At the Carnival

Dear all...

I'm afraid I've had to cheat a bit today because I'm so bloody busy...this is not an entirely new poem. Well, it's actually not new at all. At least not to me. It SHOULD be new to all of you though, and that's what's important, to me at any rate...it also means I can go out and get my love on with Alex, who writes a super sassy blog over at Inferior Design.

Please try to enjoy this, despite my betrayal - I've chosen this poem especially to highlight it. I appreciate your pity. 

Old Friend

My friend and I were friends for a long time. We grew up together in a shanty town just outside London. Not many people knew of its existence and the air of collusion that wove its way through the streets seemed to bind the residents irrevocably.

I’m flicking through the old photographs of us. Me, dressed as a bald man with a limp; she laid on a towel in the rain pretending it’s summer. It causes me a certain pain to remember what happened; pain just below the jugular, as though there’s a small man in there, opening tin cans and throwing the lids around with little regard for his surroundings.

For a long time my friend had acted strangely, pursing her lips when she saw me coming and speaking only in pound coins when I said hello. She started dating an old sea captain from the 1600s. When I tried to tell her it was an impossible relationship, she said, “When the witch watches the walkers in the woods, the woods won’t wake for the walkers.” When I told her I didn’t understand, she laughed and called me a philistine.

The day was June 16^th 1972. I knocked on my friend’s door and asked if she’d like to come out for some Estonian street food. “I can’t,” she said. “I’ve fallen into a deep depression. The ocean of my despair will drown you.”

“I’m a good swimmer,” I said.

“Not good enough,” she muttered. Behind her, I could see a dinner party going on with an empty place, just big enough for her to fill. I took our friendship from around my neck and put it in a small cardboard box shaped like a mausoleum. “Bring this back to me when you feel like you want to talk.”

Sixteen years later I saw the box in a charity shop. I opened it and found it empty but for a few blades of grass, which acted as a perfect metaphor for the knives now lodged so firmly in my back. I called my friend on her old number.

“Hello?” she shouted over the Carnival of Betrayal going on in the background.

“It’s me,” I said.

“It was never you,” she replied before putting the phone down like a cancer-ridden Labrador.

I head out into the garden with a box marked old stuff from the past you’ve tried to forget and put it into the hole I dug with my hands last night. Six parts petrol, one part match and the smoke is waving its farewell into the evening.

Return of the Swing

Hey hey hey hey heyyyyyyy! I am....almost drunk. Because I'm back in Edinburgh this week!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Oh yeah, for anyone that didn't know, I left Edinburgh. Did I mention that earlier this week? WHO KNOWS?? Not me, for one. Point proven.

Anyway, I'm back and I'm excited and happy. As promised yesterday, today's poem is not dark. But it's not exactly see through. Let's go with playfully opaque. But you know, when you've read it, I think you'll agree, we've all been there.

"Love From" and all that vajazzle.

On Arguing

Due to unforeseen circumstances,

I’m hiding in my swanky inner-city

apartment loft conversion.

Franco, my churro-lipped lover

is standing outside the door shouting,

“Mamacita! Mamacita! Let me in!”

“Go away, Franco,” I shout back.

We had an argument tonight

about the political impact of the burrito

in modern society.

He believes we can improve government

one pinto bean at a time.

I think there’s already enough sour cream there

to last a lifetime.

I pull back the curtains and inspect the city.

Opposite me, a cat pops his head out of the window.

“Where’s my Vera?” he calls.

“Where’s my pig?”

I know that cat,

he plays bass in a jazz band.

His slap is as violently persuasive

as a TV infomercial.

“They’re dead and buried, Johnny,” I say.

“We ate tiny sandwiches at their wake, remember?”

Johnny stares at me for a long time.

Eventually a tear ekes from his eye.

In it, a tiny sandwich evokes itself.

Franco bangs on the door

in an insistent club anthem.

I find myself lost in ecstasy

and everything is forgiven

in the sweaty embrace of its whirlwind

so I let him in again.

As Johnny has taught us,

life is too short for political debate

amongst ourselves

and the Mexicans we’re in love with. 

Particular Activity

Hello and welcome to Day FOUR of your life.

I often like to listen in to other people's conversations when I'm on the bus and such like and today's poem is based on a little conversation I overheard. I've elaborated on most (all) of it. I was going to write a longer introduction, but Casualty is on now, so that's IT.

Preparations

“I’ve seen a lot of things,”

said the girl on the bus,

talking to her girlfriends.

“Too many things

as far as most people are concerned.

I once saw a wasp stinging a pig’s teat.

It was poignant,

but I got over it.

