Poetry Readings

My babies were fed nursery rhymes with their mother’s milk.  As toddlers they loved picture books with repetitive poems and rhymes, and as they grew older, bedtimes were sprinkled liberally with Michael Rosen or Roger McGough. 

When I was teaching Primary level I often used poems as a starting point. ‘Chocolate Cake,’ one of my all time favourites, could start off almost any topic: baking, sharing, greed, lying, families - and it got the children smiling as soon as I read the first few lines.  Storytime, the best fifteen minutes of the day, would often include the latest funny verse, regardless of the number of times it had been recited that week.  ‘There’s a Dog in the Playground’ or ‘Eddie and the Nappies’ would reduce the class to tears of laughter, time after time.

 

Poetry books would frequently be chosen over story books and I would find even the poorest readers on the carpet in a corner, turning the pages and reciting the poems, word for word. 

So what happens to those six year old brains as they develop and their owners pass through high school?  Where does that love and laughter for poetry go? Is it just that poems are deemed only for ‘geeks’? I know if I invited my adult children or grandchildren - or even my husband - to a poetry reading I’d get very short shrift. 

I’ve always loved poetry. Reading it, writing it, listening to it. I still have poems I wrote from first starting school. They weren’t exactly riveting reads - if I remember rightly they contained a lot of repetitions of one syllable words. They did, however, satisfy my need to write. As I got older I was generally the one writing the funny lines for family anniversaries and special birthdays. They certainly wouldn’t be considered great poetry - or even mediocre - but they came easily to me and they served a purpose. They were apt and they made people laugh.  

About five years ago, as my photographic career was beginning to take off I was asked to shoot an evening of poetry reading. Even I, as a poetry lover, was slightly apprehensive. I wondered whether it would be full of pretentious poets wearing black polo necks and slacks, or floaty floral numbers with scarves and beads.

Nothing like a stereotype, is there?   

I decided I would take the pictures I needed and leave at the interval.  However, as soon as the first words were uttered by the opening  performer, I was hooked. I couldn’t leave. It was just too entertaining. I was overwhelmed with admiration for these people (not one black polo neck or floaty dress in sight as far as I can remember). They spoke with confidence on such a wide range of subjects. This wasn’t poetry as I’d ever seen or heard it. It had drama, pathos, humour - sometimes all in one reading, and it was clever and entertaining. By the end of the evening I was filling my diary with the next few sessions.  

Open Mic was a pretty scary thing to contemplate.  I was used to standing up in front of a class or even a hall full of teachers and other professionals, but this was on another level. Somehow, it felt like baring one’s soul.  I decided, after that night, that I would take myself out of my comfort zone and just do it. And I did, a couple of times.  I enjoyed it but one of the events was pretty daunting. I hadn’t realised that my performance and my work would be analysed by the audience afterwards. It was all done in a kind and constructive way, and emailed to avoid any public embarrassment, but it mentioned my delivery and put a dent in my confidence.  I reassured myself that this was just an activity, something I could choose to do. Or not.  I chose ‘not’ after that, but just lately I’ve found myself being drawn back to that world of black polos and floaty dresses - except it isn’t, of course. It’s full of people who enjoy writing, love performing and are generally interesting and entertaining.  I’ve made good friends through the poetry evenings and, as I’ve just realised, I wouldn’t be sitting here now, writing this blog post if I hadn’t been invited to shoot that evening.  

Chocolate Cake by Michael Rosen

I love chocolate cake.
And when I was a boy
I loved it even more.

Sometimes we used to have it for tea
and Mum used to say,
'If there's any left over
you can have it to take to school
tomorrow to have at playtime.'
And the next day I would take it to school
wrapped up in tin foil
open it up at playtime
and sit in the corner of the playground
eating it,
you know how the icing on top
is all shiny and it cracks as you
bite into it,
and there's that other kind of icing in
the middle
and it sticks to your hands and you
can lick your fingers
and lick your lips
oh it's lovely.
yeah.

