A Whole mess of Poems

Instability

When I was younger I always used to think
The daleks were particularly scary,
Especially when they patched up the chink
In their armour, and made the Doctor wary.
When you realise the enemy at the gate
Has a tank which can defy the laws
Of physics, float over your guns; levitate
It's a state which makes any sane man pause.

No longer are automata victims of the high-rise,
One push or a dodge and they share the fate of grandma
In her wheelchair, the very same look in their eyes
As a foot slips on a step and the roar turns into a stammer
Then the squeal of a pig like ED-209,
Stuck on its back and no longer roaring like a Jaguar.

Nowadays we introduce a little instability:
Enter ASIMO with an AK like, "hey, remember me?
I used to be the golden boy in modern robotology
But climbing stairs is not a trick when every other robot leaps
Tall buildings in a single bound like Superman,
Or can fall apart and pull itself back into shape again."

Of course, in that case I guess we'd just flip a switch,
I bet Honda's star child can't stand up to a big magnet.
And he doesn't climb stairs all that quickly, we could make a getaway
By shoving a dresser in front of the nearest doorway.

But that won't work in fifty years, when the next big leap comes:
Already we've got scientists teaching robots how to jump. 

How to Make a Poet

Step 1: take a human,

Young, new, a blank slate,

And stuff them

With:

Words

Letters

Beauty

Light

Happiness

Hope

And the knowledge that they can be what they want to be.

Step 2: mix with other humans. Allow a few years to mingle, make friends, gain LIFE EXPERIENCE. Let them learn that words are power, that emotion is beautiful, that happiness is everywhere.

Note: at around the fourteen-year mark, you may see a rise in poetry and the emergence of dark clothes and a pale complexion. THIS IS NOT THE FINISHED PRODUCT. Skim the surface to get rid of terrible poetry, add more hope and stew for another few years.

Step 3: now put your poet in another place with other humans, and say:

YOU ARE DIFFERENT

YOU ARE WRONG

IF YOU ARE NOT LIKE THEM YOU WILL NOT SUCCEED IN LIFE

YOU WILL NOT BE RICH

YOU WILL NOT HAVE A HIGH-PAYING JOB

YOU WILL NOT BE ACCEPTED

YOU WILL NOT BE SUCCESSFUL

Step 4: wait for your poet to stand up, and say "No. I'll be happy." Set aside to cool for a few years.

Note: sometimes your poet will instead bow their head and conform. If this happens, clear it away and start again, adding more hope and happiness.

Step 5: pack with inspiration, other poets, hardships, beauty, truth, injustice and wonder. Allow a few years to set. Store in a cool, dark place, away from distractions but taking out occasionally to brush with societal injustice and the beauty of life.

A well made poet will keep for generations.

Disappointment

I'm sorry, mum and dad,

That I didn't disappoint you;

That I became exactly what you wanted.

I'm sorry I became rich, found success,

Taught the world it's better to impress

Through words and actions than through war;

Or that I helped people in need, saved lives

In developing countries, or found a cure for HIV;

Or that I stood up for the little man

Against the big business's hand, pro bono

My Latin attacking the rich shark prosecution,

Persona non grata in this courtroom execution.

I'm sorry I sang for my supper on the cold city streets,

Scrappy guitar in my hands and a pick between my teeth

As I finger a few strings which hum in and out of tune,

As I smile, exchange pleasantries with busy suits

And explain that, thanks, but a three-album contract

Isn't exactly my goal, but I know some people, keep in contact.

I'm sorry I shivered in my sleeping bag

And fished off the banks of the urban river,

Canal basin fish taste terrible but it's better

Than trying to hitch to somewhere it's wetter

Like the coast or the Lake District, because I know

I can catch fish here, but I can't fish on the road.

I'm sorry, mum and dad,

That I listened so intently.

You said with focus I could be anything,

That the world was my oyster, I was amazing,

And I was amazed, so I focused like you

Said, and that's when EVERYTHING hove into view.

