Scribbler’s
poetry and writing meeting last Sunday was so funny that I had to leave it a
day or too to calm down before I wrote a report on our latest get together. The
subject that I had suggested for us to put up for discussion was swearing in
poetry. I had brought in because I knew that our newest little scribbler, who
had read her very first poem at the previous meeting, had told me that she had
written another poem but she was not sure if it would be in order for her to
read it because it contained some swearing.
Now
people handle bereavement in different ways and I know that because I was a
volunteer at Cruse for a while in Worthing. My friend Tina had lost her man cruelly and
suddenly, at six months notice, last year. Her partner John was a man who worked
with us, using his small truck within our antiques business sometimes. It seemed to my husband Steve and I that dear
Tina had gone into a classic case of denial for a while, seemingly coping well,
when l in fact she was not. Then later on, became very angry and the anger, was
directed at poor old John for leaving her when she needed him most. He was such I nice guy and real gentleman,
polite and very hard working.
So when
Tina told me of the poem with a bit of swearing in it that she was not sure was acceptable
of not, I thought that it might help to talk about it with friends. Yes,
typical bereavement counselor I know. So in the group email, in which I
announced the next meeting; I put forward as something to talk about; when and
if the odd ‘fuck’ and other expletives were allowable. I chose to present a
poet that I follow on Instagram where I encounter poets from around the globe
and what a variety of styles there are.
This
fellow though, seemed to have layers and levels of shading in his work that was
pleasantly surprising. So I read five of his posts from Instagram that I had
enjoyed or admired to our friendly
circle . Then I had planned later to blow whatever conclusions my group formed
about this poets sometimes light, sometimes deep thoughtful work, right out of
the water by then playing on my phone, this very nice looking man, doing his
day job (or more likely a night job) as a Rap Artist containing the full blast
of swearing that is often heard in this kind of poetry with a beat and a message.
However,
just before our meeting started, I got an email from another poet in our group Rik,
that I know in my other world of swimming and sport. When Rik cannot attend he
sometimes sends an ‘Excuse Me’ poem to me.
What a laugh that was when another member read Rik’s poem out cold,
having not seen it before and that opened the flood gates to dam busting
levels.
Another
swimming running friend of mine who is a respected GP found the forum opening gave
her freedom to clear a little confusion for her. She is a talented linguist and
holds some most individual ideas, she is as green as can be, ridiculously well
read, and can recite the Rime of the Ancient Mariner! She does that while she
runs around the countryside, sometimes barefoot picking up litter. She is also
German and has lived in west Sussex
most of her working life. So what she used the subject was to clarify the use
the words in question. One question was “Which is it worse to call a man; a Prick or a ‘C. U. Next Tuesday”! As
Steve’s Mum used to say when she was alive!
The day’s
finale came when Tina said she would read the poem that she had questioned, and
made to get up to read. Now, I suspect what happened next was partially due to
an attack of nerves, maybe I am wrong. Poor Tina was struck by a powerful
attack of cramp and crumpled down on to all fours in the centre of the floor
between us, clutching the offending Hamstring and Calf muscle. Luckily we have
a GP and a physio therapist in our number and soon three people were crawling
on the floor. One suffering pain and two trying to help.
After a
while the poor woman managed to turn to a sitting position on the floor, took a
deep breath and read her poem that was very well received and I hope maybe a
little therapeutic.
To close
the proceedings, I did play the handsome Rap guy in full bewarey-sweary mode,
but by that time we had heard and seen and said much worse, though the video
was passed around the room and nobody was shocked. We are all over twenty one
and as I often relate, I have spent forty years off and on sitting in the truck
drivers lounge of the cross channel ferry, so with me its not so much that bad
language is new to me but more that I prefer beauty rather than words that
suggest that the singer or the sung-to have some weird relationship (that I am
not happy about) with their mothers. I could not say those words at all. My respiratory system would shut down rather
that supply the air to form those words. I blame my parents and the regular
slap around the head I caught as a child if I fouled the air with as much as an
exclamation of ‘Bum’.
