Thank you for the words

In recognition of the blog hitting 1000 posts, this week we've been picking some of our favourite lines from our archive of posts.
Trawling through blogs from the last few years has been no mean task but, given that we're out of the world cup and I'm still down in the dumps about it, I've spent the day cheering myself up with the distraction.
The poem below is made up entirely of lines and phrases taken from the site over the last three years. Lines from past and present contributors join lines from guests including Jamie Field, Jo Bell and Jacob Silkstone and if you're wondering why you haven't made the cut- either you haven't written for us yet or I simply couldn't weave your line in. 

Thank you to all of you though, whether a reader or writer of the blog. We couldn't have got here without any of you. 

Poets

We work in different rooms, 

but we occupy the same house.

A spectrum of waste

Exploding in a million ideas

For all worries form a cloud of plankton

There was the bittersweet Karate

Webs so thick we cannot see

Cross Stitching meant nothing to me

But of all the things I miss in light

The moon's smile showing me the way

There was a ‘bang’. A small, dense state 

that expanded rapidly- lulled me into comfort

In the tea-bleached bedroom light

Poets all have Viking blood

We are pirates; travelling across a vast ocean

plundering images, forms, ideas

to find each piece increase in value

simply by the keeping.

Thanks for reading,
S.

 

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The Blog's First Collaborative Poem

by Lindsay, Jo, Lisa, Ash, Christo, Vicky, Ste, Neil, Sheilagh, Shaun, and two ‘anons’.

On Tuesday, I set readers of the blog the task of writing an unwritten poem. I’m pleased to say that people’s response to the idea, and their general involvement was fantastic . I’d been slightly concerned that the comments section would be left blank, I’d look a little stupid, and there would be no post for Sunday (today). Thankfully none of my fears materialised; there were plenty of brilliant and poetic lines, and there is no need for me to say that a cat (Roo seems to have become a minor celebrity on our blog) has eaten another Sunday blogger.

I’d like to thank the twelve readers/writers who participated in the ‘interactive poem’, producing the poem that now follows:

The Ghost of Ms. Credland

A cheerful house-front says no need to fear it,
But belies the darkness within.
Hints of scent betray her spirit:
A mixture of brandy and gin.

Watch the sheets with your dirty fag
Your room's not on CCTV.

Watch yourself on the stair at night
When you think you're all alone.

See, the eye of this fishwife hag
If piqued will flay you to the bone.
While unkempt Mr. Credland
Quivers to hear her moan.

Taps run cold, the loo self-flushes
Curtains twitch to unheard vaudeville,
And mirrors run red with reflected blushes
Of young couples caught coupling by she, who still...
Eyes greedily with that thirst that can never be slaked.

Her stumbling, lurching, grabbing gait and slimy breath
Of ideas half-baked, will haunt the first she reaches...
And she reaches into his breeches.
And with the bloody thirst of leeches,
Dines to the sound of screeches
As the ghostly squall from nearby beaches
Echoes eerily round the dingy room...

The cat hides beneath the cushion,
Its ears twitching with each scream
And we’re left here in this Blackpool guesthouse
To wonder if it was all a bad dream.

*The poem will be performed on Fringe Friday (11^th November) at the No. 5 Cafe by the inimitable Ashley Lister. Further details of this event can be found on our Facebook page(available here)

Thank you for your continued commitment to the Dead Good Blog
Lar

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