The first time I stood at the microphone to share my own poem I was scared to death. At my request I was given an early slot before nerves might get the better of me. I’d spent a couple of days worrying, wishing I hadn’t committed myself, but there I was, in a café full of proper poets with a proper message and a witty way with words. I was the imposter with a few rhymes, persuaded into the spotlight despite my ‘better on page than on stage’ plea. At the time, my comfort zone was ‘Going on a Bear Hunt’ with twenty-five or thereabouts Year 1 infants, all of us doing the actions and having fun. Now I had adults looking at me with anticipation of how I might entertain them. I was amongst friends yet it felt like my appearance was being scrutinised before any words came out. I know I was blushing and my voice, when I found it, lacked my classroom authority. I heard giggles in the right places, which was comforting, and applause at the end. My ‘daft rhyme’ was well received and I was happy to sit down, switch to ‘relax’ and enjoy the rest of the evening. I’ve done it lots of times since and I’m always nervous. As much as I love performance poets I don’t want to be one.
I was so excited to see John Cooper Clarke at the Brewery Arts Centre in Kendal. We had a pizza first in one of the restaurants there before taking our front seats in the theater. Yep, front seats and John Cooper Clarke, what a night!
It was an even more incredible night than I imagined because supporting JCC was a poet I’d never heard of (shame on me) who absolutely blew me away and I’ve followed his work ever since. Mike Garry, check him out, comes from the same place in Manchester as my family. His poetry illustrates places I know, people I’ve heard of and the way they relate to each other. His grandad had a pub on Fairfield Street when my dad had The Star and Garter. Our families might have known each other. Mike’s poetry is very different to JCC’s but they complement each other so well. I don’t know if it’s the Manchester / Salford thing or just Northern but as well as being excellent stand-alone poets, they certainly gel on the same bill. It was great to chat with him at the interval and buy a signed copy of ‘God Is A Manc’. There’s stuff in there that made me cry and still touches me.
John Cooper Clarke, still recovering from pneumonia at the time, kept going and going beyond his finishing time, turning pages of hand-written poetry and delivering words in his trademark pistol-shot speed. Poems I’d known for years came to life with the poet’s own voice, and he was right in front of me.
Here is the first poem of mine I dared to share,
There’s really nothing wrong with you…
The dentist thinks you’re going mental,
Your funny taste is nothing dental
But you can’t convince the GP’s nurse
That all your ailments are getting worse.
She says your temperature’s fine at 37,
Twelve stone is good for 5’11”.
You should be glad that you’re so fit
You horrible, hypochondriac twit.
You don’t need extra Vitamin C
For occasional twinges in your knee
And stop that over-acted limp
You whinging, wailing, wussy wimp.
Bin the smelly cream for sweaty toes,
And menthol spray for your bunged-up nose,
The pots of Vick for respiratory congestion
And the Milk of Magnesia to ease your digestion.
Whizz that strong inhaler for chesty wheeze
And the K Y Jelly for personal ease.
Peculiar feelings in your tum
Means another camera up your bum,
But there’s never anything to find,
It’s not up there, it’s in your mind.
Oh take your special magic pill,
The one that stops you feeling ill.
It’s just a placebo, so let’s pretend
You’re feeling better and on the mend.
Now then, by your own admission
That phantom cancer is in remission
It’s just a headache, not a tumour.
Time you found a sense of humour
And stopped bringing your worries and distress
To the attention of the NHS.
PMW
Thanks for reading, stay safe and keep well. Pam x
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