Bloke abulary

First Impression 2015 Copyright  Steve Garrett 2015

Steve Garrett has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this Work.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from the Author.

Book orders: Steve Garrett culturalconcerns@onetel.com www.stainless-­‐steve.me.uk 07814 770450

To get regular free ‘Tw*oems’ (Twitter poems) follow Steve on @stainlesssteeve

Cover design:  Steve Garrett 2015

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Contents

Left Field

Mountain Man

A Thorn Amidst the Roses

My First Liverpool Kiss

Pornspotters

One

Night Shift

Boxed in

Spring

Hope Sprung

Fireworks

Fruit and Nuts

Winter Sun

Rescue

Win Win

Giving Thanks

Size Matters

Tourists

The Beginning of Funeral Spells ‘Fun’ Man Walk

Role Rehearsals

Man and Boy

Delilah

Seduction

Heart On

Waterfall

Short and Sweet

You Are

Self Service

Lost Words

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5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 28 28 28 29 30 31

Dedicated to men everywhere who are daring to be themselves.

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Left Field

That impossibly high spinning ball, a boot powered upward swoop propelled passionately into the whitening sky, lifts my heart with its impudent disdain for Earth’s selfish wish to draw everything back to her.

Yet despite the application of such skill and concentration, the innate unpredictability of that ovoid shape ensures that, on returning groundwards, it’s the luck of the bounce decides which way the game goes.

Like the chance encounters of sperm and egg which created all our beginnings, life’s true randomness invites us to give up all illusions of control, and accept what comes our way with grace and celebration.

The game of rugby, held so close to our Welsh hearts, teaches us this wisdom well.

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Mountain Man

I needed to climb this mountain.

Big MAN stuff!

(A woman wouldn't understand.)

The challenge, the satisfaction, and the elevated perspective.

Perhaps most of all, to prove to you that I could.

I only wish I hadn’t made it out of such a small mole hill.

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A Thorn Amidst The Roses

I’ve wrapped our golden moments and stored them away to be savoured later on special occasions.

I’ll try to forget them, like I did as a child with the craved Roses chocolates, hidden in my mother’s wardrobe while Christmas crawled so slowly towards me.

When I do revisit those sweet memories of love, I’ll choose my favourites first (firm outside with soft dark centres); postponing the sad moment when all that’s left is the cloying sweetness, of orange crème and Turkish delight.

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My First ‘Liverpool Kiss’

His head burst into my face like a penny banger.

Time froze as stars danced; then burning, and the feared tears to douse it.

I wished for a firmer foundation, but seemingly wasn’t constructed with such close encounters in mind.

I made a vow that day: to rebuild myself with a harder head; steel in my spine, cement in my legs, and to never be kissed by a man again.

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The Wall

We placed the first stones unnoticed, when either of us feared that parts of ourselves might be taken by the other and used against us.

In the early days we could have broken through to peace and reconciliation; but ducking down in self protection, we built a barricade that needed a more determined demolition.

I had the dynamite of desire; it was only lacking the spark of your love to create the necessary explosion.

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One

Last night you said you wished we could become as one.

Simple and sweet, no words of regret, or intentions misconstrued.

No projections or misapprehensions.

But, just as the tree is separate from the ground, and the violin bow distinct from the string; it is only as two that we can dance, and make laugh; reflect each other to each other, and know the joy of connecting, before parting again.

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The Night Shift

You yield to me, soft lips kissing and clutching.

Later, we speak in tongues; spirits mingling, arms intertwingling; your roundness resting in my centre, replete from our labour of love.

Each breast tenderly held; my breath warming your neck.

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Boxed In

I tried to box you in; and make you safe, for me.

At first you accepted; felt loved and protected.

But when the air ran out you said you needed more space.

Breaking out, you invited me to join you in your new found freedom.

I accepted cautiously , but first had to escape my own self-­‐imposed containment.

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Spring

White blossomed cherry trees powder the landscape; soft explosions of spring’s awakening.

Deep in the woods, patient pines wait in line; dignified and tall-­‐standing, bathed in late afternoon light, and echoing birdsong.

When a chainsaw’s banshee shriek tears through the air, a multifluttering of wingbeats signals the birds’ escape to safety as the trees brace themselves, in surrender to the inevitable.

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Hope Sprung

When the springs of our desire began to sag like a mattress which has cushioned one too many nights of love, nothing could bring back their original tumescence.

