From the Man and the man

Mr Johnson has come up trumps again…

When five becomes four (Michael Jackson’s dead)

I remember where I was
When I heard that Jacko’d died
I was in the same place as Elvis
When he demised
Sitting on the toilet
Tuned to Radio 5


Written by David C Johnson 26th June 2009

Cathie McCarthy came to one of the BBC drop ins yesterday and read a poem out out for the first time ever. She does great monologues, and has been inspired overnight;

The count down began for MJ
The press all excited for work
The fans buying their tickets
MJ is touring the UK
Preparations for   O2 London
I worked hard
Though I know many people didn’t like me
My fans and the good could see
That I was a child inside, trying
No hurt would I bring to another
So why would some bring it to me
So the face looked a little different
The heart and soul still mine
I tried to make a change in this world
I caused my face some harm
I loved with all my heart
Though never had it returned, dearly
Yet I could see my fans wanted me!
I needed to go on and be
The musician, the man, and me
The tour of the divine came first
I am sorry I let you down
Though just know I am always around
In my music, in my sounds
They say I was king of pop
Until the end of time
My fans will keep the memory rocking
And in the divine I will be
Happy, loved and set free
From paparazzi cameras
No longer can they take my life from me
I thank all my fans for their loyalty
Signing out MJ

The press all excited for work

The fans buying their tickets

I worked hard

Though I know many people didn’t like me

My fans and the good could see

That I was a child inside, trying

No hurt would I bring to another

So why would some bring it to me

So the face looked a little different

The heart and soul still mine

I tried to make a change in this world

I caused my face some harm

I loved with all my heart

Though never had it returned, dearly

Yet I could see my fans wanted me!

I needed to go on and be

The musician, the man, and me

The tour of the divine came first

I am sorry I let you down

Though just know I am always around

In my music, in my sounds

They say I was king of pop

Until the end of time

My fans will keep the memory rocking

And in the divine I will be

Happy, loved and set free

From paparazzi cameras

No longer can they take my life from me

I thank all my fans for their loyalty

Signing out MJ

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June 26, 2009. Uncategorized. Leave a comment.

Obituary for a lost soul

OBITUARY FOR A LOST SOUL
Michael Jackson,
Born black,
Died white,
Couldn’t quite,
Place his face,
Lost the race,
He could have been,
Androgenous,
Glam-pop queen,
Casualty,
Celebrity,
Tragic loss –
Identity.
Andy Morley
OBITUARY FOR A LOST SOUL
Michael Jackson,
Born black,
Died white,
Couldn’t quite,
Place his face,
Lost the race,
He could have been,
Androgenous,
Glam-pop queen,
Casualty,
Celebrity,
Tragic loss –
Identity.
Andy Morley

June 26, 2009. Uncategorized. Leave a comment.

Bad news poem

Man of the Age
Fading in his ear, the flatlining of a cardiac monitor,
the last machine that would amplify him.
Racing then slowing,
locked in a rhythm he couldn’t control
while millions of hearts still pump to the beats he set.
He features somewhere in the photo album of most of our lives.
Snapshots of a boy who didn’t predict the man.
Pictures of a man who was slowly chiselling himself away,
light bouncing off reflective costumes as he jerked and flowed,
in our gaze which he needed not to deflect
in case he disappeared altogether. The masks he showed
in case he discovered there was nothing behind them.
He concealed a backslide as a walk forward.
Cameras revealed black glasses, a surgical mask and a white shroud,
covering the reality he didn’t have to accept.
His back catalogue bought
a childhood he could live with his whole body this time around,
a theme park world he only had to think for it to exist;
but when foundations he never had began collapsing,
he bowed under an unrepayable debt.
Man of the Age

Fading in his ear, the beep beep of a cardiac monitor,
the last machine that would amplify him.
Racing then slowing,
locked in a rhythm he couldn’t control
while millions of hearts still pump to the beats he set.
He features somewhere in the photo album of most of our lives.
Snapshots of a boy who didn’t predict the man.
Pictures of a man who was slowly chiselling himself away,
light bouncing off reflective costumes as he jerked and flowed,
in our gaze which he needed not to deflect
in case he disappeared altogether. The masks he showed
in case he discovered there was nothing behind them.
He concealed a backslide as a walk forward.
Cameras revealed black glasses, a surgical mask and a white shroud,
covering the reality he didn’t have to accept.
His back catalogue bought
a childhood he could live with his whole body this time around,
a theme park world he only had to think for it to exist;
but when foundations he never had began collapsing,
he bowed under an unrepayable debt.

