Tanned Bodies

Sorry about this, I'm on a bit of a Tom Waits trip at the moment.

Song (Music to be a piano, bass, swamp blues played to sound slightly out of tune)

Tanned Bodies

I spent all my money man,

Finding a place to stay.

Just so I could say that,

I’ve been here anyway.

Now I’ve got my hands,

And bottle full of booze.

Palm trees dancing in night,

nothing left to lose.

(chorus)

And there are, tanned bodies,

Sea still looks blue.

Tanned bodies,

Nothing new.

They say God gets pissed,

on the essence of the young,

Backed out drying,

on the sand in the sun.

But nothing in my eyes,

Can take the place of you.

Missing is my reasons,

To try to make it through.

(chorus)

Everywhere are, tanned bodies,

Sea still looks blue.

Tanned bodies,

Nothing new.

For all this beauty,

Surrounding my mind,

Will mean nothing to me,

In about an hours time.

Coz vodka makes it easy,

and the warmth makes it nice,

and the cold doesn’t bite me,

in the dark of the night.

(chorus)

I see, Tanned bodies,

Sea still looks blue.

Tanned bodies,

Nothing new.

So excuse me while find myself,

in the bottom of a glass,

Sitting on a Miami beach,

With sand in my ass.

Why’d you have to leave me?

Why did God let you go?

Why I’m still breathing?

Why I just don’t know?

(chorus)

About these, tanned bodies,

Sea still looks blue.

Tanned bodies,

Nothing new.

So I’ll just keep on drinking,

Until I die.

Leaving just this lonely man,

No one asking why.

So this is the last place,

I will go on vacation.

Missing you my love,

In this exotic location.

(chorus)

With it’s, tanned bodies,

Sea still looks blue.

Tanned bodies,

Nothing new.

(Repeat to fade)

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Vintage Poulton

Happy new week everybody.

I sure you have heard by now, the Dead Good Poets have been asked to write and perform poetry at this years Poulton Gala.

This is quite an honour for 2 reasons. One: people of Poulton are going to let people for Blackpool come and help them enjoy their day of celebration (not that I'm saying there is any inter-town rivalry whatsoever), and Two: these poems will be published and forever entwined with the long and proud history of this historic event.

So poets get scribing!

The theme of this years Gala is vintage. So the parade through the town will be full of folks wearing clothes from different eras, 40's, 50's, 60's, 70's, or maybe medieval. History is a very long book full to the brim of wonderful stories.

So to make the book a bit more interesting the theme for the poets to write to is Vintage Poulton. Choose a story from it's past, or just make one up using historical and geographic references. It whole point of this is to have fun, celebrate the long history of the area and share it with the people of Poulton.

A quick search on Google gave me this page:

http://www.poulton-le-fylde-hcs.co.uk/html/body_poulton_s_history.html

You can speak to these kind folks is you like. They are more than willing to tell you all about the history of Poulton.

I will be designing the book, which will be publish as a Dead Good Publications title with the profits being split between the Blackpool Dead Good Poets Society and the Poulton Gala.

All poems must be in by the 20^th of April so we have time to edit, design and publish. It is my intention to have to book on sale for the event (fingers crossed)

If you don't want to perform don't worry, we are accepting work to be considered for the publication only.

The book will be available on Amazon worldwide in print and electronically on Kindle.

If you need help or advice please feel free to contact the DGPS or attend a special workshop run by the award winning Vicky Ellis at the Blackpool Library on Saturday the 13^th from 11am till 1pm.

I always find it quite exciting when the Dead Good Poets pull together on a project. I hoping this will be the first of many that we get to do.

I'm looking forward to reading your work.

THE CARLETON ELK

Running free across the Fylde fields,

As Wyre waters escape to the sea.

Proud beast of noble herd stands high on heels,

Surveying the land as far as could see.

Before the Nazarene, before the isle,

You walked upon this green and pleasant land.

For few could stop you commanding the mile,

Magnificent creature to see you stand.

But who is this with spear of sharpened stone,

The huntsman cometh with entrapping barb.

In but moments cutting deep to the bone,

Rule ended for thou meat and fancy garb.

Once your force majestic hooves a thunder,

Tis now food and warmth for man to plunder.  

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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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I Think Therefore I Am

 As always, readers of this blog are cordially invited to the Dead Good Poets' open mic event. This time we're looking at a theme of "I Think, Therefore I Am."

However, as always, the theme is only there as a guideline and poets and writers can feel free to explore and produce work on any appropriate subject.

As always the evening will be divided into a family-friendly first half and an uncensored second half.

Part of the reason why I'm mentioning this on here is so that readers can update their diaries early and keep the first Friday of every month free in their calendars. From now on the Dead Good Poets are aiming to meet at the No. 5 Cafe on the first Friday of every month - themes to be notified through FaceBook and via email.

We look forward to seeing old faces and new friends.