I come from good stock.

I’ll not be sent out as glue.”

The bus was clear, light.

It was filled with summer endings,

there was a scent of Soltan factor 5.

“When I get married,

I want everything to reek of perfection.

If anyone spoils it,

I will have them slaughtered;

brutally and immediately.”

Their bags were stuffed

with bridal accoutrements.

When one of the friends

reached up and scratched her arm,

the other said, “Don’t do that,

you’ll ruin yourself before my big day.”

“And another thing,” she continued.

“If you wear a yellow dress

with a white cardigan,

you’ll look like a child.

I don’t want you to look like a child

when I get married;

that would be ridiculous,” she said,

painting fast food icons

onto her fingernails.

“This wedding should be like a Range Rover:

as unnecessarily large as possible.

I want this wedding

to make us look small and insignificant,

so we can grow together

throughout the marriage.”

She held out her hand

and admired her artistry.

“I’ve stared at other people’s food

for a long time.

Somehow it doesn’t seem real

unless I’m the one eating it.

That’s how I know,

I’ll make the perfect wife.”

When they got off the bus,

they left the day behind, the sun dipping

under the Earth’s eyelid,

into the strange milk of twilight.

Fossil Records

Hey gang! 

Welcome to day 3, which for most of you is almost over, though for some is just beginning. And that's the point I'd like to run with in my poem for the day...BEGINNING. Now I'm not really one for evolution; we all know the dinosaur bones were just an elaborate rouse hewn of plaster of Paris, and that lobster eyes hold the key to the secrets of intelligent design...SO here's my take on the early days of one of the creatures we share the Earth with. Can't be that far off, can it?

A Brief History of the Long-Toed Salamander

It started with a nubbin,

black and slovenly.

And then it rained.

In the water

there were little pockets

filled with dollar bills.

The nubbin went to Macy’s

and bought two pairs

of snazzy boots,

proclaiming them to be

the hot dammin’est boots

it ever did see.

It paraded through the sagebrush plains,

basking in the attentions of the sun.

“Hot damn,” said the sun.

“Ain’t you just a surprise.”

And with that,

the nubbin gained sneak skills.

In the winter

the nubbin stored food on its back;

tins of Spaghetti-O’s and pineapple slices.

So heavy were they

that the nubbin crawled to a cave

and collapse with exhaustion.

When it awoke,

the tins had melted

into a neat black tail

and the glistening spoon of a head

that perfectly matched

those darling bootees.

Nowadays the nubbin works in a meat factory.

Inflation makes prancing about in the sand

a difficult buck to hang onto.

At night it opens up a can of Budweiser,

puts on its boots

and shoots a gun at the television,

thinking about the desert,

wishing it would rain again.

Day known as One

Hello chums!

In a break with tradition, I've decided to do a bit of serious blogging for the next wee while. A thought occurred to me today as I sat puzzling over what to give up for Lent. Having already gorged on sweets and having used Facebook and my phone just as much as usual, I thought, "Hey Marianne (which is my real name for those of you who don't know me - fun fact #1, this is the first time I've said it...on this blog, not ever in my life), why give something up, when you could in fact TAKE something up, like writing a new poem on your blog every day for 40 days? You know, it might help you in your plight to become a serious poet. Or it might alienate all your avid followers who only tune in to hear you mock and belittle this wonderful world we live in, but isn't that what Lent is all about?" And I thought, "Yes, Lent IS all about alienation and poetry! I WILL write a poem every day on my blog and try to force people to read them!"

So there you have it folks, for the next 40 days I'm going to -try- and post a new poem here on the Rattle Bag (fun fact #2: The Rattle Bag is a 1982 anthology of poetry edited by Ted Hughes and Seamus Heaney and is obviously where I took the name for my beloved blog all those years ago. See, I AM really into poetry after all). There may or may not be drawings photographs along the way, only time will tell. Right now, my graphics tablet camera and I have been separated, so you'll be gettin' a whole lotta nuthin' for the next wee while at least.

Anyway, HERE IS POEM NUMBER 1. Appreciate it, or else.

On Going Back

I have found patterns

woven on these pages

enough to paper a wall

and call it nouveau.

I’ve been hiding amongst them.

I sit, lonely as a bowl of trifle

after all the children have vomited

and gone home.

I don’t want anyone to see me

like this; a cherry pip

with its flesh chewed off.

History has planed away my armour,

and every vein in every finger

lies open now like some ancient burial ground

uncovered by diggers

and optioned for a show on Discovery UK.

