The new Solihull College 'Creative Writing' evening class starts at Arden School, Knowle on 22nd September 2008, lead by yours truly!
We meet on Mondays from 7.15 - 9.15pm. All writers or would-be writers welcome!
We'll be covering everything from short stories to limericks and there's plenty of opportunity to read your work (if you wish) and get (positive and encouraging) feedback from the group.
It's a friendly, relaxed class and those who did it last year seemed to have enjoyed themselves... !
Enrol at Arden School on: Monday 8th September / Tuesday 9th September / Monday 15th September - 19:00-21:00.
Or call the college on: 0121 678 7294/5 for more information.
Friday, 5 September 2008
Friday, 14 March 2008
What Am I Up To Now?
There is life after a year as a Poet Laureate!
I'm now teaching a creative writing evening class on Monday nights in Knowle, Solihull, looking at everything from poetry to writing for children. The new term starts after Easter, in April 2008 and if you'd like to join in (we're a friendly group!), just contact Solihull College on:
TEL: 0121 678 7000 or drop me a line here.
I'm now teaching a creative writing evening class on Monday nights in Knowle, Solihull, looking at everything from poetry to writing for children. The new term starts after Easter, in April 2008 and if you'd like to join in (we're a friendly group!), just contact Solihull College on:
TEL: 0121 678 7000 or drop me a line here.
Sunday, 7 October 2007
Morning Coffee With The Warwick Poet Laureates
Well, today was the day that Jane Holland, new Warwick PL and I performed to the crowds at Cafe Chai in Warwick and although our audience was 'compact and bijou', it was an appreciative and attentive one, so we couldn't complain! (I think the 10am start might have put a few people off - it was a bit early unless you live in Warwick and could just roll out of bed!).
Jane read from her collection and as I don't have a book, here, as my final BLOG entry, are the poems I read out this morning, which don't appear anywhere else on the BLOG:
1. 'Refunds & Exchanges'
2. Too Old For The Beatles
3. At Kingsbury Water Park
4. Progress - for Rosa Parks
5. Managing Love
I wrote 'Refunds & Exchanges' just after last Christmas. A ‘true story’, as they say...
‘Refunds & Exchanges’
Two days after Christmas,
This is the Queue of Shame
For those of us who got it wrong,
Who bought in haste, whose taste is
Questionnable,
Whose gift was, after all,
Not just what they’d always wanted.
The half-wit who chose red underwear
The woman who bought blue jeans – with a flare -
The saddo with CDs they already had
And me - with blue suede gloves, for my Dad.
You try it.
Crouching in M&S, below the scarves, near the socks,
Try to recall the size of your Dad’s hands.
Those walks in the park when I was eight or nine
His hand had just covered mine and I thought
That ‘medium’ would be fine.
But on the day,
Like the glass slipper before it found Cinderella
The first glove only went half way
Before it stopped
At the knarled knuckles, the humps, the shiny stretched skin.
Thirty years is a long time
“Large,” my Dad said softly
“I think perhaps I need large.”
This one was written for my Mum who was in her late twenties when the Beatles were 'big' and always claims that she was too old for them (late twenties was 'old' in those days!)
Too Old For The Beatles
She was too old for The Beatles back in 1963
She had her very own ‘Fab Four’ – the twins, our Jack and me
And when the world was changing, she was changing with the rest
Changing terry-towelling nappies, sheets and shirts and grubby vests
And she knows exactly where she was when Kennedy was shot
She was drawing pictures in her head and filling the teapot
But now she draws a pension and her dreams have never died
Forget the about a bus pass, she’s her own ‘ticket to ride’
She’s holidaying with the girls and learning how to drive
She’s a wow at western dancing at the age of sixty-five
As a flower-power tribute she grows psychedelic beds
Her garden’s just a riot – of orange, pink and reds
She’s acting out her fantasies, her life has just begun
She’s waited thirty years, for her Swinging Sixties fun!