When you said I could do what I want I took it to heart,

But I ran into a problem just deciding where to start.

So I'm sorry, mum and dad,

That I didn't disappoint you.

I found fame a wealth, poverty and cold,

I did everything that I could do.

I started as a rich man, made shrewd investments

Before I found God, traded it all in for vestments.

Then I became Buddhist for a bit,

Meditated on what it would be like to be a poet.

Then I picked up a guitar and became a street musician,

You'd be surprised how quick you can go from there to royal physician.

I packed my bags when I was tired of worrying over the Queen's every cough;

To tell the truth, I was bored of work, I'd had enough.

So I became a tramp and slept in my own litter

Before doing construction work, and getting much fitter.

I soon realised I had a yearning for open roads

So I packed up, headed out, stopped lifting heavy loads.

I fished on a trawler out on the icy seas,

For a time was down in Suffolk, keeping bees.

I learned the selling trade each week in market towns

And talked to competitive rappers to improve my beatbox put-downs.

I started marriage counselling, like the love guru or Hitch,

But that didn't work out, so I ghost-wrote for Critchton.

I played jazz trumpet for Ella Fitzgerald, she invited me to tea once;

For a few weeks I worked in the Swiss Alps, designing ski jumps.

Hovis and Warburtons employed me to make the perfect bap,

And I spent most of my free time patenting a better mousetrap.

So I'm sorry, but don't worry because I'm having fun, and I'm not sad;

I'm just sorry not to disappoint you, mum and dad. 

Deal with the Devil

I was walking through town one day

When a stranger in strange garbs grabbed my hand

His mouth was twisted in a smile which held me in a supernatural sway,

And his eyes were like no other eyes I've seen in all this land.

"Hey mate," he said, "I'm Lucifer, pleased to

Make your acquaintance. I am, as you may know,

A denizen of the underworld, an angel who ceased to

Be one. So now I peddle my wares to those who want their influence to grow.

So," he continued, and I saw the gleam in his eyes,

"What's it to be? I can give you anything you desire in your heart."

I thought about my dreams, perhaps to be infinitely wise,

Although wiping that stupid smile off his face would be a start.

I thought about my busy workaday life,

Never able to give an individual the time of day,

All of my bosses and colleagues causing me strife,

But what was there that I could do to have my way?

So I said to the Devil, "I would like the power

To stop time for just five minutes every day.

I don't need an age to relax, not even an hour,

Just five minutes to relax, let the world slip away.

Time to gather my thoughts in the week, take in life's beauties,

Stop and smell the roses on my way to work,

Time to plan some time away from my duties

Or calm myself when someone's being a jerk.

I've seen people in the customer service queue

Gasping for their next cigarette.

Well, I guess you could say I'm on my last gasp too,

I just need my five minute mood reset."

I grabbed the Devil by the lapels

And practically sobbed into his jacket,

"Please, Devil, work your spells!

Another day without rest, I can't hack it!"

The Devil took my hands from his chest

And gave a little devilish laugh.

"Sorry pal, no can do," he said. "No jest,

This Deviling's a full time job, if I could do that I'd have used it from the start."

And with that he disappeared into the crowd

Facing me all the while.

The last thing I saw as people swarmed around

Was that stupid, self-satisfied smile. 

Sunny Sunday in Ironbridge Text only

Sunny Sunday In Ironbridge

Standing on the pinnacle of the Bridge and gazing up stream, the raging torrent flowing below, the ancient woods to the left and the town to the right encompasses Ironbridge for me.