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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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We Won an Award

 By Ashley Lister

This week’s theme is pain and pleasure – a topic which I can tie in easily to this blog’s Thursday night victory at the Radio Wave Culture and Lifestyle Awards.
For those of you who didn’t receive a text, tweet, email, telephone call or FB update on Thursday night, the Dead Good Blog received the Website of the Year Award for 2012. If I haven’t already thanked you for your support and your vote, then I must now thank you wholeheartedly.
Thank you all for the votes. It is truly appreciated. The contributors deserve the recognition and we honestly could not have won this award without your support.
But I’m wanting to talk about pain as well as pleasure.
I should begin by talking about the pain that came from having my tuxedo shrink. (On that point I could also talk about the pain that comes from comments of people suggesting I’ve gotten fat and my tuxedo hadn’t really shrunk. But I’m not a small-minded person. Apparently my backside is no longer small either).
Nevertheless, the pain of wearing a suit that is too small was just one of the points that hurt on Thursday night.

It was more painful that three of our main bloggers weren’t able to attend. Stylish Ste and Suave Shaun (both looking distinctly dapper) were there. But the wonderful Lara Clayton, Lindsay Barlow and Vicky Ellis were absent due to other commitments and conflicting circumstances.
This was painful for three reasons: 
1) All three absent writers are talented and hard working and deserved the opportunity to let their hair down at this event. Ladies: I’m truly sorry circumstances were against you.   

2) The photographs we’ve taken would have been a lot easier on the eye if there had been some female content within them.  

3) You three were sorely missed. You deserved to be a part of the triumph. It would have been wonderful to be able to share the evening and the victory celebration with each of you in person.
Absences aside, it was the pleasure that marked the evening. The awards ceremony was prestigious and swanky and wonderful. I drank champagne and lager. My head still hurts. I could write prolifically about the pain of that.

A bloke approached Ste and myself early in the evening and asked if we were a couple. If he had seen how much Ste was kissing me after we won, then I’d have been waiting with anticipation to find out the answer to that question. In truth, it would only have taken one more kiss from Standard Ste and I would have been reaching for my lucky condom.

Another bloke later called me a sissy for wearing a tuxedo. I could have taken issue with the comment. I could have wondered why he was telling me that I looked like a sissy for wearing a tux when there were a thousand other guys at the awards dressed identically. But I let the sleight pass. I might have looked like a sissy in my tuxedo. But I was a sissy in a tux holding the award for website of the year.

In conclusion, I’d like to reiterate my thanks to everyone who helped us secure our success. Below I’ve reprinted the poem I read when we received our award:

We’re a poetry blog for the brave

Where the writers try not to behave.

I’ve just made this small note

To say thanks for the votes

And, of course, thanks to Radio Wave.

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UK best sellers. We're all doomed.

If I was going to put a new book out, I might consider finding a celebrity endorsement for it, a snappy picture or a cluster of key words to bring it to the attention of google. I might make the cover yellow, I might make it something gritty, something an audience can relate to- a tale of childhood and abuse (true to life, obviously), neglect or perhaps even abduction.

I won’t be doing any of these things.

I doubt I will ever be a best-selling author. If I wrote something and decided to publish it, I would hope it would be done on merit and not on the sheer need to sell someone some drivel with a ‘look at me, I was beaten’ slant to it. Sadly, I think this pretty much counts me out of the bestselling book market. I’ll point out here that if Blackpool’s branch of Waterstones closed, the residents of this town would be left to choose their books primarily from the shelves of ASDA and TESCO- the future doesn’t look great, I must admit.

The blog theme this week is a slightly contentious one, I’m afraid- we’re going with “Literary vs Commercial Fiction”. I have an opinion on this, as do all of you readers I am sure. Is it my place to tell someone what to read? Is it my place to tell someone to put the bloody ‘based on true events’ book down and read something valuable? Is it even my place to rant on about the lack of appealing fiction on the shelves and my sense of despair in passing an oversized ‘Biography/Autobiography/Celebrity Fiction/’Based on a true story’ section.  Readers of this stuff- you have your opinions. I’ll agree to hate you for them.

In terms of poetry, I am not quite sure where this theme points me. For a long time I’ve been harping on about what is probably deemed ‘commercial’ as opposed to ‘literary’ stuff. Performance poets are snappy, direct and deliver passion that is hard to deny but, on the page, it often doesn’t work. Go the other way and have a look at more ‘page’ poets and perhaps they are held back by a lack of performability. It is hard to attract an audience with these poems and yet, they are often the poets we cling on to the most. As with the fiction, I think being current helps. There are trends to follow and whilst right now books about being beaten and battered in foster homes romances ending with disease are great, I suspect lots of them will fall by the wayside when you look back over the years, do we want our poems doing this.