'Kingsbury', which won a North Warwickshire poetry competition a few years ago, was inspired by bike rides at Kingsbury Water Park, near Tamworth, with my young friend Mark.
AT KINGSBURY WATER PARK
In the hire shop
We eyed a gleaming tandem
And laughing, argued over our positions
Back or front?
‘Til we agreed, it wouldn’t work
And maybe in a year or two…
The man equipped us
With sturdy mountain bikes and reassurance
“Don’t worry about brambles -
“These tyres are puncture-proof”
And we refused his helmets
To feel the unexpected sunshine of that day
Kissing the tops of our heads
Then recklessly, like two kids, not just one
We swooped along the tracks
Where pairs of white butterflies, their wings dipped in carrot juice
Danced over nettles
And racing one another, we soared along the banks
Of pools
Where gliding swans stared briefly in distain
And ducks, in proud air-show formation
Circled overhead
Breathlessly, we picnic-ed on a bench
Named for ‘John Briars and his dog Brandy
Who loved this place’
And made the funniest discovery -
That Canadian geese don’t eat banana
And I wonder if we’ll ever ride that tandem
Or if, when limbs have lengthened you will then
Think cycling with your old Mum
The height of un-cool
And I wish that my heart
Like those mountain bike tyres
Was puncture-proof
This poem was written a few days after the death of Rosa Parks, who campaigned for Black rights in the USA in the 1950s, when I witnessed something rather poignant on the tube...
Progress
For Rosa Parks (1913 - 2005)
You know the story.
Montgomery, Alabama. December, 1955.
When the driver demanded she should give up her seat
For the white man (it was The Law),
determination covered her body, ‘like a quilt on a winter night’
and Rosa Parks said no.
And now, it is London. October, 2005.
We judder and stop at Victoria.
An old woman clambers in.
She is laden with bags, breathless,
black.
She grabs the bar just in time,
as the train lurches on.
Then a young white man stands
and offers her his seat.
He is not getting off. His gesture and his smile
Say ‘I’ll stand now, you can sit’.
And she lands on the seat with a grin and a sigh.
Her feet not quite touching the floor, swing.
No-one notices but me.
I want to look up to the sky and yell:
“Do you see this, Rosa? Do you see?”
This was one of the first poems I ever wrote and the first to be published (in a West Midlands arts magazine)
Managing Love
The project is over, we’ve won the deal
The contract’s complete now
but how do I feel?
Elated, deflated
I’m happy, yet sad
Does this bring a close
To the closeness we’ve had?
Let’s go to the pub, we deserve it, you say
for more than a year we’ve worked hard, every day.
And you pass me my wine and our hands gently touch.
Is it wrong, how I’m feeling, to want you so much?
As the evening wears on and the crowds drift away
we toast our success, you entreat me to stay.
And ‘though I am smiling, I just want to cry
because you have a husband.
Oh God, so do I.
Jane read from her collection and as I don't have a book, here, as my final BLOG entry, are the poems I read out this morning, which don't appear anywhere else on the BLOG:
1. 'Refunds & Exchanges'
2. Too Old For The Beatles
3. At Kingsbury Water Park
4. Progress - for Rosa Parks
5. Managing Love
I wrote 'Refunds & Exchanges' just after last Christmas. A ‘true story’, as they say...
‘Refunds & Exchanges’
Two days after Christmas,
This is the Queue of Shame
For those of us who got it wrong,
Who bought in haste, whose taste is
Questionnable,
Whose gift was, after all,
Not just what they’d always wanted.
The half-wit who chose red underwear
The woman who bought blue jeans – with a flare -
The saddo with CDs they already had
And me - with blue suede gloves, for my Dad.
You try it.
Crouching in M&S, below the scarves, near the socks,
Try to recall the size of your Dad’s hands.
Those walks in the park when I was eight or nine
His hand had just covered mine and I thought
That ‘medium’ would be fine.