A Banner May Advance

Okay, I'm going to clear this up right off the bat: anyone who is thinking about proposing to me had better be Eddie Redmayne, otherwise it's pretty unlikely that I'll say yes. Eddie Redmayne, if you're reading this, you will find me at 55 Rue Plumet (points to anyone who gets this without Groogling it).

As you may have guessed from my concise introduction, I'M REVIEWING LES MISÉRABLES. I'm doing this because I bloody love musicals, so it will obviously be completely unbiased.

I REALLY LOVED THIS FILM FOR ALL OF THE REASONS. That's about all you need to know. However, I'll pick out some of my most favourite bits to encourage you to see it too.

1) IT'S A MOVIE MUSICAL OF THE STAGE SHOW "LES MISÉRABLES". This means it's automatically awesome. For anyone that doesn't know, Les Misérables is a stage musical in which many people are miserable. They sing about their enveloping misery with a tremulous consistency. Most of them (spoiler alert) die.

2) All the actors sing live. This means you really feel them feeling the songs. It also means that you get to see the beautiful, weaving patterns of their veins under their skin as they strive to hold the long, hard notes.

3) Eddie Redmayne having his sweet-ass face and hot posh-boy bod all up in Revolutionary France's face. (NB, terms like "sweet-ass face" and "hot posh-boy bod" generally do not enter my vocabulary, but Eddie, if  because you're reading this, I just want to impress you loads, and this is a trendy way to speak.)

4) I'll only mention it briefly and I'll veil it in a tight code, but THAT rendition of THAT song WAS extremely good. Anne Hathaway can really turn up the pain when she wants to #Oscarinthebag #unbreakablecode. I did however feel a *bit* sorry for Samantha Barks, whose rainy wailings through the streets of down town Paris paled in comparison to their emotional forerunner. But only a bit sorry...I still remember finding Samantha Barks really irritating on the BBC reality TV show "I'd Do Anything" a few years back. Yeah, Samantha, some of us never forget.

5) Anne Hathaway's emotional journey. She's come a real long way since the Princess Diaries, but I'd wager Julie Andrews taught her everything she knows. Here's a photograph of her singing her wonderful version of I Dreamed a Dream:

6) Lovely lil' cameo from a total legend...and no, I won't spoiler this one. But it really did please me NO END.

Obviously, nothing is perfect (except Eddie Redmayne's totes gorge eyeballs, amaright? (NB, the phrase "totes gorge" just made me sick up my Whispa Gold...)), so here are the very few things I didn't like about the film.

1) Russell Crowe. Okay, okay, he really wasn't as bad as I thought he would be and imo, no one can do Stars the same justice Philip Quast did it. However, he was still less than zero.

2) Hugh Jackman. Yeah, I'm sure you're all like OMMMMMMG, and I can totally admit his acting was fantastic. Jean Valjean, however, he is not. But who else were they going to get to put on their big ol' bus posters?

3) Amanda Seyfried kissing Eddie Redmayne. But whatevz.

Aaaaaaaand that's my review. I give this film 86 hearts full of love out of 47 beggars at the feast.

Countin' Flowers on the Wall

Good evening, this is the news.

Just like everybody else in Britain, I recently went to see the latest James Bond biopic, Skyfall. If you haven't heard of James Bond, he's a very old schizophrenic who is quite good at shooting henchmen, but very bad at shooting masterminds, which isn't very helpful because masterminds are constantly trying to ruin his life. 

His latest personality has manifested itself as a man called Daniel Craig. His blue eyes are sharp enough to piece right through your soul, so be careful when he looks at you. The photograph below illustrates his stunning good looks.

As you may have noted, he has very large shoulders. He is currently engaged in talks with the African government who would like to build schools for blind children there. Daniel Craig will probably say yes because this is the kind of thing James Bond would do as a means of forgiving himself for things that happened in the past that he had no control over.

The film also stars Dame Judi Dench. As everyone knows, Dame Judi Dench, along with Dame Maggie Smith and Dame Julie Andrews, is the best bit of cream offered by a crop of corn when it comes to acting, which means she is out of this world because there is no cream in a crop of corn - at least not on this planet. Here she is being photographed on the red carpet, as usual.

The main plot of the film centres around Daniel Craig trying to find out why Adele wrote a song called Skyfall. I think what Adele meant to write was a song called Piefall, because she is a Londoner and Londoners bloody love pie and mash and jellied eels, NOT because she's fat, which is what you all expected me to say. Tut. 

In the end, we do find out, which makes for a good film. If we didn't find out, there wouldn't be a lot of point to it, would there?

I really enjoyed this film for a number of reasons. You'll find them all out when you go and see it. I give it 9 Michael Caines out of 8 Ray Winstons.