it’s 
Brother in law was coming to visit
Who was not only a much more successful bear
But a bit of an arse, too.
That’s what it looked like.
That’s what the poor thing looked like.

On the way out an attendant asked
What I had thought of their museum
And I wanted to say, 
The social history displays were fine, but
I mock your bear
I pour scorn on your bear
What does that say about me?
I ridicule your bear
I looked at your bear
And I laughed
Ten quid I paid
To come in here.
It’s not just the bear who’s been stuffed.

But what I actually said was,
Yeah, it was good.

Slam Dunk Bill’s Big Hair, Weston-Super-Mare

Poem

Biscuit donkey chocolate eclair.
Weston-Super-Mare.
Traffic light pomegranate Yogi Bear
Weston-Super-Mare.
Slam dunk Bill’s big hair.
Weston-Super-Mare.
Almost bought a pair of trousers there.
Weston-Super-Mare.
Don’t look Timmy it’s rude to stare.
Weston-Super-Mare.
Weston-Super-Mare.
Weston Super, Weston Super, Weston-Super-Mare.

Guess where the villain has his secret lair.
Weston-Super-Mare.
Debonair kitchenware chemical warfare
Weston-Super-Mare.
Can I take your photo? Don’t you dare.
Weston-Super-Mare.
I lost my virginity there.
Where?
Bournemouth.
Who wants to be a millionaire?
Weston-Super-Mare.
Have you got a ticket pay your excess fare
Weston-Super-Mare.
Don’t move you’ve got something crawling in your hair.
Weston-Super-Mare.
Weston-Super-Mare.
Weston Super Weston Super Weston-Super-Mare.

Underwear everywhere ready to wear 
Weston-Super-Mare
Thoroughfare deckchair devil may care
Weston-Super-Mare
Solitaire questionnaire update on your software
Weston-Super-Mare
Can I take your photo? Don’t you dare.
Weston Super Mare
My sheds in a state of disrepair
Weston super mare
Loose floorboard on the twenty third stair
Weston super mare
Elton John once sneezed on the mayor
Weston-Super-Mare.
Weston-Super-Mare.
Weston Super Weston Super Weston-Super-Mare.
Weston super mare (oi!)
Weston super mare (oi!)
Weston Super Weston Super Weston-Super-Mare.


My set, recorded live in Torquay, March 2024

Hello, here’s the set I did recorded live the other week. It was a fun gig! I hope you like it.

Blue Walnut, Torquay, March 2024

The poems I performed were:

Blimp

(The Big Poetry Oath)

Seagrasses

Beard Envy

Holding out for a Hero

Home Delivery Van

Traction Engine

Big Poetry March 2024

The videos I made with ‘Muddy Feet’

One of the things I’m proudest of are the poetry films I made with London’s Muddy Feet Poetry Films. I first met Peter Hayhoe at Bang Said The Gun, the raucous poetry night which I’d attend every time I went to London. He invited me along to a recording session in a studio in the east of the city which he’d booked for the day, and various poets would come and go and he would film them performing their poems. Over the years I returned twice more and we would have all sorts of fun, working out angles and scenery and the such. The last time I went up to London, the recording session had to be cancelled due to logistical reasons. No problem, Peter said, let’s film anyway. So we went to a park in South London and filmed the poem on the gym equipment. Anyway, here are the videos we made. I hope you like them.