But on the day,
Like the glass slipper before it found Cinderella
The first glove only went half way
Before it stopped
At the knarled knuckles, the humps, the shiny stretched skin.
Thirty years is a long time
“Large,” my Dad said softly
“I think perhaps I need large.”
This one was written for my Mum who was in her late twenties when the Beatles were 'big' and always claims that she was too old for them (late twenties was 'old' in those days!)
Too Old For The Beatles
She was too old for The Beatles back in 1963
She had her very own ‘Fab Four’ – the twins, our Jack and me
And when the world was changing, she was changing with the rest
Changing terry-towelling nappies, sheets and shirts and grubby vests
And she knows exactly where she was when Kennedy was shot
She was drawing pictures in her head and filling the teapot
But now she draws a pension and her dreams have never died
Forget the about a bus pass, she’s her own ‘ticket to ride’
She’s holidaying with the girls and learning how to drive
She’s a wow at western dancing at the age of sixty-five
As a flower-power tribute she grows psychedelic beds
Her garden’s just a riot – of orange, pink and reds
She’s acting out her fantasies, her life has just begun
She’s waited thirty years, for her Swinging Sixties fun!
'Kingsbury', which won a North Warwickshire poetry competition a few years ago, was inspired by bike rides at Kingsbury Water Park, near Tamworth, with my young friend Mark.
AT KINGSBURY WATER PARK
In the hire shop
We eyed a gleaming tandem
And laughing, argued over our positions
Back or front?
‘Til we agreed, it wouldn’t work
And maybe in a year or two…
The man equipped us
With sturdy mountain bikes and reassurance
“Don’t worry about brambles -
“These tyres are puncture-proof”
And we refused his helmets
To feel the unexpected sunshine of that day
Kissing the tops of our heads
Then recklessly, like two kids, not just one
We swooped along the tracks
Where pairs of white butterflies, their wings dipped in carrot juice
Danced over nettles
And racing one another, we soared along the banks
Of pools
Where gliding swans stared briefly in distain
And ducks, in proud air-show formation
Circled overhead
Breathlessly, we picnic-ed on a bench
Named for ‘John Briars and his dog Brandy
Who loved this place’
And made the funniest discovery -
That Canadian geese don’t eat banana
And I wonder if we’ll ever ride that tandem
Or if, when limbs have lengthened you will then
Think cycling with your old Mum
The height of un-cool
And I wish that my heart
Like those mountain bike tyres
Was puncture-proof
This poem was written a few days after the death of Rosa Parks, who campaigned for Black rights in the USA in the 1950s, when I witnessed something rather poignant on the tube...
Progress
For Rosa Parks (1913 - 2005)
You know the story.
Montgomery, Alabama. December, 1955.
When the driver demanded she should give up her seat
For the white man (it was The Law),
determination covered her body, ‘like a quilt on a winter night’
and Rosa Parks said no.
And now, it is London. October, 2005.
We judder and stop at Victoria.
An old woman clambers in.
She is laden with bags, breathless,
black.
She grabs the bar just in time,
as the train lurches on.
Then a young white man stands
and offers her his seat.
He is not getting off. His gesture and his smile
Say ‘I’ll stand now, you can sit’.
And she lands on the seat with a grin and a sigh.
Her feet not quite touching the floor, swing.
No-one notices but me.
I want to look up to the sky and yell:
“Do you see this, Rosa? Do you see?”
This was one of the first poems I ever wrote and the first to be published (in a West Midlands arts magazine)
Managing Love
The project is over, we’ve won the deal
The contract’s complete now
but how do I feel?
Elated, deflated
I’m happy, yet sad
Does this bring a close
To the closeness we’ve had?
Let’s go to the pub, we deserve it, you say
for more than a year we’ve worked hard, every day.
And you pass me my wine and our hands gently touch.
