Wednesday, 9 March 2016

R.I.P. George Martin (Sir)

This poem was written for a guy called Ron Renton, who made this sort of music genre his own. It was previously published on the Jottify website (now defunct), back in 2012 if I recall correctly. There are two things I know about Ron; he's from Leeds and he likes the Beatles. So there's at least one in every line; the title of a Beatles' hit single that is. There's not much of a narrative, but at least there's some rhyme. I called it...

The Ron Renton Song

There’s a Place, they call it Leeds, in the heart of the land
and it's home to Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band
and Ron grew up there with a little help from my friends;
why that’s a little lie, although it rhymes on the ends.

This boy who's now a man wasn't nobody's child
he ran with all the boys, but he wasn’t really wilde
I should have known better was ever in his head
and no, you can't do that, his Mother always said.

Off the long and winding road turning left by Penny Lane
skirting Strawberry Fields forever in the rain
the climate there's a misery it's raining cats and dogs.
Help! I am the walrus? No, it's just some toads and frogs.

A girl who drove his car said she was Eleanor Rigby
and you gotta take out some insurance on me, baby.
They used to go out dancing on a hard day's night;
she had something nice about her, like it lit the inner light.

He used to say I'm happy just to dance with you
and she said oh you're comfy, like an old brown shoe.
Instead of twist to open, well they both said twist and shout
and instead of gym at work they cried, we can work it out.

Paperback writer makes a line quite hard to say.
The DJ sings, da doo, Ron Ron, hey, hey, hey, hey
and then he cried out joyfully, ob-la-di, ob-la-da!
Oh, Julia! I thought she was back in the U.S.S.R?

It's her, he thought, on a day tripper ticket to ride.
There's a revolution stewing and sure, she's gotta hide.
She had to get back quickly now and here she's seeking shelter.
She got here only yesterday; back there it's helter skelter.

I saw her standing there he thought, don't pass me by!
Ask me why, he said, don't tell me why, hello, goodbye!
I don't want to spoil the party she rejoined, so let it be.
You know my name (look up the number), wait and see.

Don't let me down, she said to Ron, act naturally,
'cos where we're at is nowhere man, oh can't you see?
You say, I'm down, but take it man, from me to you,
it's just a day in the life and don't say love me do.

Hey Jude, do you want to know a secret? Ask away!
You don't need to fear the things we said today.
What goes on will come together one fine day,
when a yellow submarine drives down your way.

Slow down you must be crazy talking words like that.
I think I’ll get you seen to, jeez, Jehoshaphat!
But I feel fine he said and thought, oh ain't she sweet!
I really gotta thank you girl for this, eight days a week.

She said, that's for you Blue, oh yes it is it's true,
you sure can't buy me love, no P.S. I love you!
Don't say I want to hold your hand and throw a faint,
this ain't no chance roll over, Beethoven, get that straight.

The Saints won't bring you luck nor all my loving.
If all you need is love, you'll sure find something,
but not from Kansas City's own sweet Georgia Brown.
If you love me, baby, you just gotta put me down.

You're a girl from way over the ocean, my Bonnie
and I've got to get you into my life, said Ronnie,
you're such a lady Madonna, no more need be said
and if you won't please please me, then I'll cry instead.

It's long past if I fell and can't be stopped, you know
it's a bit like the ballad of John and Yoko, 
I dream all night and wake to cry for a shadow;
there's no light in my matchbox, cried poor Ron, oh no!

So please mister postman, won't you take her this letter
explaining from me she's a woman and i love her.
Let her say to me once, oh baby, you're a rich man.
Ah! Now she loves you. Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! She's a big fan.

Saturday, 5 March 2016

The Song of the Featherer

Here's a poem that was previously published, back in October, 2015, on the Houseboat website, which you can find here. Let me know what you think...

The Song of the Featherer

On a library roof in Philadelphia there's a black bird loafing,
seemingly at ease, until he breaks the spell and waltzes,
stepping right – then left – left again – on rigid, stick-like legs,
movement the self-preserving alternative to falling over or merely
appearing delirious in the open air. It attempts to sing, perhaps
in celebration, but the white collar-flaw at its throat constricts
the flow of notes and stifles its song at source. Poised,
with beak aloft, it ponders for moments, warily,
before, abrupt, it bends – to drop and pick – drop and pick –
and hold aloft a scrap of green, and flout a trophy,
a cloth fragment from a spine of published verse whose leaves
are long since foxed. Twelve poems sent forth, coaxed
from author. Now their lesson grabs less attention.
Pored over by fowl, grubbing for morsels
between the leaves of grass.