National Poetry Day

It's too early in the morning, really, for a poetry recital, but Mrs Slocombe is insistent and because she is bonkers I am not going to argue with her. Instead, I settle in a chair with a mug of strong tea and some toast and fix my concentration on the podium the chickens have erected in the living room. It's an extravagant podium, swathed in swags of purple satin, with arrangements of gladioli either side. A poster of Mrs Thatcher dressed as Che Guevara in a baseball cap sits ominously on the wall behind.

'We were going to have an outdoor reading,' confides Mrs Pumphrey. 'Only there's fish in the sky which means it might rain. So says Mrs Miggins.'
'Fish in the sky?' I say, wondering if the poetry recital has begun without me noticing.
'You know,' says Mrs Pumphrey, 'Mackerel sky, mackerel sky, sometimes wet, sometimes dry.'
'I see, ' I say, 'a chance of rain? Oh, not again? My washing will not dry. Today, I want the sun to shine, to get my shirts and undies dry.'
'Don't you be breaking the fourth wall,' warns Mrs Miggins. 'You're the audience, so sit still, watch and learn. This is our gig, okay?'
'Okay,' I say, 'I'll sit right here, and hush my chat, you've been quite clear.'
'You're sounding like Rupert Bear,' whispers Mrs Slocombe who is standing, partially hidden behind one of the gladioli arrangements. 'I'd stop now before you get drawn into wearing yellow check trousers.'

'THE FIRST POEM,' announces Mrs Miggins from the podium, 'IS TO BE PERFORMED BY MRS BETTY SLOCOMBE IN THE GREEK STYLE.'
'I don't suppose you could tone down the volume of your sound system, could you?' I say, checking my ears for bleeding.
'I WANTED TO MAKE SURE I HAD EVERYONE'S ATTENTION,' says Mrs Miggins. 'IT'S OFTEN QUITE HARD TO GET PEOPLE TO TAKE NOTICE OF POETRY, YOU KNOW.'
'You have my attention,' I say. 'And most of the rest of Kent.'
'GOOD! MRS BETTY SLOCOMBE!' announces Mrs Miggins and she steps from the podium to make way for the Greek muse.

Mrs Slocombe looks unusually nervous for a mad chicken but that could be because she's holding a balloon, to which are attached various lengths of rubber and, let's face it, balloons can make the bravest of people feel nervous. It's the frisson of anticipation that the thing could go 'BANG! at any moment. The balloon has a face drawn upon it, a face gaping in some kind of death throw.

Mrs Slocombe clears her throat.

'I AM MEDUSA!' she announces, and she pulls her floaty Greek robe up over head so she appears, in effect, decapitated. She then holds the balloon head as far in front of her as her stumpy chicken wings will allow, and gives it a menacing waggle.

'BOKKKKKKK!' she cries, which makes me jump and choke on my toast. 'BOK, BOKKITY, BOK,BOK,BOK. OH HEAD OF SNAKES.....BOKKITY, BOKKITY...IN THE CAVE OF FEAR...BIK,BIK,BIK,BIK,BIK.'

I find myself sitting on the edge of my seat, transfixed by the balloon which is now swaying dangerously close to my face.

'Bok, bik, bok,bik....bik, bok, bik, bok...bok...bok...bo...bo...bo..........k....k....k,' whispers Mrs Slocombe. You can cut the atmosphere with a cliche. Mrs Pumphrey, dressed as Britannia, nudges up on the chair beside me, her armour clunking in time to Mrs Slocombe's incantations.
'Your spear is poking my elbow,' I whisper.
'And?' says Mrs Slocombe.

'Bik, bik, bik, bik, bik, biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiik, bok...............' goes Mrs Slocombe, building the tension even further. Really, this is very good, I think.

And then...

'BANG!' goes the balloon. I shriek, Mrs Pumphrey shrieks, Mrs Slocombe shrieks. The only one who remains calm in the ensuing fracas is Mrs Miggins who is plugged into her i-pod listening to 'Today' on Radio 4.

It takes a couple of hours for my heart to fully stop racing. Mrs Miggins appears at the back door.
'I just wondered,' she says, 'if you could fill in this feed-back form? It's for the Arts Council. Only we'll get a grant for next year's National Poetry Day Recital if we can show that we've had a significant impact on our audience this year.'
I check my pulse. 'How many feathers did Mrs Slocombe lose in shock?' I ask.
'Around 37%,' says Miggins, 'give or take 15% or so.'
'And Mrs Slocombe? Can she still see that apparation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle reading The Hound of the Baskervilles in pink pyjamas?'
Mrs Miggins nods. 'Just about,' she says. 'Although Watson and the violin have all but disappered, which is progress, don't you think?'

I nod. 'I think you've achieved a significant impact on your audience,' I say. 'Give me the form.'

And here is a poem that I wrote during my creative writing course last year. It's about being dead but I've tried to make it as cheerful as possible!

Organic Matters by Me

Hunched in the hearse, on my coffin coughing
From the 'flu that flummoxed my full-fat heart,
Travelling forwards, I'm looking back at the
Trouble and strife, my wife, now widow,
Face blank at the window, my eldest son Fred
And youngest girl, June, who swooped too soon
To pick through the personal scraps of my life.
They're sniffing and snuffling, they're snot-nosed and blubbing.

Before death I said, you must
Bury, not burn me. I can't bear to think
Of the frazzling and frying, of raked embers dying,
A sausage, forgotten, charred black on the grill.

Yet it happened, once dead, I was sent to the parlour
For primping and preening, like Dinky the poodle.
Flat veins injected, formaldehyde flowing,
Dead on the inside, the ouside was glowing,
Prepared for the viewing. What were they thinking?
'Oooooh look at 'is 'air? Oh, don't 'e' look nice?'
That shirt with that tie? I'd much rather die.

Ashes to ashes, to grit and to grain,
I'm a recycle nightmare. Before death I said, you must
Bury, not burn me. Embalm me in earth,
Recycle me fully, compost and mulch me.
(As garden delight, my organic matters.)

But no, did they listen? I'm overdone steak,
No medium rare at this cooking place.
Deflated and sifted, a scaffold dismantled,
Denied me the chance to be food for the worms
I'm sat in a tin, like the ham for the sandwiches
Back at the wake. And the jam in the jar
To add to the cake to sweeten
The life of my waste.