Is it wrong, how I’m feeling, to want you so much?
As the evening wears on and the crowds drift away
we toast our success, you entreat me to stay.
And ‘though I am smiling, I just want to cry
because you have a husband.
Oh God, so do I.
Wednesday, 3 October 2007
I am PL no more!
Tonight was the launch of the 2007 Warwick Words Festival in the Warwickshire Museum in the market place and I crowned the new Poet Laureate, Jane Holland (who was runner-up last year) with the obligatory laurel wreath!
I feel sort of sad and sort of strangely relieved too. It's a big responsibility being Poet Laureate for Warwick but I've had a fun year and thoroughly enjoyed it. I hope it's just the start and not the end (cliche, cliche!) because I still feel very much a 'poet-in-progress' - but a little more polished than I was a year ago!
Remember I told you I'd been commissioned to write a poem by Warwick District Council's Arts Officer and I'd elected to write about Kenilworth? Well, it's taken me six months, but I finally wrote something and tonight I read it out at the event - it was a world premiere! Well, here it is:
In the summer of 1575, Queen Elizabeth I visited Kenilworth Castle in Warwickshire, as the guest of her favourite (and some say, lover), Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. He laid on 19 days of the finest pageantry in an attempt to impress and woo her.
That was the inspiration for this poem.
Kenilworth
The Queen is come to Kenilworth
and my Master is a stallion, pacing;
a hound that’s caught a whiff of hares;
a dancing bear on a chain.
He smiles and strokes his beard and smiles some more.
I waited on the Lady Amy once and though
Some suspect him of her killing,
I am sure my Master loved her,
for I know that look, that face.
He smiled then, too.
And now this Queen, this “Gloriana”,
receives fanfare trumpets and keys to the Castle gate.
Blazing torches sear the night sky around the Mere
and an island floats ghost-like across the water,
while a hundred drums, fife and guns bring a battlefield
to our town.
The Castle swarms with courtiers, cooing
that my Master will propose
but that she will not – cannot – accept him.
And then the smiling will cease.
Tonight, my duties done, I hitch up my skirts
And canter through the fields.
The fireworks light the way.
White stars and golden comets flash,
And crack loud as lightning,
all the way home.
Where, we lie a-bed, awake.
The mice move in the thatch and a straw falls soft on my face.
He picks it off, then whispers,”Did you see her then, the great Queen?”
And I think of her golden red hair and heavy eyes.
I think of how she has Kenilworth – and my Master - at her feet.
I think of her furs and lace, her gloves, her white hunting horse, her falcon and her glittering jewels.
And I think, I would not be that Queen
for all the treasures in the New World
or for all the stars – real or made – in the sky.
I would not be that Queen.
Not I.
I feel sort of sad and sort of strangely relieved too. It's a big responsibility being Poet Laureate for Warwick but I've had a fun year and thoroughly enjoyed it. I hope it's just the start and not the end (cliche, cliche!) because I still feel very much a 'poet-in-progress' - but a little more polished than I was a year ago!
Remember I told you I'd been commissioned to write a poem by Warwick District Council's Arts Officer and I'd elected to write about Kenilworth? Well, it's taken me six months, but I finally wrote something and tonight I read it out at the event - it was a world premiere! Well, here it is:
In the summer of 1575, Queen Elizabeth I visited Kenilworth Castle in Warwickshire, as the guest of her favourite (and some say, lover), Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. He laid on 19 days of the finest pageantry in an attempt to impress and woo her.
That was the inspiration for this poem.
Kenilworth
The Queen is come to Kenilworth
and my Master is a stallion, pacing;
a hound that’s caught a whiff of hares;
a dancing bear on a chain.
He smiles and strokes his beard and smiles some more.
I waited on the Lady Amy once and though
Some suspect him of her killing,
I am sure my Master loved her,
for I know that look, that face.
He smiled then, too.
And now this Queen, this “Gloriana”,
receives fanfare trumpets and keys to the Castle gate.