June 26, 2009. Tags: . Uncategorized. Leave a comment.

The first Jackson poem as it happens

The man who gave us the awesome thriller

Now rests in peace in an LA chiller.

While he settles down for his final doze.

Doctors announce they saved his nose.

Crispin Fisher

I think a story like this that blends a mythical/archetypal character, and the worst and best of how news and people connect is where news poems can be particularly useful.

Let’s see where we get?

June 26, 2009. Uncategorized. Leave a comment.

In the news warren

Just had a great time at the Warren Youth Centre. I started off with a short set,  then was planning on a little round table workshop, but we ended up with lots of poem writing happening at seats. I think, had this been more planned I’d have made it all over structured, but that thing of just going with what’s there- which was lots of young people up for writing and seeing where it went, made it work. Lots wanted me to read their stuff on the mic. I managed to get some out in full on Radio Humberside on Phil White’s show too. Some snippets…

 

Inspired by the only limerick I could think of as an example, Rob created;

There was a man from Leeds/Who got caught with thousands of Es/after a while he was hugging trees.

Busy Boi was writing about a local Asbo’d lad in that day’s paper;

There is a boy with an asbo,he has to throw things through a window,he gets a smack,while his mates smoke crack, they all whack people in the back.

Sophy said she’d never written before. I loved this and got to read all of it on Phil White’s show;

The bus pulled in the stop,

I was exhausted, had sweat on my top.

Two old women were sat in the front seats.

Rhys glared and sucked on his bottle teeth.

Yet again his pram would have to block the pathway,

this happens nearly everyday.

There were two empty seats on the front row

but the two old women just would not go!

Instead they stared and tutted at me.

I glared right back with a sense of glee.

They hate teenage mothers,

they hate teenage lovers.

One day I’ll be old.

I won’t look down my nose.

I know any age mother

can be as good as any other.

 

Wonderful. 

I negotiated with Danny to change Big Brother is shit/They need to die in a pit, into the more potentially broadcastable Big Brother are faeces/they’re a whole different species.  Chatted to Carl about his cut and paste mags of poetry and pictures. I recognised the problems of creative organisers. Sometimes there’s lots going on, and sometimes no one’s coming to anything or reading. He felt things were going to get busy again though, and it certainly feels to me like Hull’s undergoing a creative renaissance that will draw together it’s rich literary heritage- Marvell and Larkin etc, alongside new spoken word and live lit.  Gosh, that sounded like an Arts Council sentence. Anyhoo, I hope they’ll be able to support all the boundary crossing that looks to be needed.

June 25, 2009. Uncategorized. Leave a comment.

Into the dark

I said they were getting darker today. i love this from Miles Cain.

People have actually dropped in to the poetry drop in at BBC Humberside today. Though most thought they were going to be performed at and then ended up writing a news poems. Lovely ones. We had unexpectedly sympathetic Ann Widdecombe and Margaret Thatcher monologues and the inner thoughts of Hull sporting greats Katie O Brien (tennis) and Phil Brown (footie manager) plus a humanisation of Jordan. Lovely stuff. I’m now heading off to The Warren youth centre and we’ll see what arises from there. I vaguely thought Twitter poems. But Hull floods and the news monologues would also be great. We’ll test the water. (Non flooding).

Double Fault

In Iran they’re crouching near televisions
and twittering for news
of Murray, Federer, sets, rounds.

They’re hoping screens will show
commentators with glasses of cool Pimms
gossiping around backhands.

But at Wimbledon the crowds heads aren’t twitching
to the rhythm of 30-love.
Instead they’re taking bullets

from authorities declining protests.
The All England Tennis Club will
not yield. They’re using tear gas or rackets

to beat the young and the old
who have pushed against freedom to say
‘this is not what we want.’