I welcomed that as an indication of mutual maturation, until one burst through and stabbed me in the arse.

That was one wake up call I did listen to.

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Fireworks

He started a sparkler to light her Golden Rain.

It took a while to catch, (after too long on the shelf, the touch paper needed attention) but his patience paid off, and glittering drops began to spray, slow at first, then wilder and hotter.

Suddenly his rocket went off, bursting into myriad stars with a rapturous bang.

She heard, and felt it, but didn't see; too busy enjoying her own smaller (but longer) display.

He helped keep that going, then just when she thought it was over her roman candle erupted; one stunning colour after another shooting skyward and softly descending.

As that died down, he let off another rocket (smaller this time, but still beautiful).

Then it was over, leaving only that special smell and glowing recollections.

Later they agreed that once a year simply wasn’t enough for such mutual pyrotechnics.

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Fruit and Nuts

My Life has gone pear-­‐shaped.

Completely bananas!

You’re the apple of my eye, but you won’t let me have a date.

Even blew a raspberry when I asked.

I act like I don’t care a fig and it’s peachy as far as I’m concerned.

(No sour grapes for me.)

But it’s driving me completely nuts!

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Winter Sun

When we met my heart was hibernating.

It stirred in your warmth, awakening and resurrected.

A seventh coming (if I’ve counted right); all the sweeter for being so unexpected; like strawberries in winter.

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Rescue

Throw me a love-­‐line.

I’ll climb to you with sinewed intention; throw caution to the winds which blow around your high aerie, and fall at your feet, pulling you to me.

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Win/Win

If you tell me you like me, I’ll feel as pleased as if you’d bought a cruise for two (and want me to come along).

If you tell me you want me, I’ll be made-­‐up; like I’d won the lottery (and can spend it all on you).

If you tell me you love me, I’ll be happy -­‐ for you; as if you’d found some money (and want to put it my way)

If you tell me you admire me, I’ll feel full of myself; like winning big at the casino and hoarding it away to count on lonely nights.

But if you tell me you love me, I’ll worry about you; think you might need counselling.

When you tell me you’re leaving me, I’ll feel as though you’d emptied my bank account, and run away to blow it all savouring sea, sand and sex on some distant shore.

So please don’t send me a postcard.

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Giving Thanks

Though I could give him a good kicking for wounding and confusing you, I also thank the man who lacked the courage to love you.

A ghost hovering in your heart, whose taking flight left an ache which clenches you in self protection.

It is only because of his fear that you are free to unfold with me now.

No doubt there are lion-­‐hearted men somewhere embracing my past loves with a similar sense of gratitude.

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Size Matters

If we think showing everyone we’ve got a bigger one makes us safe; or the upstanding rocket in our collective pocket means we’re men of the world, able to call the shots and attack with abandon in the name of defence; then we have forgotten: size matters and small is beautiful!

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Tourists

He contains and tames the day’s brightest moments, pinning them down digitally for some future show-­‐and-­‐tell; creating false memories of a presentness missed by living through a lense.

She sculpts time’s soft clay into something bird-­‐like; breathes life into it and follows its wild flight.

He strides ahead, a clear destination in mind.

She dawdles to pick flowers and savour the symphony of a river.

He has their shared life mapped out; a sense of how things have to be.

She wants to improvise.

On this, their first and last journey together, common ground eludes them, as does, for now the courage to go their separate ways.

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Funereal

Our love is dead, but not buried.

Propped up in the corner, we talk to it; thinking it might wake up as if from a coma.

Sometimes we cry, in the hope that pity might create a wished for reincarnation.

Or take it to bed with us, in case it might not notice its own passing.

But now our love is starting to stink; long past the time for last rites.

I favour cremation by burning questions; ashes spread from a favoured hilltop while casting our hate to the winds; avoiding the need for flowers or headstone, which would bring the pain of remembering what once, wonderfully, was.

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Man Walk

Some men are content to wander, walking lightly, leaving no trace; entranced by the songs of stream on rock; by dappled sun through gladed trees; wild flowers shining on bright hillsides; and moist moss on soft shadowed stone.

Others are compelled to hold and own; cut down; cut up; drill deep, extract.

Fracking and fucking to force-­‐feed their endless hunger, leaving only desolation.