Blazing torches sear the night sky around the Mere
and an island floats ghost-like across the water,
while a hundred drums, fife and guns bring a battlefield
to our town.
The Castle swarms with courtiers, cooing
that my Master will propose
but that she will not – cannot – accept him.
And then the smiling will cease.
Tonight, my duties done, I hitch up my skirts
And canter through the fields.
The fireworks light the way.
White stars and golden comets flash,
And crack loud as lightning,
all the way home.
Where, we lie a-bed, awake.
The mice move in the thatch and a straw falls soft on my face.
He picks it off, then whispers,”Did you see her then, the great Queen?”
And I think of her golden red hair and heavy eyes.
I think of how she has Kenilworth – and my Master - at her feet.
I think of her furs and lace, her gloves, her white hunting horse, her falcon and her glittering jewels.
And I think, I would not be that Queen
for all the treasures in the New World
or for all the stars – real or made – in the sky.
I would not be that Queen.
Not I.
Friday, 28 September 2007
Warwick Words Festival: 4th - 7th October 2007
Warwick Words festival is NEXT week - which means I've only got a few days to go until the launch, on Weds 3rd October, when I officially crown the new Poet Laureate with his/her laurel wreath (actually, I do know who it is, but I'm sworn to secrecy until then. I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you).
I'm involved in a couple of events, so if you're planning to be in or around Warwick during the day on Thursday 4th or Friday 5th October OR you fancy an early start on Sunday morning (7th), have a look at these:
Poetry Tea Rooms: (4th & 5th October 2007)
Warwick Words – Festival of Literature and Spoken Word
4 – 7 October 2007
If you like your tea and cake served up with a dollop of fabulous poetry, then look no further than the Thomas Oken Tea Rooms in Warwick on Thursday 4th and Friday 5th October (11am – 4pm).
As a finishing touch to her year as Warwick Poet Laureate, Helen Yendall has invited local poets to showcase their talents in the 500-year old tea shop for the Warwick Words Festival and over 30 of them have risen to the challenge.
“I was delighted with the response,” Helen says. “There’s a wealth of talent in our region and many of the performing poets are published writers or Poet Laureates themselves. I like the idea of taking poetry out into unusual places and I’m sure it’s going to be great fun - for the poets and customers alike! This event is open to all and if any of the Tea Room visitors would like to read out one of their own poems, they’ll be more than welcome.”
Poets who will be performing upstairs in the Thomas Oken Tea Rooms include members of The Leam Writers, Warwick Words Writers’ Group and Inktank, plus Giovanni ‘Spoz’ Esposito (Birmingham Poet Laureate 2006 -7), Sean Kelly and BBC Radio Coventry & Warwickshire’s own Poet Laureate, Jo Roberts.
For more information on the poets or to request a timeslot to read your own poem, please contact: Helen Yendall – Warwick Poet Laureate helenyendall@yahoo.co.uk
Morning Coffee With the Warwick Laureates
Sunday 7th October
Café Chai, Swan Street, Warwick
10.00am – 11.30am
Tickets: £6.50
Join last year’s Poet Laureate, Helen Yendall, and catch up on her time as Warwick Poet Laureate. Helen will read a selection of poems and introduce the new Poet Laureate 2007/2008. Includes morning coffee and pastries.
I'm involved in a couple of events, so if you're planning to be in or around Warwick during the day on Thursday 4th or Friday 5th October OR you fancy an early start on Sunday morning (7th), have a look at these:
Poetry Tea Rooms: (4th & 5th October 2007)
Warwick Words – Festival of Literature and Spoken Word
4 – 7 October 2007
If you like your tea and cake served up with a dollop of fabulous poetry, then look no further than the Thomas Oken Tea Rooms in Warwick on Thursday 4th and Friday 5th October (11am – 4pm).