Anyway,
once we had this chocolate cake for tea
and later I went to bed
but while I was in bed
I found myself waking up
licking my lips
and smiling.
I woke up proper.
'The chocolate cake.'
It was the first thing
1 thought of.

I could almost see it
so I thought,
what if I go downstairs
and have a little nibble, yeah?

It was all dark
everyone was in bed
so it must have been really late
but I got out of bed,
crept out of the door

there's always a creaky floorboard, isn't there?

Past Mum and Dad's room,
careful not to tread on bits of broken toys
or bits of Lego
you know what it's like treading on Lego
with your bare feet,

yowwww
shhhhhhh

downstairs 
into the kitchen
open the cupboard
and there it is
all shining.

So I take it out of the cupboard
put it on the table
and I see that
there's a few crumbs lying about on the plate,
so I lick my finger and run my finger all over the crumbs
scooping them up
and put them into my mouth.

oooooooommmmmmmmm

nice.

Then
I look again
and on one side where it's been cut,
it's all crumbly.

So I take a knife
I think I'll just tidy that up a bit,
cut off the crumbly bits
scoop them all up
and into the mouth

oooooommm mmmm
nice.

Look at the cake again.

That looks a bit funny now,
one side doesn't match the other
I'll just even it up a bit, eh?

Take the knife
and slice.
This time the knife makes a little cracky noise
as it goes through that hard icing on top.

A whole slice this time,

into the mouth.

Oh the icing on top
and the icing in the middle
ohhhhhh oooo mmmmmm.

But now
I can't stop myself
Knife -
1 just take any old slice at it
and I've got this great big chunk
and I'm cramming it in
what a greedy pig
but it's so nice,

and there's another
and another and I'm squealing and I'm smacking my lips
and I'm stuffing myself with it
and
before I know
I've eaten the lot.
The whole lot.

I look at the plate.
It's all gone.

Oh no
they're bound to notice, aren't they,
a whole chocolate cake doesn't just disappear
does it?

What shall 1 do?

I know. I'll wash the plate up,
and the knife

and put them away and maybe no one
will notice, eh?

So I do that
and creep creep creep
back to bed
into bed
doze off
licking my lips
with a lovely feeling in my belly.
Mmmmrnmmmmm.

In the morning I get up,
downstairs,
have breakfast,
Mum's saying,
'Have you got your dinner money?'
and I say,
'Yes.'
'And don't forget to take some chocolate cake with you.'
I stopped breathing.

'What's the matter,' she says,
'you normally jump at chocolate cake?'

I'm still not breathing,
and she's looking at me very closely now.

She's looking at me just below my mouth.
'What's that?' she says.
'What's what?' I say.

'What's that there?'
'Where?'
'There,' she says, pointing at my chin.
'I don't know,' I say.
'It looks like chocolate,' she says.
'It's not chocolate is it?'
No answer.
'Is it?'
'I don't know.'
She goes to the cupboard
looks in, up, top, middle, bottom,
turns back to me.
'It's gone.
It's gone.
You haven't eaten it, have you?'
'I don't know.'
'You don't know. You don't know if you've eaten a whole
chocolate cake or not?
When? When did you eat it?'

So I told her,

and she said
well what could she say?
'That's the last time I give you any cake to take
to school.
Now go. Get out
no wait
not before you've washed your dirty sticky face.'
I went upstairs
looked in the mirror
and there it was,
just below my mouth,
a chocolate smudge.
The give-away.
Maybe she'll forget about it by next week.  

I make no apology for including this poem in full.  I've recited it so many times I think I probably know it off by heart. I love it for lots of reasons: it's funny, it appeals to kids and adults alike - and it's relateable.

Thanks for reading......Jill

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Lost......and found

As the biggest loser ever (items, not weight) you'd think I would be an expert in finding things by now.  Sadly, this doesn't follow.  I lose keys, purse, phone, handbag, earrings, shoes on a daily basis. Not a day goes by when I can't be heard stomping around the house huffing and puffing, sighing and groaning, pulling out drawers, looking under beds, rifling through pockets and - frequently - howling in despair and frustration.  It doesn't help that I'm married to a neat freak. Everything in its place and a place for everything. Only it isn't and there isn't. In his desperation for order he has tried various systems: hooks for keys and bags; racks for shoes; special drawers for phones and purses.

