On Shutting the Fuck Up

Stuck inside in lockdown

And you can’t escape the noise

There’s a man getting his cock blown

There’s a woman using toys

There’s an angle grinder out the back

A strimmer out the front

Who puts the ‘I’ in DIY?

It turns out, every cunt

Next door have daily gatherings

Of blokey football men

I listen to their blatherings

Til three, then four, a.m.

From downstairs constant music

Comes pulsing through my bed

I put some tissue in my ears

A pillow on my head

Outside the city rages on

An ever-thrumming hive

As each declare with all their lungs

Thank god! I’m still alive

On the Other Side

Nobody does DIY unless they think there’s a future

And the man next door to me is doing DIY

Drilling and stripping. Soldering on.

After all this is over, he thinks:

We shall have a nice kitchen.

And perhaps friends will come round – perhaps family

To admire the handiwork previously only glimpsed through screens

Coo over the new tiles: a carefully-chosen verdigris

Pleased by how they set off the persimmons, plump in the bowl

Perhaps there will be herbs on the windowsill

Warmed by the sun and then scattered on tomatoes

Something Ottolenghi.

Olive oil. Perhaps a bottle of red wine.

Perhaps there will be air full of chatter

Children and dogs under foot, a casual chaos

People who haven’t seen each other in too long trading secrets

Perhaps recommendations swapped: this book, that film

Perhaps an empty chair which should have been full

Moments of silence where jokes would normally have been

An oft-told anecdote; missing.

More wine. A toast.

Baklava from the shop next door, sticky fingers

After all this is over.

Things Twitter Has Given Me

A double mattress. A second-hand sofa. A book of poems.

An obsessive interest in politics and current affairs. 

Two boyfriends. New close friends. Countless shags.

10 years of in-jokes. Bad puns. Petty grievances. 

Love. Loathing. Longing. 

Someone to go for a pint with in any city. 

Erotica written about me without my consent. 

Articles in national newspapers. 

Recognition in the middle of the street in New York. 

Sexual harassment. A brief career in comedy promotion.

Meetings with people I’d never have met.  

A screen-test with the BBC. 

Drinks on the roof of parliament. A threesome. 

A platform. A way to signal-boost other voices. 

A support network when my mental health is low. 

Understanding of the lived experience of others. 

Greater compassion. Abuse. 

Hostility towards strangers. 

Advice and answers on tap. Exposure to new ideas. 

A job offer. Exposure to nazis. 

Backstage at Have I Got News for You. 

A window into injustice. Burning outrage.

A means of community organisation and mutual aid. 

An opinion on everything. 

An incorrect opinion on everything. 

Too much knowledge. 

Things I can’t unsee.

Information fatigue. 

Not enough knowledge.  

A DVD of Fanny Cradock Cooks for Christmas. 

Writeidea Literary Fringe, Tower Hamlets

AND (I know) I’m curating the fringe of a Writeidea literary festival in Tower Hamlets this coming weekend. Blurb below:

______________________________________________

For the very first time this year, we’ll be presenting a fringe as part of the festival – focusing on non-traditional forms of writing, alternative narratives and creativity in all shapes and sizes.

The fringe will run across both days of the festival, from 2-6pm, and feature a wide variety of sessions – think of it as a sort of cultural smorgasbord of delights for you to sample!

Nat Guest

The Writeidea Festival Fringe is curated by Nat Guest.

Nat Guest is a writer and blogger, and the founder and organiser of Hackney’s ‘BBC Question Time Tweet-a-Long’ (featured in The Guardian, Total Politics and The Londonist). She has written for The Sunday Times, The Independent, the New Statesman and Skeptic Magazine, amongst others.

Saturday

2pm. Performance: Grace Petrie

In 2010, singer-songwriter Grace Petrie’s music began to take a new, political direction. She picked up a guitar and wrote what has become one of the most celebrated anti-establishment anthems of recent times, ‘Farewell to Welfare’. When folk legend (and Grace’s personal hero) Billy Bragg heard her music and invited her to play at Glastonbury on the Leftfield stage, she went down a storm and, in Bragg’s own words, “stole the f@!#ing show, sister!”

Alongside UK tours with Emmy the Great and Josie Long, Grace has had a string of festival appearances including End of the Road, Greenbelt and, of course, a triumphant return to Glastonbury. National airplay on BBC 6 Music from Josie Long, Tom Robinson and Steve Lamacq as well as interviews in The Guardian and Diva magazine have cemented Grace’s name in the public consciousness.

