Too long actually. I should post more.
But I have done more, just not on my blog.
So it is high time to update it, yes?
Well, I am doing it anyway. Bugger what others think.
What I want to say is important to me!
OK, guilty rant over, last night I performed in my very first poetry slam.
I am still reeling from the after affects of https://www.facebook.com/sayowtslam Say Owt Slam #6.
The poets were amazing, my fellow slammers had lots of talent, with the words they wrote and then performed to almost riotous applause.
A heartfelt well done to the winner, Lily Luty and to Stephen Quinlan https://twitter.com/wretchedascrisp who was a worthy runner up. And to the lad I was sat next to but I have failed to remember his name, He decided to show his skills for the first time at a slam! I have great admiration for you mate. Other great poets who's names I do remember were Rose Drew, and Bob Horton, ace performances every one!
I have to give a great big thank you to Monkey Poet, https://www.facebook.com/monkeypoetuk who talked to me over my own performance before I quite recognised who he was, and gave me hope that my attempt was not quite as bad, or my subject matter a bit too ordinary for a slam.
Ok, the fact most of my score were quite solid 8s should have been a clue but it could have been an alcoholic fuelled fluke? No, well I have never been good with honest praise from other people. Call it an adorable character flaw!
I also have to thank Monkey Poet for this!
Thanks also go to Stu Freestone https://twitter.com/stufreestone and Henry Raby https://twitter.com/HenryRabyPoetry for organising a wonderful night, and of course starting Say Owt Slam in York to give poets a chance to do and experience something different with the spoken word.
How long will this feeling of elation stay? I have already gone back to mundaneity, doing the washing, and drinking tea, but every time I think about last night, a grin appears on my face and my chest feels tight. And I can't stop rhyming. This isn't meant to be a rhyme. Just a marvellous thank you for such an amazing time!
No, It wasn't a poem, it was meant to be a sentence, although I imagine there are some out there who could point out why it wouldn't be a sentence either.
This is my blog and I'll write it how I like, thank you!
Well all I have to do now is tell you my poem. It is titled Sleep and was written over a fortnight of bad nights when I couldn't. Did the poem stop me sleeping? or did my sleeplessness inspire the poem? Might as well ask what is consciousness? The answer would be the same.
Sleep
I
am cursed.
As
many are, with that hated four letter word.
Work!
And
sleep,
Although
an enjoyment, an indulgence, nay a requirement
As
I lay me down.
Pillow
seal-soft beneath my work-weary brow,
Body
heavy with lethargic desire
Mouth
a-yawning.
Eyelids
pulled and tugged by insistent gravity
So,
so heavy
Until
the light goes off.
I
sigh,
As
the suddenly endless night stretches to the dawn.
My
mind awake once more.
Tick.
Tick,
Tick
as time ambles forward.
But
I will not look.
I
will not!
I
will not look at my phone
Will
not look to check the time again!
Oh
shit, its 1am.
Tick.
Tick,
Tick
goes my insidious brain
Entwined
with who knows what again.
Sleep,
Oh
sleep, please come.
See,
all my caffeinated blood is gone.
Hear,
the silence is all but complete.
Feel,
the bed is warm and comfortably neat.
It
presses against my legs and chest,
Teasing
me with its gentle touch.
Throat
vibrates with deepening snore
And
yawn.
Yawns
as great as a walrus in majestic lethargy,
Mouth
so wide,
Like
a whale that gulps and strains the sea for sustenance.
So
I do seek for sleep.
But
it does not come for me.
What!
What
was that noise?
Heartbeat
racing, thumping against tightened ribs
Feet
gone cold in breathless fear.
No!
It
is nothing.
I
know its nothing.
Body
heavy, clumsy, slow
But
that ominous creak.
That
door slam in someone else's home.
I
am listening now.
And
sleep is gone.
A
tangled web,
Bejewelled
with frost laden mists of night
Glistening
in the bloated orange dawn.
So
obviously avoided by the fly
Is
sleep, that will not come.
A
poor courtier I
with
no relaxing lullaby
With
which to entice it into my over active mind
When
the hours of darkness arrive.
Yet
finally.
When
alarm screeches incessantly into my ear
And
I crawl from vile bed,
Snoozing
seconds held to my breast so dear
As
I fight for those last moments of rest.
Duvet
tangled around sweaty feet.
Eyes,
hot aching piss-holes in my head.
I
am obliged to drag night heavy limbs through knee-high,
mud-thick
mist,
To
work.
Too
early for the birds.
4
am.
5,
or 6.
Far
to early to cope with shit.
Far
to tired to think of owt but sleep.
But
without this nightly battle, my poem would not be complete!
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
I hope you are enjoying my poetry journey as much as I am.
Thank you for reading.
Joanne xx