The story for day starts at the tea emporium, where a hearty breakfast can be purchased and a mind boggling selection of tea is on offer. Sipping my brew I plan out my route, the two options a) a walk over the bridge, into the woods and up the woodland staircase with lunch at the Tontine hotel or b) walk down past the shops taking a right at the museum of the gorge passing by the quaint houses and going for lunch at Cherries Cafe. I choose option a, today the river has grown to a monstrous size and carelessly flowed over the banks. The bright February sun soaks into my cold skin and I stride confidently across the famous Ironbridge, the first one ever constructed, away from the tourists. A path cuts off to the right, upstream, through the dense foliage parallel the river. This deceptively traversable path leads to the power plant towers, which I personally greatly admire both for their size and distinct reddish hue.Once at the towers, I double back taking a left up a steep path up to the bottom of the steps. Looking down at Ironbridge, the town framed by the surrounding forest, looks like a giant sprinkled a collection of toy houses up one side of the gorge.

On the come down, descending a multitude of steps I find myself gaining momentum like a child being chased. The steps decrease in intervals. For the grand finale I jump two feet first off the last step and fly a short low flight into the mud and onto my arse. Appropriate footwear is highly recommended in winter months. Unfortunately I do not heed my own advice.

Muddy, bruised and tired I return like a soldier from war across the bridge. Looking up salvation awaits.I walk into the pub and spend £10 on a pint and a carvery. Sitting down my drink and taking my golden ticket to Nick(the pub owner and runs the carvery) who serves in a easy manner in a mild regional accent.The carvery is in one word epic. My only advice is get to lunch early, before 13:00.

After eating there are two choices available again a) walk down to the museum of the gorge b) Peruse the variety of shops on the main high street. I chose option b this time. I particularly like the Garden shop, the ‘The gift Emporium’ and the bookshop at the back of the ‘charity’ shop. Shopping in Ironbridge is good but limited to gifts and souvenirs.

Other interesting activities on offer are Canoeing on the Severn River and the old book shop is worth a visit, although in my opinion is slightly overpriced. A great place to eat at or just have a cup of tea is ‘Eighty Six’d’, I have been there on numerous occasions and thoroughly enjoyed the food and drink, the cafe has a great sense of vibrancy and authenticity. Eighty Six’d is an independent cafe run by two young women, the cafe is on the second floor of the building opposite the estate agents on the roundabout above the main high street.

My day of eating, walking and shopping ends back on the top of the Bridge looking upstream.

How to get to Ironbridge

By Public Transport

Travelling from West of Ironbridge

Trains run hourly from Shrewsbury to Telford.

Traveling from East of Ironbridge

Trains run from Birmingham New Street station to Telford Station hourly.

From Telford

Go to the bus station, which is a 20 minute walk away, then catch the 96,77,88 or 88a to Ironbridge. The buses are infrequent and take a convoluted route. Otherwise taxis are on offer from the station, although this could set you back at least £15. The final option is to take a bike with you and cycle, this takes only half an hour and is a scenic route passing through Telford Town park, check the cycle route on google maps(Telford to Ironbridge to see).

By Car

It is easiest to drive towards Wolverhampton and then take M54 towards Telford, then take the A442 to Madeley. From Madeley follow the signs to Ironbridge, A4169 turn left onto the B4373 following the road to Ironbridge.

Travel Article: Jiu Jitsu

Bodies Hit the Floor: A Look at the Randori Nationals

By Tim Dubbelman

Jiu Jitsu is all about control. It's about getting out of fights. It's about grace, balance, flow. And then sometimes, Jiu Jitsu is about pushing people over and lying on their stomachs. It’s Valentine’s weekend I am at the Randori Nationals at Northampton's Benham Sports Centre, a proving ground for over 40 Jiu Jitsu clubs around the United Kingdom.

[The Randori competitions are a series of fights, split into three groups. The first group, gatamae-waza, concerns groundwork, two competitors fighting from kneeling on the ground. The aim is to push your opponent to the mat and pin them so they are unable to escape; if you pin them for twenty seconds you score an “ippon” which wins the match.

The second group is the nage-waza competition, a high-energy fight for green belts and above. The two competitors fight from standing and the aim is to throw each other to the ground; two properly-executed throws win the bout. Since your opponent is trying to do the same to you, however, it's more difficult than it sounds.

