Tuesday, May 13, 2003
Tonight I was at the monthly Poets in the Pub meeting at the Black Lion, a well known spot in Broken Hill (although mainly for its cheap cocktails and the roughness of its clientelle after midnight rather than poetry). It was a good meeting. I met lots of other writers, including some authors visiting from Sydney, and indulged in a round robin poetry sharing feast. Broken Hill has its own Barry Crump, a bush balladeer in the finest tradition by the name of Snake. His poetry was pretty cool.
Unfortunately in the middle of one of my performances my mobile went off - it was the hospital, as I was on call!! I had to quickly duck outside, but luckily it was an advice call only and I was shortly able to get back to my performance, much to the amusement of all. I ended up singing "Ode to the Humble Butt" very loudly, though I'm not sure I got the tune right. I swear I was only drinking Coke.
AN ODE TO THE HUMBLE BUTT
(to the tune of Advance Australia Fair*)
What would we do without our butts
When we are in the bush?
When mudslides slip and boulders flip
I end up on my tush
Far underneath the forest's sway
The noble backside saves the day
Brave, resilient and tough
Thank goodness for my butt
Till journey's end, I will depend
Thank goodness for my butt.
* As a Kiwi, I'm not overly familiar with this tune....so any corrections as to meter and/or extra verses, are much appreciated. Kiwis: count this as alternative (and much more amusing) lyrics to use on those all-too-frequent teethgrinding occasions when the Aussies win......)
So here's something I wrote the other day after being much struck by the sight of a blue eyed, bearded man in a blue Volvo:
Xmas in May, Broken Hill style
Santa drives a sky-blue Volvo
He dropped by hospital today
Blue eyes hiding behind straggly brows
Stained beard bursting out the window
Mrs Claus was in the back
wearing a floral housedress
her day off I suppose
She christened the garden
with a fairy-like wave of her cigarette,
then creaked open the door,
squeezed out, and
handed Santa a crutch
as he got out.
He only had one leg.
BH 8.5.03
Make of it what you will....... I did use poetic licence a bit here.
Another one about Casey, on a more positive note. (I'm slowly getting there).
Monologue?
From under my lids
you ogle me as I undress
I slip hastily under the sheet
no privacy since you died
and climbed into my head.
You jump on the floor of my brain,
stomping out rhythms,
swing from the rafters yoo-hooing.
You quieten
once I point out
that I still have a period of mourning,
reckon it’s OK to cry.
But OK to smile too,
after all, you always found that
my cutest part.
“So you had a half-glass of wine,”
you say, a grin of approval
lighting my dark recesses,
“and you reckon you woke with
a hangover? Ah, I never thought I’d see the day….”
You bastard.
You haven’t changed.
BH, 6.05.03
Piokiwi 2:14 am
/// ///
|
|
|