There’s no chalk dust. No strawberries.
Just fear and blood spreading across centre court
as the new roof closes, pulling a shadow over the crowds.

by Miles Cain

June 25, 2009. Uncategorized. Leave a comment.

Still they flood

Silvis Rivers has created a weird and wonderful video of one of his news poems. Do view;

Pete Being A True Cunt

Tittle-tattle, Twitter tales
Katie Price in Ibiza exhales
June twenty-fourth 2009
Jordan scandal all online

Does anyone care…
…for this media lair?
With her foul-mouthed rant
And its populist slant

Follow her lead
Your heart will not bleed
The entourage, the circus
Complaints by hotel workers

Drunken rampage fuelled by booze
Parasite journalists cannot lose
Photographers hot on the scene
Darling of the press, courted queen

Here she is in holiday shame
Loudmouth stars, they’re all the same
Her entourage are all on duty
They can’t cultivate any beauty

“He left me, not me leave him”
Hopes of subtley very slim
Very plain public faux pas
Stereotyped, stuck in the tar

Juli Watson

I Used to Read about Torture

I knew dates, techniques, the acronyms of paramilitaries.
I rolled up my sleeves, sharpened my pencil
and faced horror in black and white print.
When you believe in change
believe that by knowing you’re helping
you don’t shy away from the details.

As my understanding grew, thickening, layering
like twisted rope (which is also used as an implement)
I saw that it was complicated – state-sponsorship
amnesties, the interests of manufacturers.
But I had faith and studied harder.

Now I turn off the radio, close newspapers.
My thoughts shy away from rape
and whipping the soles of the feet
because what is the point? If I can do nothing
I’ll avert my eyes, buy sparkly things
have bubble baths and learn to live with evil.

by Charlotte Wetton

DOUBLE DUTCH

When Julie Kirkbride shagged Steven Milligan,
She didn’t know he’d get his fill again,
With Amyl Nitrate when she’d gone,
Stuffed in an orange that he’d bite on,
There in a cupboard he’d seek his thrill,
But he was truly dressed to kill,
As his cleaner did declare,
Finding his staring corpse in there,
Dressed in women’s underwear…

Fifteen years later, it’s Julie’s turn,
The wages of sin that she will earn,
Not dead, but only sent away,
Still possessed of her mortal clay,
And several houses too, to boot,
In all, a tidy pile of loot,
That she assembled most dilligently,
A conscientious, astute MP,
Now hung out to dry for all to see…

Andy Morley 25th June 2009

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stephen_Milligan

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/mps-expenses/5400040/MPs-expenses-Julie-Kirkbride-stands-down-over-taxpayers-cash-scandal.html

Roses are red
Violets are blue
the news is crooked
and politicians are too

Helen Krohn

The knives have been out in Formula One.
Mighty Max has nearly gone.
He’s coming to the end of his racing journey
After being shafted by little Bernie.
He’s just holding out for one last Hurrah.
From a whip wielding Nazi in a leather bra.

Crispin Fisher

June 25, 2009. Uncategorized. Leave a comment.

Waving on the 24th June

I realised I didn’t post my own early day poems. Here’s the 5Live one;

Make today’s poem an epic,

or a limerick, like;

There was an MP called John,

Who couldn’t decide which side he was on.

He sat in the middle,

said he wasn’t on the fiddle

and refused to put a wig and tights on.

Or do it imagistically in a Haiku;

Darkness is visible,

blacked out like expenses claims,

Setanta and Jordan’s Peter Andre tattoo.

Or sum up your rhymes

in two lines

Is jail really the worst punishment for a fiddling MP?

They’d probably claim another second home allowance

and be chuffed to live rent free.

Maybe this is the future for 5Live,

can unversical news bulletins possibly survive?

As ever I made my profound inner thoughts on poetry as news into facetiousness. Luckily many other participants didn’t. We all balance I think.

June 24, 2009. Uncategorized. Leave a comment.

Today’s festival blog

Today I had a new home at Radio Humberside.