The third group is the open competition, which starts similar to nage-waza but involves groundwork once one fighter is thrown to the mat. If a throw is not properly executed but still floors an opponent the aim becomes to pin them.]

I am there with the rest of my club, Coventry University Jitsu Society: another novice, two yellow belts, two green belts and a light blue. When we get there it’s like some strange nature documentary, the rhythmic pounding of hundreds of feet on the mats akin to a stampede of buffalo. The sensei stands in the middle barking orders. “Change direction!” he yells; the response ripples out from the middle as everyone turns around to run anti-clockwise. “Faster!” he orders; everyone pounds their feet a little harder, finding a burst of speed from somewhere. We’re a little late, so we join in and hoped nobody notices our sudden appearance.

When the warm-up is done we’re split into our grades – standing at one end of the mat, the white belts, and at the other end the browns and blacks; in between, a rainbow of colours from yellow through to blue. Two senseis command the novices, telling us to gather round before sorting us into lines to practise breakfalls. Breakfalls and wrist locks – it’s like starting all over again, and that’s not a bad thing. It’s been a while since I last had to put on a wrist lock; the practise does me good, and the technique comes flooding back into my memory. After half an hour of basic Jitsu techniques we gather around another sensei, everyone this time, to learn some groundwork techniques. The first thing we learn is Mune-gatame, a simple pin which, done well, can be incredibly difficult to escape from. We partner up and practise the technique before moving onto Kesa-gatame. After practising these mat holds we break for lunch. The green belts and above stay on the mat, learning their techniques for the nage-waza competition.

When we get back it’s time for the first round of the competition. We are sorted into our groups and the matches begin.

For me, the competition is over quickly. I’m taken out in the first round, struggling underneath the weight of Kostas, a white belt from Essex University who’s far stronger than me. After twenty seconds the match is over, and I’m out of the competition. In contrast, Adam – the other white belt from Coventry – fares much better, powering through his first round before he, too, is taken out by Kostas. “At least he put up a fight,” I think.

Cut to the next day. Everyone is a little hungover, thanks to a night out after Saturday’s competition organised by the Jitsu Foundation. We’re late, as usual; it took a while to check out of the hotel, thanks to the crowd of jitsu clubs in the lobby. But we get there and we warm up again, and then we settle in for the finals.

A lot of the bronze fights go pretty quickly. Usually one person pins the other right from the start and they can’t get out, or in the case of the higher grades they get in an armbar and the opponent taps. As for the gold medal fights, they are harsh brawls in comparison to the relative speed of the bronze bouts. The fighters lock horns and grab at arms, legs, whatever they can reach in an effort to throw each other to the floor. By the time they finish, both winner and runner-up are exhausted.

But it is the novice finals which are the most impressive. These are the longest by far, the white belts showing more skill in their final fights than they have done at any point before. They tussle and twist, and roll around on the mat as they try to get the upper hand; more than one bout is halted as they roll out of the ring. Finally, it gets to Kostas, and we’re rooting for him. If he beat us, I reason, he might as well take the gold. And after a few minutes of struggling, he pins his opponent and ends the match. Exhausted and ecstatic, all the white belt finalists line up to collect their medals. Kostas is unable to hide his delight, grinning from ear to ear as the gold medal is slipped onto his neck. I congratulate him afterwards, and we leave as friends. As I join up with the rest of my club and we stuff ourselves back into our two small cars for the journey home, I’m already thinking of the next competition, and the next chance to win gold myself.

Prose: describing a place

My prose piece, updated. I made a couple of minor changes, but I'm not entirely happy that I didn't get around to describing the tastes.

To the south of the West Orchard shopping centre in Coventry, sitting in the shadow of two vast concrete tower blocks which rise above everything else, is the quiet street of Market Way. It's out of the way of the big shopping centres, away from the bustling market and the lines of High Street stores – indeed, there are very few stores there besides a Poundland on one side and a titanic BHS on the other. In between these two retail giants there are silvery metal tables and chairs dotted around, gathering in pools like gossipy hens, because this is the place where the street vendors park their carts and ply their trade for the day.