3pm. Discussion Panel: How Our Words Shape the Future

With the rise of the citizen journalist, where everyone with an internet connection can easily become a publisher, more and more people are using the power of blogging and social media to hold power to account. But is the pen really mightier than the sword? And can writing have an impact on our political future – or even on our political now?

Join Liberal Conspiracy founder and political blogger Sunny Hundal, green activist Adam Ramsay, author of ‘Counterpower: Making Change Happen’ Tim Gee. This panel will be chaired by Dawn Foster of The Guardian’s Comment is Free.

4pm – 6pm. Workshop: Writing Poetry, with Hannah Chutzpah

Come along and join us for a session of poetry-writing. Whether you’re a beginner, intermediate or expert, all are welcome – all you need to get started is a pencil and your brain!

Hannah Chutzpah is a copywriter and editor by day, and a blogger and performance poet by night. She studied English Literature with Creative Writing at UEA and has been published in magazines, chapbooks, on various blogs and in The Guardian and The Independent. She runs the ‘Whippersnapper Press’ (www.whippersnapperpress.com) for short, sharp, funny creative writing. Hannah has been described as “fine” by three therapists, “of good character” by a high court judge, and as “a rotten brat” by her mother.

Sunday

2pm. Discussion Panel: The Future of Comics

Comics are one of our oldest ways of storytelling – just think of Egyptian hieroglyphics, or the pictures that cavemen daubed onto the walls of their homes. They’re also one of our most varied, imaginative and innovative types of narrative. So how are comics changing? What impact is digital having upon them, and are webcomics paving the way forward? And is the success of Joss Whedon’s recent reimagining of Marvel for the silver screen making superhero comics popular again?

Joining us to discuss are Marvel writer Kieron Gillen, New Statesman resident comic writer Tom Humberstone, and author of graphic novel ‘Britten & Brulightly’ Hannah Berry. This panel will be chaired by Alex Hern, tech reporter at The Guardian

3.30pm. Rehearsed Comedy: Wil Hodgson

Retro culture geek, stand-up comedian and general subculture enthusiast Wil Hodgson takes us through his recollections of growing up as a comic book nerd – and wherever else his twisted mind might drag us.

‘The most charismatic of storytellers’ (Scotsman). ‘Genius’ (Russell Howard). ‘A creature of rigorously maintained authenticity … he remains one of the most original and consistently funny performers in the UK’ (Guardian).

4.30pm. Getting Better Acquainted: Helen Zaltzman

Join Dave Pickering in conversation with Sony Award winning podcaster Helen Zaltzman. They’ll be talking about her experience of writing for BBC Radio and TV, changing the UK’s most popular entertainment podcast, ‘Answer Me This!’(answermethispodcast.com) into a book, and making the ‘Sound Women’ podcast, which focuses on and advocates for women in radio.

This is a live recording of Radio Production Award nominated podcast ‘Getting Better Acquainted’ (www.gettingbetteracquainted.co.uk), in which Dave Pickering captures intimate conversations with people he knows about their lives. Daveis a Sony Award nominated writer, musician, performer, producer and podcaster. He co-produced and wrote for the CBeebies Radio series ‘Ministry of Stories’, hosts the Hackney branch of true storytelling night ‘Spark London’ and is the creator of the variety night ‘Stand Up Tragedy’.

MICHAEL GOVE: A LOVE POEM

In today’s news, Michael Gove is encouraging children to stop sexting and write love poetry. So I did.

MICHAEL GOVE: A LOVE POEM
WRITTEN IN THE STYLE OF MICHAEL GOVE

The problem with the world today?
An all-pervading moral decay.
Our children’s heads are full of rot
And online porn, and lord knows what
I find it rather disconcerting
All this texting, sexting, flirting
Who knows what goes on in their heads?!
(And, god forbid to think, their beds)
Too many kids these days are idle
What they need’s a nice free bible
Whilst we’re at it, if you please
We’ll have no more of these GCSEs
A nice school song, some smart house banners
And teach the little shits some manners
A bit of “sir”, a spot of “ma’am”
It didn’t do me any harm
I want no part in innovation
I’m Minister for Education
All learning should be done by rote!
PS. Let’s give the queen a boat.

