Faith

Good morning readers.

In what has been an exciting week both in and out of the news, I found myself almost falling over potential subjects for today’s blog. Firstly, the astute of you may have noticed I’m posting on a Sunday. I’d like to add my name to the list of people welcoming Colin to his Monday blog spot- I’m sure he’ll enjoy it over the coming months.

On a personal note, I’ve been greatly entertained by the TV news coverage over the last seven days. We’ve had a former government minister in court, the big announcement from the Vatican and the confirmation of Higgs to name just three stories to gee us up in Cheltenham week. And if you didn’t back a winner at the races, don’t worry, all losing steeds will be recycled. I have it on bad local authority that several French horses will take lead roles in school lunch events- mainly the eating ones.

What does this all have to do with bad poetry then? I would say that bad poetry, just like that second placed horse, doesn’t have to leave a bad taste in your mouth. We are all compelled to pick up a pen from time to time. As poets we revisit these, rework them and inevitably leave some on one side but, with enough chewing, there is often some fairly tasty burger to get your teeth into. I believe in bad poetry. I believe without it, we’d not have the good.

Learning from our mistakes, it all comes down to. Sometimes, it is a fair cop and you’ll just have to ride it out, head high and with the knowledge that next time you’ve got the upper hand. You’ll deliver that poem that finally gets recognition against the rude and the crude. You’ll hit that serious line home to someone. You’ll stop having to make jokes to prove yourself…

I’m keeping the faith. Until then, a bad poem.

God bless the higher powers

When we have white smoke

Will they elect a decent bloke

Will he ride a motorbike,

Keep a mohawk, fish for pike

Is he me or is he you

Will he know just what to do?

Will he take a modern name

Will he leave things just the same

Can he understand the truths

These challenges face muslims, jews

Will he be both friend and foe

As a new power, we don't know.

But when we have white smoke

I just hope he can revoke

The damage done, stem the decay

His ancient faith in dissaray

The allegations hanging over

Can this baptist move the boulder?

For there is trouble in the city

Gold and greed seldom feel pity

TV pictures, constant streaming

Naughty nuns on hooch are screaming

Seems seldom time to make a joke

Amidst the hype, there's been a vote.

Yes, we have white smoke

A new looking, Latin Pope

Rides not bikes it seems but buses

Pays his own bills, avoids fusses

Sure, this Pope still chants in Latin,

But he has his turf to flatten

Stepping up to take the mantle

Pray this man leads by example.

Shaun. 

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How I remember it

By Ashley Lister

The first time the Dead Good Poets got together was in a college classroom on 29^th January 2009.  I was there. I’ve written down the way things happened exactly so that there’s no danger of these recollections being affected by fading memory.

INT. DAY: Corridor outside THE CLASSROOM.

ELIZA DUSHKU and HERMIONE GRANGER are talking in the corridor. Both are holding flyers for a Dead Good Poets event. Both are wearing bikinis and their skin glistens with crystal-like raindrops from a recent downpour.

Eliza Dushku

[Holding up a flyer]

Hello, Hermione Granger. I’m looking for the room where Ashley is reading one of his wonderful poems.

Hermione Granger

[Glancing at the doorway for THE CLASSROOM. We see a glint in her eye that says, ‘If I can’t have him, then no one can have him.’

She pushes her own flyer behind her back so that ELIZA DUSHKU cannot see what she is holding.]

I do not know of any poetry reading or any wonderful, sexy poets called Ashley. But I’d heard they were doing a reading on the other side of Blackpool. He might be there.

Eliza Dushku

I do not believe you, Hermione Granger, and I think we should wrestle in custard until one of us proves to be the victorious winner of a girl-on-girl fight.

Hermione Granger

Very well, Eliza Dushku, although I should warn you that I intend to tear off your bikini before…

CUT TO:INT. DAY: Inside THE CLASSROOM.

The scene is busy and packed like Wembley Stadium ready for a JLS concert or a Nickleback concert or even a football match with lots and lots of fans. There are also some sandwiches.

David Cameron

[Shouting angrily at Ashley]

If you read that poem in front of these students, I shall leave here and form a government that screws over the country.

Ashley

[Heroically]

Don’t make me laugh, Cam-Moron. No one would vote for you.

David Cameron

[With obvious doubt]

Maybe not. But perhaps I’ll form a coalition government.

Ashley

[Suddenly worried – but still heroic and handsome]

You wouldn’t, would you?

CAMERON rushes from the room, chuckling maniacally and rubbing his hands together, and maybe stealing the pension book from an old person as he runs past them. And probably kicking a blind man’s guide dog.

ASHLEY looks like he is about to heroically pursue CAMERON and maybe do some bad-ass ninja moves on him.

Before ASHLEY can follow, DAVINA McCALL clutches ASHLEY’s arm and pushes a microphone in his face.

Davina McCall

Ashley – are we OK to have a quick chat with you live on camera before the inaugural event of the Dead Good Poets (who haven’t yet been named) begin their first reading?

Ashley

[Humbly]

Davina, whilst I’d love to chat with you about how brilliant I and the rest of the (as yet unnamed) poets are, don’t you want to do some interviews with Barack Obama, Oprah Winfrey, Paris Hilton, Johnny Depp and all the other celebrity guests that we’ve got attending here for our inaugural event?

Davina McCall

[Looking disappointed]

You’re right, Ashley. And I hear the Pope and Jesus are about to enter the room with Michael Jackson (who is still alive because this is all happening in 2009) so I should go and have a chat with them.

Ashley

Very well, Davina. And I shall take a chair and sit with the other brilliant and wonderful poets who are going to change the face of North West poetry in the UK. And I shall wait for this event to begin. And then I shall contribute in a small and very humble way. And I’m not even slightly tempted to go outside and see what those two women are squealing about in the corridor.

CUT TO: INT. DAY: Corridor outside THE CLASSROOM.

ELIZA DUSHKU and HERMIONE GRANGER are wrestling in a vat of thick yellow custard.

FIN

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