As you approach from the north, where Waterstone's and Marks and Spencer do a roaring trade, you can see the quiet street, forest green wagons arranged on either side like a caravan stopping for the night. Progressing down the street tickles your nose with ever-changing scents: the sweet scent of slightly-undercooked, sugared batter from the donut cart; down to the warming, meaty smell of pork from the aptly-named Pork of the Town; quickly after that the strong smell of the German bratwurst cart's massive central charcoal fire, always a pleasure to stand by, sausage-in-a-bun in hand, as the cold days close in; following on once the strong charcoal scent leaves your sinuses, the falafel cart at the end bringing a touch of spice to the area, complemented by the freshness of the hummus and the smell of the herbs and spices used for their herbal teas.

Even at lunchtime the queues never rise above three or four people, outnumbered by the pigeons which mill around as aimlessly as the leaves on the ground and peck at pieces of dropped bread and biscuits. Compared to the surrounding streets and squares, Market Way is an oasis of calm, the sound of chattering shoppers in the distance blending with the blowing wind which hits you like a slap in the face, and the rustling of the trees and their bright green leaves, the only things in the street which are tall enough to catch the light which occasionally breaches the street through the gap between the tower blocks and the low roofs of the shops on either side.

Prose draft: describing a location

My first try at describing a place I've visited. What do you guys think? Comments/critiques?

"To the south of the West Orchard shopping centre in Coventry, sitting in the shadow of two vast concrete tower blocks which rise above everything else, is the quiet street of Market Way. It's out of the way of the big shopping centres, away from the bustling market and the lines of High Street stores – indeed, there are very few stores there besides a Poundland on one side and a titanic BHS on the other. In between these two retail giants there are silvery metal tables and chairs dotted around, gathering in pools like gossipy hens, because this is the place where the street vendors park their carts and ply their trade for the day.

As you approach from the north, where Waterstone's and Marks and Spencer do a roaring trade, you can see the quiet street, forest green wagons arranged on either side like a caravan stopping for the night. Progressing down the street tickles your nose with ever-changing scents: the sweet scent of slightly-undercooked, sugared batter from the donut cart; down to the warming, meaty smell of pork from the aptly-named Pork of the Town; quickly after that the strong smell of the German bratwurst cart's massive central charcoal fire, always a pleasure to stand by, sausage-in-a-bun in hand, as the cold days close in; following on once the strong charcoal scent leaves your sinuses, the falafel cart at the end bringing a touch of spice to the area, complemented by the freshness of the hummus and the smell of the herbs and spices used for their herbal teas.

Even at lunchtime the queues never rise above three or four people, outnumbered by the pigeons which mill around as aimlessly as the leaves on the ground and peck at pieces of dropped bread and biscuits. Compared to the surrounding streets and squares, Market Way is an oasis of calm, the sound of chattering shoppers in the distance blending with the blowing wind which hits you like a slap in the face, and the rustling of the trees and their bright green leaves, the only things in the street which are tall enough to catch the light which occasionally breaches the street through the gap between the tower blocks and the low roof of Poundland."

3 poems for CW1

Poem 1. Star Sapphire

To stand hidden amongst giants,

superfluous to requirement.

Days gone by, mysterious clients,

a measured, dignified retirement. 

Strong in stature, muscled shoulders.

Every curve defined, and streamlined.

A youthful glint that smolders,

hidden away, caged, confined.

Underneath an angry tension,

bringing forth a vicious roar.

A rumbling sound ascension,

a youthful image to restore.

A gentler side, peaceful, graceful.

With dolphin like speed and stealth.

Cruising in motion ever faithful.

An example of hoarded wealth.

Devoid of emotion,

echoes from the ocean,

elegant in motion,

Star Sapphire.

Poem 2. