Nineteen (count them, nineteen!) short poems about Shire horses.

1. An uneasy sleep.

Up until recently I’d been
Immune to the sublimity
Of shire horses.
But last night I woke,
In a hot sweat,
Feverish,
Palpitations,
Images of these stately beasts
Imprinted on my brain.

2. Just calm down.

Heavy shouldered
Hoof tuft
Olde worlde hurly burly
Heft load luggers
Proud in tandem harness
Across deep ploughed furrows,
Somber yet somehow humble,
Nothing stirs the heart more
Than the sight of a shire horse
In full flow.

I bent over and I whispered
To Agnes,
Look at their rippling flanks!
Their mesmerising rumps!
And she said,
If you don’t mind I shall
Go and eat my luncheon
Elsewhere.

3. Make a living, the shire horse way.

They work, shire horses.
They work for a living.
They work work work work work.
Trudging and pulling heavy loads
And tugging and pulling and trudging
And pulling and tugging and trudging
And doing paperwork and things
Only with more trudging.
Jeff trained one to make
Sandwiches, rolls, cobs,
Baps, wraps, paninis
Only with more trudging involved
Than the average person whose job it is
To make sandwiches, rolls, cobs,
Baps, wraps, paninis.

4. But what are they really thinking, daddy?

Flared nostrils
As if permanently disgusted,
But they get on with it anyway,
Stoic beasts, the shire horse.

5. Memories of a suburban upbringing.

When I was a kid
Every year the school trip
Used to be to the bloody bleeding
God-arse awful boring
Shire Horse Heritage Centre.
And then I joined the scouts
And we had a trip to the
Shire Horse Heritage Centre.
And then my aunt came over from
Canada
And we went on a day out to the
Shire Horse Heritage Centre
And then a friend had a birthday
And as a treat we went to the
Shire Horse Heritage Centre
And yet when I informed my parents
That if should be called the
Shite Horse Heritage Centre,
Bizarrely,
It was me who was reprimanded.

6. The competition.

Every year the Shire Horse Heritage Centre
Took on the
Cart Horse Heritage Centre
In an impromptu game of curling.
And as the stone granite boulders
Slid along the ice,
They’d say, shire horses are better,
And the opposition would say,
Cart horses are better,
Shire horses
Cart horses
Shire horses
Cart horses
And it was all good natured and fun until
Aaron from accounts
Let off a fire extinguisher yelling
Cart horse Fart Horse!
And Debs from advertising would
Smash a window and yell,
Shire Horse Shite Horse!
And it all descended
Into ugly violence.

7. I’m not immune to failure.

I went to a poetry slam and the poets were brilliant and did poems about family, relations, drug addition, sexual abuse, the history of black culture from slavery to the present day, social issues, homelessness, countering the rise of the political right, immigration, and the trials and tribulations of being a youth in the twenty first century, and then I went up and did a poem about shire horses and I didn’t even get out of the first round.

8. Looming in the office.

My chiropodist had a shire Horse.
At the bottom of each left it had a tuft.
Now it’s dead but you can see it in her office
Because she’s had it stuffed.

9. General dimensions.

They’re taller
Than regular horse.
Shire horses,
Higher horses.

10. A Parisian misadventure.

The French avant gard,
Jean Jacques Coat,
Trained a shire Horse
In the art of mime.

It used to stand still
And not move a muscle
And not say a word.

And Jean Jacques would explain,
Now it’s impersonating a donkey,
Now it’s impersonating a zebra,
Now it’s impersonating a mule,
Now it’s impersonating a regular horse.

11. A general appreciation of shire horses.

You’re not a car
So you don’t get a flat tire,
Horse.
You don’t speak,
So you’d never be called a liar,
Horse.
You’re not in a circus
Performing on a tight wire,
Horse.
You’re not an actor,
So you’ve never worked with
Danny Dyer, horse.
You don’t do laundry,
So you’re not a tumble dryer
Horse.
You’re not near a naked flame
So you’re not on fire,
Horse.
You’re a shire horse.

12. Breeds of heavy working horse.

Shire.
Percheron.
Belgian.
Diligent.
Clydesdale.
Oldenburg.
Cleveland Bay.
Hackney.
Vintage.
Flopper.
Clippity hopper.
Honker.
Clippity honker.
Progressive honker.
Belgian honker.
Devonian crisp.
Beard poker.
Fat stick.
Unspoked clapper.
Subliminal pencil.
Polly.

And where might I purchase any of the above?
Any reputable dealer of cart, shire and working horse.