We will all one day have to weigh up the loss attached to such so-­‐called profit; then kick our costly habits and begin the needed healing

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Role Rehearsals

Handed our parts at birth, we learned our lines well at endless dress rehearsals.

And if the masks ever slipped, there were regular reminders of who to be, and how to be, in this gender unbending performance.

The plot is an old two-­‐hander: goodie and baddie; powerful and powerless; animus and anima.

Each needing the other to play their role.

We applaud their efforts; all of us audience as well as actors.

Numerous props are on hand to help us feel man, or woman, enough.

But if we try to leave the stage, there are guards at every exit threatening pain and punishment; exclusion and isolation; shame and disgrace.

One truth I can tell you about the self appointed arbiters of acceptability who profit from our continued participation; stand firm on the foundation of your own truth, and look them in the eye with pride, and these figments of our collective imagination will crumble to nothing.

25

Man and Boy

All men have a boy hiding inside them, crying for comfort.

Shame keeps him hidden where pain hardens his heart; but drowning out his cries deafens us to other life-­‐borne music.

Only when you’re ready to hold and console him; listen to his whispered fears with acceptance and understanding can his tears heal you, and free you to become the man who was always there waiting inside him.

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Delilah From the desire to exorcise a deep-­‐felt fear of softness, and soothe the pain of our disconnection, we men can lose what we love most.

Envy and pain distort delight into rage and disdain for the beauty and grace we crave to contain.

And we sing out from stadium stands to commemorate the love-­‐crazed killing of Tom’s temptress from Treforest.*

In the present tense and the false safety of our sad isolation, we are dying to forget our need of the women who reared us.

We always hurt the ones we love, and would, it seems, rather kill our Earth Mother than risk remembering we are her children.

*The 1968 Tom Jones hit “Delilah”, which describes the killing of his former lover by a jealous man, became an unofficial anthem for the fans of Wales’ rugby team and until recently was regularly sung by them at matches. In has since been ‘banned’. Tom was born and raised in the Welsh Valley’s former mining town of Treforest.

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Four Haiku

Seduction With you, my cock up has been a conspiracy.

Heart On

Your hands hold tightly, grasping my firm intention to come into your life.

Waterfall Falling in loving.

Sweet joy and pain abound.

Tender surrender.

Short and Sweet

Man comes.

Man-­‐goes.

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You Are:

Cherie to my Tony Diana to my Charles Mary to my Joseph Linda to my Paul Jane to my Tarzan Bonnie to my Clyde Lois to my Superman Ginger to my Fred Winnie to my Nelson Marilyn to my Joe Guinevere to my Lancelot Yoko to my John Maggie to my Dennis Hilary to my Bill Juliet to my Romeo Catherine to my Will Priscilla to my Elvis Brit to my Rod Nancy to my Ronald Angelina to my Brad Josephine to my Napoleon Scarlet to my Rhett Cleopatra to my Anthony Posh to my Becks Sharon to my Ozzie Trudie to my Sting David to my Elton Jerry to my Mick And Liz to my Dick!

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Self Service

To her I was just a service station on the motorway of love; a place to refuel en route to other craved destinations.

My pump could only handle one at a time, so I waited until she was fulfilled, and had left to make room for another.

The next customer stayed; she says it’s because I cleaned her windows and checked her oil without being asked.

But I liked the way she held my nozzle, and served herself.

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Lost Words

To mark the many milestones on our shared journey, I would pull out and polish buried words, inflate them ’til near bursting, and float them to you through a wide open sky.

You used to smile at their shine when they soft-­‐landed by you, but your indifference told me you’d not grasped their true intention.

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Steve Garrett

“Writing poetry is something that helps me respond to, and cope with, all kinds of experiences I’ve been inspired (or p*ssed off) by.

I’m dedicating this collection of ‘poems with attitude’ to male readers -­‐ especially men who maybe haven’t had much interest in poetry before.

None are meant to be taken too seriously’ often I’m trying to share something I’ve learned about life, and about myself, underneath the smiles or tears.

The main thing is…I hope you enjoy them. The best approach to this little book, as with life (and sometimes with love): ‘Suck it and see!’ ”

.

‘I actually laughed out loud on the train! So good.’

Laurie Penny: journalist, author, Contributing Editor at The New Statesman

‘ Fun, sensitive and mostly optimistic these poems reflect on what it means to be a man in our society at this point in time’.

Emily Hinshelwood: poet, playwright, and performer.

£5.00

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