Truly a poet in residence, I was there from 8am til 5am. Along the way there were poetic moments on 5Live, Radio Humberside’s Lara King show in the morning and Phil White show in the afternoon and Radio Newcastle as well at teatime. Albert and Joe dropped in and there’s the promise of more folk tomorrow. The Hull Daily Mail came and were alot nicer than the non Hull one.  I spent alot of time on the computer, remembered the buzz of radio news where everything had to be delivered NOW, and the world was surrounded by a corona of radio waving excitement.

It’s nice being at a festival in a more involved way than just dropping in to do a gig and then buggering off again. I’m going to see the novelist Clare Allen whose book Poppy Shakespeare I’ve nearly bought a few times because it looks interesting (I will tonight). She’s at the Zest cafe bar where I’m on tomorrow, so it’ll also be handy to see the venue. I think if it wasn’t for having been a radio person previously I might have been a bit worried about doing a gig tomorrow that still doesn’t really exist. No wonder I’m happy to let things happen when they happen. Everything used to change every hour in every day in radio news. I don’t usually think I miss it, but I realised I might a bit today. It became a sedentary life towards the end at Galaxy where I mainly laughed on air and didn’t read press releases because they wouldn’t fit into a minute. But I did real news once and the unfolding poems of today have recreated that sense of a day revealing itself in words, moment by moment.

I’ve loved the poems people have brought and been amazed by many of them. Please read on below.

June 24, 2009. Uncategorized. Leave a comment.

Strange true animal news poems from today.

A THING ABOUT SHOES
At Föhren in West Germany,
Upsetting the fraternity,
Where shoes, when left out overnight
Would often disappear from sight.
The thief, for some considerable time,
Continued to commit this crime.
No one quite knew who was to blame,
The police had no one in the frame.
The constable said they were foxed,
It was somewhat unorthodox.
The suspect, only time would tell
(With obviously no sense of smell.)
Collected shoes at quite a pace,
And seemed to have quite varied taste.
So any size of boot or shoe.
When left outside, then that would do.
Sometimes one, or sometimes a pair,
Were taken from just everywhere!
A forester out felling trees,
Saw something strange among the leaves,
Heaped round the entrance to an earth,
Where a vixen had given birth.
Some 86 odd shoes he found
With little teeth marks all around.
The laces, mostly were removed,
By who or what, he’d have to prove.
A local Count displayed the shoes
For townsfolk, where they could peruse.
The owners were all quickly found,
Their shoes were returned safe and sound.
The Count suggested locals might
Just bring their shoes in every night.
That may reduce the nightly loss.
Then he named the thief, a vixen, one Imelda Marcos!
A THING ABOUT SHOES
At Föhren in West Germany,
Upsetting the fraternity,
Where shoes, when left out overnight
Would often disappear from sight.
The thief, for some considerable time,
Continued to commit this crime.
No one quite knew who was to blame,
The police had no one in the frame.
The constable said they were foxed,
It was somewhat unorthodox.
The suspect, only time would tell
(With obviously no sense of smell.)
Collected shoes at quite a pace,
And seemed to have quite varied taste.
So any size of boot or shoe.
When left outside, then that would do.
Sometimes one, or sometimes a pair,
Were taken from just everywhere!
A forester out felling trees,
Saw something strange among the leaves,
Heaped round the entrance to an earth,
Where a vixen had given birth.
Some 86 odd shoes he found
With little teeth marks all around.
The laces, mostly were removed,
By who or what, he’d have to prove.
A local Count displayed the shoes
For townsfolk, where they could peruse.
The owners were all quickly found,
Their shoes were returned safe and sound.
The Count suggested locals might
Just bring their shoes in every night.
That may reduce the nightly loss.
Then he named the thief, a vixen, one Imelda Marcos!

Hazel Bowden

Dare you even consider
the sick-twistedness
as he chose his target and took aim?
the shocked, searing pain
as the crossbow bolt ripped
through the trusting cat’s chest?
she was missing for eight days.
by the time she reached home,
skin had started to grow over the shaft —
one less life to spare.
if the culprit is found
will the punishment fit the crime?
more likely a slap on the wrists,
because the law doesn’t accept
that people are animals, too.


copyright (c) 2009 betsy content bogert

June 24, 2009. Uncategorized. Leave a comment.

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