13. Height.

According to the website
The average shire horse
Is seventeen hands high.
Now I need to find out
The size of the average hand.
The lady in Morrisons said
They mostly sell Large size marigold
Washing up gloves.
But I didn’t have my tape measure.

14. Meanwhile.

Backpack Sam’s the flapjack man
He likes to eat them where he can
He eats them on the bus and gloats,
‘This is how I get my oats’,
Which is also what shire horses eat.

15. Icelandic interlude.

Shape shifting shire horse
Tireless worker beserker.
Norse legend.
Horse legend.

16. Advertisement poem with a very funny last line which will appeal deeply to those in the shire Horse community.

Have you seen those shire horses?
Those shy shire horses?
Those sly shy shire horses?
Those sly shy give it a try
Come and see them before you die
Why oh why not drop on by
And try a shire horse?
Come down to the
Shire Horse Heritage Centre
And you’ll see loads!

17. Repetition of the word ‘shire horses’
(To be performed while pouring custard over ones head)

Shire horses
Shire horses
Shire horses
Shire horses
Shire horses
Shire horses
Shire horses
Shire horses
Shire horses
Shire horses
Shire horses
Shire horses
Shire horses
Shire horses
Shire horses
Shire horses
Shire horses
Shire horses

18. The time of the shire horse is gone.

And in the time of the shire horse there
Would be shire horses aplenty,
And they would work and trudge
And trudge and work
And all that was holy
Could be found in the shire horse
And all that was sacred
Could be found in the shire horse
And all that was good for the garden
Could be found in the shire horse.

And the rustic sun would set
Over rustic rainbows rustic barns and
Rustic hedgerows
And the rustic shire horse
Would keep on working
And wheelbarrows left out in the rain
Would go rustic
And there wasn’t a
Youtuber in sight.

And the annual final of Strictly Come Dancing
Would invariably we won by a shire horse
Because they were so fucking talented
And farmers would lean on gates
And suck on straw and opine
That shire horses were totes amazeballs.

And people just got on with things
Even when their arms dropped off
Or their cowsheds fell down
And the ploughman was king
And nobody ever wondered what
Barn owls were called
Before there were barns.

And there would be
Shire horses in the barns
And shire horses in the cottages
And shire horses in the dairies
And shire horses in the kitchen
And shire horses in the municipal swimming baths
And shire horses
In the shire horse Heritage Centre.

And then some bastard
Invented the tractor
And people said how wonderful tractors were
Because they didn’t
Poo everywhere like shire horses did
And you could see the really sad look
In the shire horses eyes
Because he knew that it was the end.
Such a long face.

And the sun began to set
And everything went pear shaped
And they built the M25
And shire horses weren’t even allowed
In the slow lane
And I took the hand of the man I loved
And I whispered,
Be a shire horse
Just for me
And he went downstairs and just
Stood in the back garden
Looking really sad.

19. Finis.

And I slept
Really well.

Poem

You’ve got a cuckoo in the kitchen
Got a cuckoo at the cooker
You’ve got a cuckoo cooking cookies
Kindly keep some cookies for me
You’ve got a cuckoo cooking cookies
Out of coco going cuckoo
You’ve got a cockney cuckoo cooking
With a cock eyed cookie cutter
You’ve got a cuckoo cookie cooking cuckoo
My god it’s such a coup
That the cockney cuckoo cookie cooker
Is not a cockatoo

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The contents of my 2018 memory jar revealed at last!

So today, being the first day of the year, contained what might be the start of an annual tradition. And no, I don’t mean changing the duvet cover. I do that often, and in fact I have got it down to a fine art. No, this was something much more momentous.

You see, twelve months ago I bought a large glass jar from Poundstretcher, and I decided that every month I would write some positive and uplifting that had happened over the last few weeks, and put it in the jar so that I could empty the contents and read it on the first day of the new year, just to remind me what an amazing year it had been.

So here, for you dear reader, are the contents of my memory jar.

January
Bought a jar and some bits of paper.

February
Remembered that I’d bought a jar and some paper and wrote this on one and put it in the jar.

March
Dusted the jar.

April
Remembered that I had the jar after reading somewhere about buying a jar and filling it with memories, and thinking, gosh, perhaps I’ll go out and buy a jar and do just that, and remembered that I’d already done it.

May
Had some nice soup. Mulligatawny.

June
Thought I’d lost the jar but it turned up more or less where I’d left it.

July
Made some marmalade and almost used the jar to put it in and I stood there for ages in the kitchen thinking, hmm, a jar, I need a jar, and then I looked at the jar and I thought, should I? Should I? But then I remembered that I don’t like marmalade.

August
Got drunk and decided to give the jar a name, and the name I decided to give the jar was Jar Jar Binks.