As a finishing touch to her year as Warwick Poet Laureate, Helen Yendall has invited local poets to showcase their talents in the 500-year old tea shop for the Warwick Words Festival and over 30 of them have risen to the challenge.
“I was delighted with the response,” Helen says. “There’s a wealth of talent in our region and many of the performing poets are published writers or Poet Laureates themselves. I like the idea of taking poetry out into unusual places and I’m sure it’s going to be great fun - for the poets and customers alike! This event is open to all and if any of the Tea Room visitors would like to read out one of their own poems, they’ll be more than welcome.”
Poets who will be performing upstairs in the Thomas Oken Tea Rooms include members of The Leam Writers, Warwick Words Writers’ Group and Inktank, plus Giovanni ‘Spoz’ Esposito (Birmingham Poet Laureate 2006 -7), Sean Kelly and BBC Radio Coventry & Warwickshire’s own Poet Laureate, Jo Roberts.
For more information on the poets or to request a timeslot to read your own poem, please contact: Helen Yendall – Warwick Poet Laureate helenyendall@yahoo.co.uk
Morning Coffee With the Warwick Laureates
Sunday 7th October
Café Chai, Swan Street, Warwick
10.00am – 11.30am
Tickets: £6.50
Join last year’s Poet Laureate, Helen Yendall, and catch up on her time as Warwick Poet Laureate. Helen will read a selection of poems and introduce the new Poet Laureate 2007/2008. Includes morning coffee and pastries.
Friday, 14 September 2007
Taming Children - And Dinosaurs
I was in a couple of primary schools in Warwick this week with local poet and celeb, Julie Boden, (former Birmingham Poet Laureate and person of exquisite good taste – well, she did choose me for Warwick Poet Laureate!) www.julieboden.co.uk
Julie has conducted poetry workshops for schools over many years (in fact she’s worked out that she’s been into over 1,000 schools!), so I thought I’d tag along and see how it was done.
I must admit, I was slightly nervous! The last time I was in a primary school, I was a pupil myself and I can’t remember what it’s like to be 9 or 10 (it was a while ago). Would they ask me embarrassing questions about my love life? Would they understand what I was talking about? Would they run wild round the classroom, leaping from tables and throwing chalk at me?
Well, I needn’t have worried. They were all very well behaved (hmm, especially in the second school, which shall be nameless, where the teacher ruled with a rod of iron! Anyone who’s worried about discipline in schools should put their head round the door of that classroom one day!)
And guess what's changed since I was at school? They have Assembly at the END of the school day! (because some boffins have worked out that they are more receptive to learning in the mornings. Makes sense, I suppose).
Julie has been working with 3 schools in the town on an exciting project called ‘Poet-Tree’. The idea is that the children create poems which they will attach to a tree sculpture at the culmination of the project, during the Warwick Words festival. www.warwickwords.co.uk
The winning school will keep the tree ‘for ever and ever’, which is a really great prize! So, inspired by that idea, Julie and I got the children writing ‘kennings’ and ‘diamante’ poems and limericks, which was all good fun.
And before that, I read each class the only children’s poem I’ve ever written, which they seemed to enjoy, bless ‘em. So here it is, just for you:
Could You Tame A Dinosaur?
Could you tame a dinosaur?
I want one for a pet.
I’ve asked my Mum but all she says is:
‘I want doesn’t get!’
A winged pterodactyl,
now that would be so cool!
I’d train it single-handedly
to fly me into school.
Triceratops are special,
spiny horns upon their heads,
A baby one would surely fit quite nicely –
in our shed.
And I bet a brachiosaurus
would lend itself to tricks,
I’d slide down its long neck
and teach it to fetch sticks!
Or what about the dinosaur
that everyone respects –
I’d better every bully with
Tyrannosaurus Rex!
So could you tame a dinosaur?
I want one for a pet.
I’ve asked my Mum but all she says is:
‘I want doesn’t get!’