INTP

Here is a 5-minute poem I wrote on the joys & pitfalls of being an INTP (Myers-Briggs typology test)

INTP

If I have to spend time with non-INTPs
I’m much more forgiving of Fs than of Es
I don’t mind Fs making decisions with feeling
But I can’t get on board with this social free-wheeling

They don’t understand how it is that I’m prone
To spend countless hours simply sitting alone
While the F finds it hard that my methods are clinical
The E cannot stand that I’m so goshdarned cynical

I tell them it’s just I require solid proof
To help on my quest towards some kind of truth
Then they tell me I’m being too shitting pragmatic
Well, I’d rather have that than be over-dramatic

I prefer more to think than to actually do
And I’m often distracted by the shiny and new
Sometimes people find I don’t do what they ask
I’m sorry! I’m P! I can’t finish a

National Poetry Day

Here we are again! AS IF. I did a post on this LAST year.  Well, here’s my offering for the day. Unfortunately this is, quite accurately, what it is inside my head quite a lot of the time (particularly 10am and 3pm weekdays).

Sensory Defensiveness

Common symptoms of sensory defensiveness include intolerance of high-pitched noises, intolerance of chewing sounds, intolerance of overhead lights (especially fluorescent lighting); experiencing a feeling of being attacked upon being touched (especially from light touch or sudden touch); intolerance of certain types of fabrics in contact with the skin; intolerance of pointy objects or objects jetting towards the eyes; becoming nauseated upon smelling something that does not smell bad to neurotypical individuals; difficulty maintaining eye-contact; severe intolerance of foods due to taste, texture, or temperature; and generally becoming overwhelmed when exposed to a lot of sensory stimuli at once – Wikipedia

i hate it the most WHEN
it is EXACTLY 10am
the slavering, the slobbering, the
chunks of chuffing CHEW
OH if you knew
the time i’ve spent resenting how your
food and spit’s cementing & the
anger’s left fermenting in my browwwwwwwww

& ohGOD, i’ve kept a FILE on
your every bit of BILE, & the
time it takes each day for you to swallow.
& i never COULD admit. just how
SICK i am of IT, for i fear the
thought’s too much for you to FOLLOW.

every DAY and to the MINUTE
off you go again, you gannet, with the
food sprayed once more past your parted lips.
& i won’t succumb to murder – though
you’re only a co-worker – but for
GOD’S sake, must it everytime be CRISPS?!

The lost generation, yo

Dear all,

I am feeling mardy. Here is a poem for you.

I’ve heard about them kids today
That they don’t stand a chance
They hang on streets and drag their feet
And look at you askance

And folks call them belligerent
And cite ASBOs as proof
Lamenting for a bygone age
Oh, disaffected yoof!

I’ve heard about them kids today
That they don’t have a hope
They’re on the brink of drugs and drink
They sit around and mope

And daytime chat and antiques shows
Provide little enjoyment
When towns are rife with trial and strife
And stinking unemployment

The papers and the radio
Say there’s no future for them
They’ll burn and yearn and even learn
But still there’s nothing more than

A refuse job, a retail job
Forget about career!
Just slog until the week is done
On Friday: have a beer

And so we all pack up our dreams
Work in administration
We hapless yobs, we hopeless sods
We long-lost generation

Nascitur

Tracking my life through poetry

Today is National Poetry Day.  Apparently the nation’s favourite poet is TS Eliot, although I’m not sure how many of them have read The Wasteland, or whether any of them actually ‘get it’ (I certainly don’t.  I’m not sure TS did, either).

This got me thinking about the poems I love and the poems I’ve written in the past and the poems I don’t write any longer (I haven’t written one for three or four years) and whether I could track a narrative of my life through them.  I wrote an awful lot when I was younger – my mum always says that I took a long while to learn and then just wouldn’t stop – and there was a rapid change from my pre-pubescent style, which was very reminiscent of Allan Ahlberg, Brian Patten et al, I suppose.  Consider the following from when I was about eight:

Easy to make and fun to do
That’s what the instructions read
“Oh, this will be easy!”
I later wished I hadn’t said.

It was supposed to be a ship
But it looked more like a plane
And so I took it all apart
And started it again.

I used to have books and books full of the stuff, interspersed with pictures of unicorns and descriptions of what the people walking past on the street were wearing.  Amateur anthropology, I think, or perhaps just spying.  I think it was about the same time that I wrote my seminal work, Sammy the Squirrel. It was a tour de force and debuted at our school Harvest Festival to wide acclaim.

