No-Fear Poetry
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the hen
hates men
for the cock
likes to mock
listen to him now:
bawk-bawk-bawk
rattling on
complaining
always hensplaining
hear him go
her harem beau
he surely don’t know
his reigning role
is waning
she hopes
he’s soon
for the pot
she likes that
a lot
as jerk chicken
of course
as the delicious
main course
but it itches her loathing
whilst he’s decomposing
dry-rubbed
marinated
he’ll be tasty
so tasty
but also
unhated
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You only ever need it
when you’ve left it on the bus
on the train
home in the cupboard
somewhere with no rain.
Don’t bother getting cross because
you know you’ll do it again
and again
and again.
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A little context before you read this one (from the YouGov website);
In February of this year, Guardian journalist Sam Wollaston called YouGov out for our lack of data on how many British men sit down to urinate.
Kicking ourselves for this glaring omission from our Public Data archive, we have since conducted a 13-country study on men’s peeing preferences internationally.
The results show that British men are among the least likely to sit for a wee, with 33% saying they “never” do so – tied with Poland...
…it is German men who are the most likely to sit down to pee – 40% say they do so every time, and a further 22% do so most times. Only 10% say they never do.
Ironically, Germany is a nation that has a term deriding men who sit down to pee – ‘sitzpinkler’, literally someone who sits down to wee, but also used to imply a man is wimpy or effeminate – while also requiring them to do so in many places. Signs telling men to sit down to pee are common in German bathrooms, and standing to urinate is often seen as antisocial behaviour.
You can read the full article here.
I’m a wife, and the mother of sons, so you can appreciate my perspective, I’m sure.
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Pooh-Poohing a Pejorative Pee-Pee Name
I love a sitzpinkler
He’s less of a sprinkler
There’s not much to clean
If you know what I mean…
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At the end of the day
comes tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow;
and all our yesterdays
have been and gone.
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In my experience,
little boys are
full of laughter,
bravado,
and wind.
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My friend Pam Robinson sent this via WhatsApp after spending some time with her grandsons, and I just had to share it, being the mother and grandmother of boys.
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when I die
if they say of me
she lived her life joyfully
she lived it utterly
she made the most of every day
she didn’t fritter time away
she was habitually free
they lie
too many books
is why
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It’s Be Kind to Animals Week but I haven’t written a lot of animal poems, so I’m reblogging this one from last year.
And like last year, I still don’t know technical stuff, so there’s a photo of the poem as I set it out, followed by the text.
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Most snakes will hiss
to scare away
but cobras spit
right in your face
their aim’s your eye
I’ll tell you why
to blind your head
until you’re dead
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Okay, just read this again and realised it’s not the poem to convince anyone to be kind to animals; but…
To Be Fair
The cobra’s just doing
what cobras do.
Don’t bother it
and it won’t bother you.
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And now I’ve just noticed that somewhere between taking the photo and posting it way back when, I changed the title. This blogging gig is hard, folks!
I prefer the current title; which do you like?
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Pray that the Acklay goes away
and the Can-cell dragonfly does not pass by
Woodoos are carnivorous birds
The Blurrg are transporting herbivores
Bandaras are noisy
Bantha are sociable
Barri ride asteroids, devouring them on the move
Porgs look like puffins
Bergruutfa have gas and nothing to prove
The Blase Tree Goat (or Choreamnos)
looks like a goat and a sloth have been crossed
Anooba scavenge, the greedy guts
But so much worse are – no ifs and buts –
the Bursas; yes they are much worser
Cannoks eat mechanics…uh, sorry:
mechanical items ad infinitum
like this poem will be
if I don’t stop at ‘C’
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A bit of nonsense for you! I thought I’d extend the Be Kind to Animals Week message to the Star Wars universe, but I underestimated the number of species and began nodding off around ‘Cherfers’ – NOT recommended as Cherfers are aggressive, quick to anger, and they like meat…
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After the flood, the horses danced.
The horses pranced, jostled, bustled, hustled,
for they had chanced upon a new skill.
They reared on hind legs, wiggled their behinds;
out-Checkered Chubby doin’ the twist –
truly, I say, a sight not to be missed.
I’m sad to report the cart horses were clunky,
but all of the ponies surprisingly funky.
A piebald named Chunky writhed like a monkey
and persuaded the foals to pogo like punks.
An old appaloosa got loose in the town;
he line-danced his way up; he line-danced his way down.
He hopped, skipped and jumped, capered and bumped.
He chased away frowns from folk all around.
Those walking by stopped.
Stopped. Stared.
They stared, of course: who wouldn’t gawk at a dancing horse?
Wherever heads turned, mares jounced, stallions jiggled.
Soon, a strange feeling niggled at the gloomy crowd:
despite the flood, those horses weren’t down;
those horses were happy, peppy and chippy; not stroppy,
not drippy, but top-hole and zippy.
Smiles came to sad faces all over the place
as they eyed equine waltzes, tangos and jitterbugs;
jumps, leaps and rhumbas; congas and struts.
Children giggled; adults laughed;
all were charmed, all entranced
when, after the flood, the horses danced.
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First published in Where For Art Thou? (2010)
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Poetry Fluff 