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Poetry by Rosemary Dun MONSTERS BY THE WARDROBEThere
are things not said, Those
things whisper They
lurk Golem-like
Things unsaid skulk, _________________________________________________ WORDSI Like my poetry gambolling barefoot across the page wild and wanton and witty. Not for me the torture of haiku, that bonsai tree of Japanese poetry where words are hacked back, their vowels and consonants bound tight as the feet of Chinese concubines not mine. I like my words free range, running free – Young hearts run free never be hung up ... on a sonnet, a villanelle, restricted, constricted, in rhyming couplet hell forced into marriage so boring and trite using words that don’t fit, but are wedded bedded together, forever, in iambic pentameter rhythm and rhyme.
I like my poems to have a good time. And I don’t like words academic and haughty, I like them sensuous, and rather naughty. All dressed up and spangly, in their short skirts, stockings and suspenders I like words that go out on a bender who snog the bad boy poet and shag against the wall. I love words who give it their all, are wayward girls and wicked women crying all alone at night being strong in spite of the odds, words being awkward sods. And sometimes words can be a puppy, bounding onto the stage, knocking over the sound system, the microphone, then being sent to its basket in the corner when all words wanted to do was to lick everyone’s face. Aah, poor words. And those words can sure go places. Words on tours, words as whores, Its only words, and words are all I have ...Words stolen, abducted, painted a different colour as a ringer, exciting, delighting, a real humdinger. Poetry can be as good as a kiss words are bliss, a touch, a tease, a poetic squeeze My words do their very best to be loved and to please and then they can be teenager oh yes, and how my words can be a stroppy cow can stomp and flounce and sulk for Mars my words can try and sneak in to clubs and bars. Yeah? Whatever. My words could go on for ever. And though I might want words to be free still I can’t resist to catch those words, and tether them like fluttering birds on my page. But I’ll try and make it a gilded cage and every now and then let words come out and play. I’ll open the door, watch words fly away safe in the knowledge that words will come back. _________________________________________________
CLUB CUBANA (in the style, and to the tune of, Barry Manilow’s Copacabana) His name was Nigel He was a plumber He had the slinkiest hips And fulsome lips As he merengued down. He did the tango And the lambada He had a rhythm That was hip and hot And outta town. He whisked me on the floor. I nearly flew right out the door. But he caught me Taught me steps I’d never See before. Yes, I’m a fan of The Club Cubana That’s where the singles go To get down low And rub their hips. At Club Cubana We danced the salsa It’s the craziest, the hippest, The hottest, the lovest At Club Cubana – We fell in love. _________________________________________________
POETS IN LOVE
Part 1Why Poets Make Great Lovers He said: “We are poets and for us, a single leaf is autumn.” Part 2Why Poets Are Dangerous Lovers You fall in love because he reads you a beautiful poem which he wrote, and is dedicated to you. Only later do you discover that its one he’s had knocking about for ages and that he substituted an old lover’s name for yours. _________________________________________________
Love In The Classifieds
She’d hoped for a man who was handsome and taller He’d hoped for a girl who was younger and smaller. She ordered a coke and he ordered a lager She hoped he was sober, he hoped she was kinder than the last one. They sat, swapped life stories in the bar of The Shed She’d met some disasters. “I’m sorry,” he said. She hoped for adventure, a chat and a laugh, He hoped to find someone to care for his heart, maybe more. “Shall we give it a whirl?” he smiled as he asked her. She nodded, said: “Sure, Life’s for taking on chances.” And she thought she could like him, he had a sweet face So they agreed to meet up, for a film, at The Showcase, next Monday. At home, she stared back at her worn out reflection It’ll be a lark, she decided. This is not desperation, But a sensible option, a shortcut to love. We live such isolated lives, sometimes need a shove in the direction of small ads. He climbed up the steps leading to his front door. He stopped, took a breath, knew that he wanted more – That surely, there must be more excitement, more challenge in life; Then he turned his latch key and went in to his wife – asleep on the sofa. She was pleased that he had a good sense of humour. He thought she seemed willing, was sure she’d deliver Some comfort. He needed to feel more attractive, It had been a long time since his wife had been active in bed. She dressed very carefully on the night of their first date. They agreed the film “Swingers” had been hip, and was first-rate. And later in the dark of her small living room She came quickly and quietly in sad gratitude, and without passion. He kissed her goodbye as she averted her eyes. “I’ll phone soon,” he promised. She knew that he lied. He’d hoped for a girl who was younger and smaller She’d hoped for a man who was handsome, and who would call her. _________________________________________________
I’m being followed by David Beckham
David Beckham follows me. He hangs around the supermarket, urging me to buy organic. “Its good, its fresh, all that malarkey. And did you see me, on TV, last Friday?” David Beckham’s stalking me I saw him down the pub. “Would you like to see my snaps of Brooklyn? Victoria sends her love.” He flashes me his very best shy and boyish grin. Then offers, apropos nothing much: “I kicked the ball, it went right in.” David Beckham sits atop my television, one leg outstretched, the other dangled. “Could you shift a little to the left, Dave? You’re blocking the part in ER where that lovelorn nurse gets shot.” “I hate this bit,” says David. “It makes me want to cry. “I’m a sensitive, new football kind of guy who doesn’t mind telling all the world that I love my kid, and I got the girl.” David Beckham tucks me up in bed at night. “Sweet dreams, don’t let the bedbugs bite.” Next he slowly disappears, first his body, then his ears, until his smile is all that’s left. A Cheshire Cat with football legs. I whisper to him “Goodnight Dave.” That’s all, there’s nothing bestial. He merely is a top-rate friend, who’s strangely, somewhat asexual. _________________________________________________
DIFFERENCES
I have always Believed In Integrity. But for you, It’s just a Word That begins With The letter I. _________________________________________________
DAVE
You are the guy who didn’t phone You are the guy who walked me home You are the guy with wavy hair You are the guy who didn’t care About his ex whose name was Claire. You are the guy who said I’m great You are the guy who wouldn’t wait You are the guy said it was me You are the guy said: Can't you see? This has nothing to do with Claire.
You are the guy who took his socks off You are the guy who got his rocks off You are the guy who went all night You are the guy who did it right Then ruined it by calling me Claire. You are the guy put in a taxi You are the guy who tried to fax me You are the guy said its OK, You are the guy I said “Hey, Don't call me Dave, because now I'm seeing Claire. _________________________________________________
Lennon and Lennon(on collaborating with Helên Thomas)
You are Morrissey to my Bananarama. You said you’d rather prance and sing with gladioli. I said I’d rather dance and snog Fun Boy Three. “That’s fine by me,” said Morrissey And anyway, isn’t that Robert De Niro waiting – talking Italian. You’re more Alan Bennett, while I’m Julie Burchill. You prefer a cup of tea to me. I’m a grande dame who likes wham bang toy boys making lots of noise. You say: “Julie, is that one lump or two?” I’m John Lennon whilst you’re Paul McCartney. What’s that? You’re John Lennon? OK, we’ll both be Lennon because no-one wants to be Ringo otherwise one of us would have to be in an octopus’s garden in the sea.
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