After moving house, school and county and feeling drastically uprooted, all of my poetry became very alienated angsty teen (read: inutterably cliche) with (illustrated) moans about being a jigsaw piece put in the wrong jigsaw box.   “Unfortunately” I don’t have any examples; they’re all in notebooks under my bed in Shropshire.  All very depressing stuff really; as was my oevre in college, although then it took on a Tim Burton-esque goth tinge.  As did I.  I think I wrote the latter after reading Neil Gaiman’s Coraline.

Falling Apart

a man lived on a hill
the man he was lonely
he dreamt of a girl who was
his one & only

he dreamt of the one who’d
take his pain away
his longing consumed him
by night & by day

his clothes were a mess &
his hair was a fright
his longing consumed him
by day & by night

one day he created
a girl of his own
her hair was of wool
and twigs were her bone

her eyes were two buttons
through which she could peek
her mouth sewn by needle
so she could not speak

for breasts he used padding
he padded them well
though one was misshapen
you hardly could tell

he named his doll sally
he loved her much more
than any possession
that he’d loved before

but cotton wore thin
and holes wouldn’t mend
he tried to ignore it
he tried to pretend

he caressed her hands
as her stitches came free
and watched as her leg
fell apart at the knee

he sobbed as her buttons
fell out of her face
her once sturdy skin
was resembling lace

and with her decay
went the last of his heart
he looked on in horror
as she came apart

so that old man’s loneliness
a rag doll can’t fix
with his grief and his longing
he had loved her to bits

Amanda Fucking Palmer would be proud.

After another uprooting and the loss of home I returned to the intraspective moaning, although to be fair my style was a little more controlled and I’d lost the illustrations of jigsaws and sad faces.  I think it’s fair to say that I didn’t enjoy my first year of university, and I still feel some of that same bleakness and student-rage around this time of year when all the freshers arrive:

Winter of the Disillusioned Student

There’s rain and brollies ten-a-penny
(Gouging eyes and catching hair)
Holes in your trainers and wet in your socks
And the Christmas lights went up early this year

Yes the Christmas lights went up early this year
Even though you can’t afford it
And you know that it’s the thought that counts
These days money’s all you think about

Money’s all you think about
And it’s gone down the drain
(With your hopes about the future
And the ever-drizzling rain)

And the ever-drizzling rain
Is matching your state of mind
In the seas of unknown faces
And the seas of “left behind”

There’s flyers in the gutter
Of “BEST NIGHTS OUT!”; now old
There’s girls in nonexistent skirts
Pretending they’re not cold

And all the jobs are Christmas jobs
(When you’re not even here)
And what’s the point of Christmas trees
When there’s no Christmas cheer

Oh what’s the point of Christmas trees
When there’s no Christmas cheer
And you’re far away from “left behind”
And the lights went out early this year.

That one was published in the School of English zine, and I will actually never ever forgive them for chopping off the final two lines.  Bad form!

Since then I’ve stagnated poetically; perhaps because I’ve been reasonably happy.  After this year’s shake up (another loss of home, both physical and metaphorical), I would have expected myself to sit in a corner writing some more whiney drivel.  Then again, I suppose I did.  Perhaps it’s just taking a more prosaic blog-form this time around.

Anyway. National Poetry Day! My favourite poem is anyone lived in a pretty how town by e e cummings.  Thank you lovely, nervous, marker-pen-twiddling Neil Church of Ludlow College for introducing me to ee (my other favourites by the same, in case you want to look them up – and you should – are gee i like to think of dead and yonder deadfromtheneckup graduate, and I love Danse Russe by William Carlos Williams)

anyone lived in a pretty how town

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn’t he danced his did.

Women and men (both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed (but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone’s any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
with by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men (both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

-ee cummings

I remember reading it through at 17 and thinking, well that’s quite a pleasing load of nonsense, and then re-reading and suddenly realising that – oh!  It’s about two people (the man, anyone, and no one, the girl; in case you haven’t been keeping up) and it’s a love story.  I also really like the cyclical nature and passage of time of it, life/death, spring/summer/autumn/winter, the almost folkloric heralding of the seasons.

But mostly, I love that moment of realisation you get with good poetry where you realise you haven’t looked closely enough.

What’s your favourite?