Julie has conducted poetry workshops for schools over many years (in fact she’s worked out that she’s been into over 1,000 schools!), so I thought I’d tag along and see how it was done.
I must admit, I was slightly nervous! The last time I was in a primary school, I was a pupil myself and I can’t remember what it’s like to be 9 or 10 (it was a while ago). Would they ask me embarrassing questions about my love life? Would they understand what I was talking about? Would they run wild round the classroom, leaping from tables and throwing chalk at me?
Well, I needn’t have worried. They were all very well behaved (hmm, especially in the second school, which shall be nameless, where the teacher ruled with a rod of iron! Anyone who’s worried about discipline in schools should put their head round the door of that classroom one day!)
And guess what's changed since I was at school? They have Assembly at the END of the school day! (because some boffins have worked out that they are more receptive to learning in the mornings. Makes sense, I suppose).
Julie has been working with 3 schools in the town on an exciting project called ‘Poet-Tree’. The idea is that the children create poems which they will attach to a tree sculpture at the culmination of the project, during the Warwick Words festival. www.warwickwords.co.uk
The winning school will keep the tree ‘for ever and ever’, which is a really great prize! So, inspired by that idea, Julie and I got the children writing ‘kennings’ and ‘diamante’ poems and limericks, which was all good fun.
And before that, I read each class the only children’s poem I’ve ever written, which they seemed to enjoy, bless ‘em. So here it is, just for you:
Could You Tame A Dinosaur?
Could you tame a dinosaur?
I want one for a pet.
I’ve asked my Mum but all she says is:
‘I want doesn’t get!’
A winged pterodactyl,
now that would be so cool!
I’d train it single-handedly
to fly me into school.
Triceratops are special,
spiny horns upon their heads,
A baby one would surely fit quite nicely –
in our shed.
And I bet a brachiosaurus
would lend itself to tricks,
I’d slide down its long neck
and teach it to fetch sticks!
Or what about the dinosaur
that everyone respects –
I’d better every bully with
Tyrannosaurus Rex!
So could you tame a dinosaur?
I want one for a pet.
I’ve asked my Mum but all she says is:
‘I want doesn’t get!’
Tuesday, 21 August 2007
A Love Poem?
This poem was published in 'Raw Edge' too many years ago to remember (actually before it was called 'Raw Edge')...
Funny Face
When love was new and exciting, he called me his ‘Funny Face’
And breathing softly into my neck
He whispered that my face, without its freckles
Would be like the night sky without its stars
And I believed him
As love grew worn and battered, he called me his Missus.
He liked his tea on the table at seven
with three pieces of bread and butter
Sliced. White. None of that brown rubbish, thank you
And I prepared it for him.
Now he loves lager and The Blues and he calls me a cow
Because I object to him going to Ibiza with the lads
And it’s only for a week and why shouldn’t he go?
“Why? Why? Why?”
So I let him.
I pack his case
I drive him to the airport
I hand him everything he needs
And when he shows his passport
They won’t let him board
On account of the red beard, the goofy teeth, the glasses
On his photograph
I drew it for him
I call it his ‘Funny Face’
Funny Face
When love was new and exciting, he called me his ‘Funny Face’
And breathing softly into my neck
He whispered that my face, without its freckles
Would be like the night sky without its stars
And I believed him
As love grew worn and battered, he called me his Missus.
He liked his tea on the table at seven
with three pieces of bread and butter
Sliced. White. None of that brown rubbish, thank you
And I prepared it for him.
Now he loves lager and The Blues and he calls me a cow
Because I object to him going to Ibiza with the lads
And it’s only for a week and why shouldn’t he go?
“Why? Why? Why?”
So I let him.
I pack his case
I drive him to the airport
I hand him everything he needs
And when he shows his passport
They won’t let him board
On account of the red beard, the goofy teeth, the glasses
On his photograph
I drew it for him
I call it his ‘Funny Face’
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