I will finish here by just giving you readers a point to consider. Last year 35% of books that graced the fiction chart were published before 2010, meaning we are actually re-reading the older stuff, the stuff that has been hanging around, loved and recommended. Movie books, celebrity chefs and tales from the pens of cultural ‘icons’ will keep regenerating, of course, but with the likes of Dickens and Jane Austen proving ever more popular amongst readers, maybe the trick is to buy the books that can stand the test of time, not just shout for a week or two. I caught a reading by Lynton Kwesi Johnson earlier this year- a poet I have admired since studying his work some years ago- and afterwards was left thinking something was missing. There was no delivery, no punch to it and, after years of Black rights not being a massive issue in the UK media, I felt the poems were almost left behind with the time. These are good poems that rely heavily on delivery and if I have learnt anything for my own writing from the experience, it is that I never want to be a performance poet past his peak, much rather a page poet trying to find his feet. I hope to have a new poem up for next week, until then, keep writing. 

Thanks for reading, S.  

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Love poems for Valentine’s Day

For anyone that hasn’t visited a shop this month, for anyone who happens to have a penis and for anyone who just hasn’t got around to anything yet- consider this my gentle nudge- tomorrow is Valentine’s Day.
Fittingly, the blog theme this week will be romance. Romance and poetry go together like, well, any emotion and poetry. They fit.

It seems only yesterday that I was drafting and redrafting one of the best poems I have ever written- and romance ticked it all over. Summer 2010 and I was perched outside a coffee shop practically goose-stepping with my pen. Look at me, I’m being a poet was a great look for me at the time and something worked because that very same poem that I gave to Lara continues to be an important part of my life. I’m not posting it. I don’t even have a copy myself. I have drafts and scraps but I think the only copy of it is tucked away with her somewhere and, as sentiment goes, I think that is a pretty nice one. The poem was probably crap. It was presented nicely though. It had been drafted and worked at. The message and the pitch had been tightened up from a fairly shabby starting point and, after a decent few afternoons of scratching away, we can fast forward to now- still together as we approach Valentine’s Day. 

If you think you might have one of those women in your life that would appreciate a poem for Feb 14^th, why not give it a go. There are plenty of sites to help you along the way and if you have a look through the archives, plenty of ‘How to write’ (for want of a better phrase) posts on here. She will appreciate the thought but perhaps don’t shirk out of present buying duties on my part (unless you’ve already done the no-gift deal, as I have, magnificently). Just a heads up really. 

As regular readers may note, I keep promising poems. I keep writing them and not having them to fit, I’m not just being lazy. I have had a few on my mind though and, as I may or may not be writing something for tomorrow, there isn’t going to be a new one today either I’m afraid. What I have put together is a list of some lovely romantic poems that you lazy buggers can copy, paste and print out for your other half- should you be getting all soppy…

Should you be wallowing home alone tomorrow, Braga v Besiktas is on ESPN and I have no doubts in saying that Bridget Jones is on offer somewhere near you (as is pizza and ice cream I’ll bet). Have a read of some of these- they might even cheer you up.

Shakespeare-Sonnet 18  Betjeman- A Subaltern's Love Song  CarolAnn Duffy - Love

BillyCollins - Sonnet  PeterDale- Vigil  PamAyres - Yes, I'll Marry You, My Dear

JennyJoseph- The sun has burst the sky John Masefield-Beauty  Coleridge- Desire

FelixDennis- We Knew Immediately  HelenDunmore- Wild Strawberries

Thanks for reading, S.

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Winter.

Evening all,

First of all, and this is becoming a regular Monday occurance, the blog is late and I'm sorry for that. I could spin you a yarn about wintery conditions meaning I had to de-ice the car this morning and was running late for work as it was and, for the most part at least it would be true, it would at least drag me somewhere onto this week's theme- Winter.
I found this a difficult place to start a poetry blog. Pressed for time and faced with thoughts of bleak days and leafless trees, I figured that a poem would be the only way forwards. A first draft, under time constraints but, I guess it sure beats a drawn out ramble from me about blank pages and snowy scenes. Anyway, here it is. Special mention should go to my younger brother, Craig, for his enthusiasm for something I never could get into really, but it seems his birdwatching (and my taking him before he could drive himself) has produced at least something for me to work with.
Enjoy.


Over Wintering


Like a knock on the door they come, familiar
with necks craned against the blacked out forest sunset
their feathers beating with the strength of a grown man. 


The paddling orange air-brakes do their bit
as a man called Dave and his wife acknowledge the arrival
note with precision the time they ski across the runway. 


They come here every winter he says, 
September twentieth last year. Him, her and a clutch of cygs
they fly half the world to have Christmas with the kids.


It never really clicked for me. No real interest, 
except maybe an inquisitive flicker- when avian flu came round
I trusted nothing from Russia, nothing that could fly.


That guy Dave though, he knew. Made his own predictions,
took tests and got the hell out of there by spring. 
Nothing to see, he flew off, made for warmer climes. 


I trust he'll be back now. Sat, binoculars twitching over darvics
waiting, pen in hand, for the flight in from Iceland,
net at the ready for the morning customs check. 



Thanks for reading, catch you all next week.
Shaun.

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