It doesn't work. What he hasn't realised, even after forty four years, is that my brain is wired differently from his.  Inside his head are small compartments neatly labelled,

whereas inside mine is a large ball of string.  It's not a neat sphere, it's tangled and

knotted and there are ends flying off everywhere.  This muddle, I tell myself, is why I'm forever losing things and never finding them again.

Recently, visiting my mum and dad (in their late eighties/nineties), I realised that losing things was obviously genetic. Two out of the three days were spent hunting for lost objects. Four hearing aids - plus minute batteries - were the main culprits, turning up in pockets, the bottom of handbags, down the sides of chairs and under the bed, but only after we had all spent a fair amount of time improvising signing, shouting and mouthing dramatically at each other.

My dad is a crossword addict, completing both the Guardian and Telegraph crosswords every day before morning coffee. The crosswords are the easy part. Before they can be completed dad needs to locate the newspaper, his pen, a dictionary and an electronic anagram finder, all of which have been used the previous day but mysteriously disappeared overnight. Hours are spent, over the course of a week, lifting cushions, moving newspapers and looking under chairs.  A torch is often brought into play - if it can be found.

About eighteen months ago I bought my dad a large bumbag. I thought it was a great idea. 'Put your phone in it,' I told him, 'and your pen, your diary and your anagram finder.' He didn't look too keen but he reluctantly stuffed everything in and obediently fixed it around his waist. Problem solved. The bumbag really came about after mum actually lost dad.  According to mum, they were watching TV when dad left the room. Mum didn't think much of it until about 30 minutes had passed and dad hadn't returned. She searched the house to no avail and was just beginning to get worried when a bloody face appeared at the window, like somethingout of a horror film.  Dad had gone out to the garage, fallen and been unable to get up, finally dragging himself across to the wall and pulling himself up by clinging onto the window ledge. It was after this that it was decided he needed to carry his phone at all times. Hence the bumbag.

The next time I visited we had the usual searching ritual before the crossword could be attempted. 'Where's your bumbag?' I asked rather irritably.  My eyes followed his to the spot on the floor where the bumbag (empty and squashed) was being used as a doorstop.

Throughout the years, living with three children meant that strange things were often

found in our house: oddments that nobody recognised or admitted to. Jackets, hats and scarves were common, and if not claimed by friends or their parents, ended up in our vastcollection. Umbrellas, wellies, jumpers, socks and once, strangely, an alien pair of underpants.  I knew they didn't belong to any of the Reidy males (and the only other Reidy female hadn't yet discovered boys so I guessed they weren't connected to her) but I couldn't work out where they had come from. They simply appeared on the landing one morning.  Everyone was quizzed, nobody knew a thing.  The underpants became a bit of a joke, the children accusing their friends of having abandoned them at the top of our stairs. Before we knew it the underpants were being stuffed into visiting friends' pockets. It became a challenge to get the undies out of the house without the carrier realising.  The recipients responded with characteristic enthusiasm and cunning, and the dreaded underpants began turning up in the strangest of places - hanging from a light bulb, behind a cushion, in with the tea towels. This went on for quite some time. I don't remember it stopping or whether the undies' last resting place was in our house or in someone's pocket.   I just hope they eventually rested in peace.  And, who knows, I might find them when I finally attempt the big clear up.

When I was teaching I used to love Michael Rosen’s poems, and would like to

think this extract has some truth to it…

Losing Things

by Michael Rosen

I HATE LOSING THINGS

so I think,

"What if

there is a place somewhere

where everything you ever lost

goes?"

Somehow or another

all those things you ever lost

found their way there –

to this place?

Maybe there's a huge hall somewhere

with hundreds and hundreds of doors

and one of the doors

has got your name on it

The way in is not very big

but once you get inside -

it's enormous

It's cold and dark and damp

and there are thousands of people there,

and they're all looking for the door

that belongs to them

the door with their name on it…

Thanks for reading……Jill

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