The Ritual.

For reasons unknown, the theme this week is Ghost Stories. Well, it is coming up to the end of October- ghouls are a big thing this season and vampires are just so, whatever. Honestly, if I hear another schoolgirl swooning over bloody Cedric Diggory (whom is still dead, by the way... Vampire my arse.) I'll probably lose it.

This being a 'poetry blog' though, I decided to go with my newly refreshed enthusiasm (thanks, Lancaster LitFest) and write something new. Trawling the mind for childhood memories- the ones I feel are always the scariest, the one moment of fear I remember most from those days is quite clear still- waking up to catch children being dragged through a door on TV (I believe, Poltergeist). I was sleeping out, away from home at a friend's house over the way.

I was quite surprised it was a different story that came from within me then. I spent a lot of years in the Scouts as a kid, learnt a lot about myself in the process but, like all the other kids, was only really there for the holidays. A few mates, some tents and several liberated miniature spirit bottles did me for a weekend just nicely, thank you very much. Some of the memories, it seems, weren't quite as jolly. I hope you enjoy the poem.

The Ritual

Trudging with socks sodden from the track

we smelt the air- caught ear of crackling wood over

bleating sheep and rushed towards flickering light.

It was there, with Pendle Hill still fresh in mind

you showed your stripes- pulled rank and asked,

Do you believe in ghost stories.

Our legs trembled below fire flushed faces

as marshmallows bloomed and dripped their mess

into the spitting hearth. You snapped.

On the tops things change- new variables

with every breath of the wind. You must obey.

Do as you are told, pull together.

That was the night he danced.

Took to the pole for tuck shop

twenty-ps he gathered, cap in hand.

And boy, did he dance. Shed his shell

crab like as he scuttled fleshy and nude-

woggle half covering his pubescent penis.

We soon saw his face- caught it in the torch

as you hoisted damp pants up the flagpole.

I'd never seen a ghost before-

and we just sat there, trembling.

Thanks for reading, S.

Read More

I have a badly kept secret.

Working in a newsagents provides me with countless opportunities to read. I have to tell you now- this dirty little secret of mine is not something I'm ashamed of, I even embrace it.

Wander into my workplace of a morning and, if I'm on, you could probably notice a few magazines on the side. I read lots of them: Stuff for things I can't buy in the UK or even afford, Private Eye for a regular laugh at David 'I like soundbites I do' Cameron and co, Cosmo to try and stay ahead of the evil sex- at least in thinking, Woman's Weekly because I really don't care that I'm male- I like the stories (normally to mock) and they always seem to have a vegan recipe, More, Reveal, Real Lives, Now...for scandal and ridiculous stories and, by home time- I tend to have read enough to at least half inspire a poem, even if it never makes it.

I always have a favourite story as well. Today I read all about a woman that has married a fairground carousel. Fruitcake. Apparently, she "rides the pole until she silently reaches orgasm". As I said, a fruitcake.

When the first 'read and scatter the thoughts' approach fails, I find that the Sunday inserts can prove inspirational. Between The Observer, The Sunday Telegraph, The Sunday Times, The FT Weekend, The Mail On Sunday (never bought, you should understand) and anything else with a poly-bagged free CD, I have acquired a huge pile of recycling that I plan to use. In fact, it is on days like these (Sundays) that I tend to have a flick through, so let's see.

Matt Cardle X Factor interview? No interest.

Frieze Art Fair? Not my thing.

World Homeless Day photograph special? Well, thank you very much The Independent on Sunday.

Name Withheld

I keep coming back. Another look

your car crash life irresistible.

And through the lens your eyes change.

You could be anyone. First, a wispy

bearded man, washed up.

Then, the friendly drinker. Still, no -

your whiskers, yard brush bristles,

the youthfully kept brow. You are timeless,

Name Withheld, and I fear you

like Rasputin.

And there we have it, my badly kept secret: I write and so I read- anywhere and everywhere I can. Flyers, mags, posters, cards, papers, books, pamphlets, adverts, shop signs, street names... I think the key is to keep your eyes open- only then will you see. Hope you enjoyed the poem, an excellent use of Sunday time I think.

Thanks for reading. I enjoyed that.

S.

Read More