September
Gary said, the door is ajar! And quick as a flash, using my Lightning Wit, I said, and so is the jar! And he said, what? And I said, what? And then we both just kind of stood there and looked at each other.

October
Still got the jar.

November
Went to a lovely party at Celia’s house and afterwards I thanked Celia for such a nice time no she said, it’s my pleasure, you must come round again some time and we do this all over again, so two hours later I went round and knocked on the door and she was in her dressing gown with a toothbrush sticking out of her mouth and she looked at me and I said, well, you did say, and she just glared at me, looking right mardy. Anyway, it was a nice party.

December
A shaft of early morning low sunshine detracted through the jar and set fire to my Argos catalogue, but luckily I was on hand with a Dr Pepper and managed to quell the conflagration. Decided to throw it away, these things are a death trap, so took the bits of paper out and read them and out them online on my blog.

So there you have it. It’s totally worth doing and you will have at least twenty minutes of fun on New Years Day and then you’ll forget all about it, or else feel really miserable.

Have a great new year!

Snowed in at Sunrise

Snowed in at Sunrise

This past year has all been about a number of projects, the most rewarding one being the writing, development and touring of my first purpose- written solo show, In the Glare of the Neon Yak. There have been many magical moments along the way, particularly the week in October last year where I sat down and wrote the whole thing, and of course, the joy of taking it to new towns and meeting new people. It’s still an ongoing concern, with a couple of projects in development which I’m really excited about.

But for me, the biggest achievement was learning the whole thing. Previous to this last year, I could not even remember a three minute poem, so it seemed hugely ambitious, initially, to decide to memorise a whole hour show.

For a while, this took up all of my time. I would run over lines constantly, whether at the gym, or swimming, or walking, or even doing other things, the script of the show was with me for several months and I would aim to memorise half a page a day.

One weekend I decided to go and stay with my parents at their bungalow in Brixham, and the only project I had to work on was the show. My parents had a large room at the back of their garage which I use as a rehearsal space, and the idea was just to plant myself in there and continue learning and rehearsing the show. However, by the time I arrived, it was very cold indeed and the idea of spending two days in an unheated room during the coldest temperatures for many years in Devon did not appeal.

And then it started snowing. Snow is unusual in certain parts of Devon. I’ve lived here now for over twenty years and had never once seen it snow and settle. And it was an eerie time. I placed my script on the windowsill of my bedroom at my parents house right next to the radiator, and watched the snow falling, great big clumps of it which soon settled and coveted first the lawn, then the road, all within a very short space of time.

And as it snowed, I worked through the script. It was the first time that I felt comfortable with the material, the first time that I’d realised that yes, it was possible to learn the whole thing. And a very strange sense of wellbeing overtook me, the absolute comfort of being warm, safe, and with my parents, and with a project that seemed to be working, and the snow falling outside, this temperate area of palm trees and bungalows now covered in a thick, white blanket, while my parents chatted amiably and the central heating purred.

I had a gig that night at the Teignmouth Poetry Festival, but it soon became apparent that I would not be going. The roads soon became undriveable and as a dull grey sky lowered over the bay, I realised that I would be staying in Brixham for another night. But nothing seemed to matter, I had my script and my solo show and I had warmth and everything felt so weirdly serene.

I’m sure many people have had such magical memories of a very specific time and place, a moment where everything has combined. It was almost comforting to know that even in this modern age, nature can still affect the way we behave and the things that we do. Within a few months, my father was to pass away, and this adds a further dimension to my memory of the weekend, that it would be one of the last times I would spend with him, and the knowledge that I will never again feel the strange sense of wholeness and absolute family comfort from being with my parents in such a situation.

But most of all, I remember it as the weekend when my show became a reality, when it became clear to me that I would be able to fulfil whatever ambitions I had with it, and while it would then go on to tour all over the country, it would be born right at that moment, in a bedroom in a bungalow in Brixham during the Beast from the East.

Juicy

Happy Christmas one and all! If you’re looking for something to watch, here’s my solo show from last year, Juicy.

It was filmed before a packed audience at Torquay’s iconic Blue Walnut CafĂ©, just before I took it to Edinburgh and ended up on BBC Radio Five Live and in the Guardian Newspaper because of it.

It will only be available a few days over the festive period, so have a butchers now before it disappears!

All the best for next year,

Robert

https://youtu.be/xp-mnfrFWM8

A poetry performance risk assessment

Poetry performance risk assessment

Hello, many thanks for allowing me to hold a poetry event on your premesis. Please find below my risk assessment. Just to put your mind at rest, yes, I do have insurance, and this covers every aspect of a poetry performance. I have been performing for ten years and I have never once had to make a claim, though the lady who I hit around the head with the microphone lead that time two years ago did come close. Once we found her glasses, she was somewhat placated, and she says now that the ringing in her ears has subsided.

The way I see it, there really cannot be much that could possibly go wrong. The room will be set up with chairs facing a microphone and it is here that the different poets will stand. We are going to fix the mic lead to the floor with hazard warning tape, because nobody wants a repeat of what happened to that poor waitress at the gig in Barnstaple. There’s still a nasty stain on the wall of the venue where the soup landed. It’s just a shame that the poet on stage at the time was delivering a eulogy for his recently deceased uncle. The moment of silence in between deep, meaningful stanzas, during which the waitress let out a stream of foul obscenities and four letter words, has now become a part of spoken word folklore.

So, as per your instructions, I have pondered on any eventuality which might occur and the risks associated with such.

1- Coma. The blissful or serene nature of our performers may induce audience members into a sleep like state which, under certain circumstances, could mask the onset of a coma. Should an audience member slip into a coma, this might not be realised until a more raucous poet hits the stage. For this reason, long sticks will be employed to prod audience members who show no signs of movement after five minutes.

2- Fainting. One of the risks attendant to poetry nights, particularly those revolving around slam poetry culture, is of excessive gasping from the audience, particularly when faced with such spellbinding poetry and wordplay as to deprive the room of oxygen. Because of this, we will leave the windows open.

3- Fainting (performer). Due to the high energy nature of some slam performers, there is always a risk of fainting due to an inability to slow down and actually breathe. The host will be on stand by at all times with an oxygen cylinder should a performer faint.

4- Injury sustained during a fall. Some of our performers are pretty funny. There is always a risk that audience members will laugh so hard that they fall off their chairs. Due to this, seat belts will be used and audience members will be requested to wear them at all times.

5. A fight. Poetry audience are generally not known for their rowdy behaviour but there is always the possibility that a troublemaker might intervene. Someone, for example, for whom Rhyme scene and syllable counts are more important than the performance of a poem. Who can forget the riot that broke out during Pam Ayres’ last tour? Security guards will be hired at all times to monitor such rowdiness, and poets will be told to make sure that their work conforms to whatever set of strictures they have adopted.

6. Stampede. It is not beyond the realms of possibility that a poetry set or performance is so bad that people will need to extricate themselves from the room as fast as possible. The door to the venue will always be a funnelling point, particularly if the performer is so bad that a hasty removal is the only possible action. The management will therefore insist on trigger warnings not only for content, but also for style and delivery method. Performers who are somewhat flaky in their delivery will be required to announce this in good time. Which brings us to . .

7. Trigger warnings. Lately there has been an overuse of the phrase ‘trigger warnings’ and some poets are issuing trigger warnings for poems about sunflowers and bumble bees, just in case. This has diluted the whole trigger warning system. For this reason, trigger warnings will be issued for every single poem, and if a poem actually warrants a trigger warning, then a hyper trigger warning will be issued. However management understands that just the mention of the phrase ‘trigger warning’ is enough to trigger an audience member, so therefore trigger warnings will also be issued for trigger warnings, with the phrase, ‘just to warn you, I’m about to issue a trigger warning’.

I hope that this risk assessment puts your mind at rest, particularly after the events of last month and the damage sustained to your refrigerator.

An Interview with Shelley Szender

Shelley Szender is a fantastic and funny poet whose work was transcends both comedy and poetry. She has been a regular on the Torbay poetry scene for the last few years and has begun to become known further afield. As well as comedy, she also writes and performs serious pieces of heart and subtlety, pure emotion and beauty. She is also a wonderful person whose company I very much enjoy.

Lately she has been hosting Stanza Extravaganza, using her trademark wit and charm to create a very jovial and happy atmosphere at the Artizan Gallery in Torquay.

The chance to interview her for my website is one that I could not pass up!

How did you first get in to spoken word?

I have always loved Poetry and I use to write as a teenager but would only show my Mum. She suggested I show to my English Teacher but is was the 1980’s and I didn’t want to admit to liking Poetry. Throughout my life I read and wrote poems but it wasn’t until Xmas 2015. I was at my Friends House and I saw you perform with Ian B, Ken B, Ellie D and Lucy Lepchani and I thought they write poetry how I write Poetry. I then went to Poetry Island and was a regular audience member. Then, my friend Sue Cose wrote to you and you wrote me a Poem to go and perform and I did in July 2016 and never looked back. It has been the making of me.

Who are your influences?

I have a number of influences my favourite poems are Rudyard Kipling ‘If’ and Maya Angelou ‘Still I Rise’ I also love Wilfred Owen and Siegfreid Dawson but also John Cooper Clark and Roger Mcgough.

What is your process for writing a new piece?

To write a new piece of Poetry. I can be out running or walking, driving in my car or at work. As soon as I can I write the words down sometimes it becomes a finished piece other times the words sit in a book and then morph into another poem.

Do you have a specific time and place for writing?

I usually write in the evening it helps me relax after work or Sunday morning when the house is lovely and quiet. I am either in my bed or on the sofa.

You’ve done a few poems now based on different parts of Paignton. Where next?

I have another poem about Paignton that needs more work. I have a Poem’s about Cullompton, Bideford, Newton Abbot and a couple on Devon however I do have one brewing about Exeter although it’s at a very embryonic stage.

What does the future have in store for you?

I would love to write as a full time job but I would love to have a try at Presenting. However I am open to offers. I am just waiting for Lady Luck to knock on my door.

An Interview with Jamie Harry Scrutton

Jamie Harry Scrutton is one of my favourite spoken word artists. I first saw him in Manchester at the wonderful Evidently show, where I was co-headlining. Jamie got on stage and performed a poem about Mr Muscle, and it was so utterly unlike anything I’d ever seen. We soon became good friends and I have invited him down to Devon to perform on numerous occasions, where he always wins new friends with audiences with him whimsical musings. Jamie also combines animation with his spoken word, creating a wonderful and very unique mix which has to be experienced.

How did you first get in to spoken word?
I have always had a passion for creative writing but I have never adapted my work in to performance material. I catered my work for publication opposed to physically showcasing them through performance. I have been sending my writing off to various publication outlets since I was twelve years of age. My first submission and first rejection was from The Parragon Publishing House based in London. They responded by letter, reverting me to the book “The Writer and Artists Yearbook” at my local library, where I discovered various other outlets to try and place my work. At the time, I was submitting a Short Story Collection titled “The Complete Short Diary Tales,” which was based on various fictional characters, portraying their life experiences, contained in a diary form. At the age of 15, I fell into Poetry. By the age of 16, I found myself writing rather whimsical verses, which I subsequently began performing at the of 18 and still continue to perform to this day, at the tender age of 29!

When you think of ideas, do you see them initially as poems or animations?
Sometimes, I do write for the purpose of adapting the anecdotes in to Stop Motion Animations but more often, the process is about creating a concept to marry with the character, which would materially be based on observational life.

How long does it take to make an animation?
It depends. I would say between 2-4 weeks. My first Animation which I created titled “MANBUN” took me just over a week to make. The process was consistant 12 hour shifts, delved in to the art of making.

How did you learn the processes to make an animation?
The process came naturally, really. I wanted to create a Short Film which would be different to what I originally would create. I wanted to represent my Fine Art craftmnaship and produce a Film which would visually tell the narrative through a literal fictious character. This is where “MANBUN” rooted from. I filmed a side profile of me narrating the Anecdote and then Sketch by Sketch, I traced over the video to make the Short Film. In the end I must have produced apporximately 900 sketches. I am still learning, adapting and progressing the Art of Animation through to this day. I always birth new processes, in order to be different from my previous Animation.

Who are your influences?
Pam Ayres is definately an influence. I am always inspired by life, pretty much all of the time. Obviously Robert Garnham is a huge inspiration and a very good friend of mine too!

Do you think of the character first, or the story which they tell?
Usually, the story would be the seed and the character would be the plant. I would take a situation from everyday life and then create a character which would then morph the whole narrative of the Anecdote. More often, it could be the other way around.

What does the future have in store for you?
I will be releasing a DVD titled “The Animations of Jamie H Scrutton – Volume One” sometime in January 2019, which contains all 12 Animations of mine. I will be releasing an Animated Music Video I have produced for a brilliant Spoken Word Artist and very good friend of mine named Lence. The Animated Music Video is titled “Heard” and we will be releasing it on the 8th January 2019 at Kino 101, based in London. Another Animation of mine titled “My Husband Has Booked Our Funeral” has been selected to be screened at The Horror On Sea Film Festival on the 13th January 2019, based in Southend On Sea. I am in talks of creating a comedic Music Video for another good friend of mine in the new year. Also, I am planning to take a bit of time out from spring 2019, in order to create new future projects. I am planning to visit Leicester again and refilm three of my student Short Films at the end of 2019 in commemoration of 10 years working in Film. One of the Films will be “Havisham,” where I will be reprising the role of the deluded Miss Havisham. They will be a twist of Animation in all three pieces and the processes I have learned within film over the past decade!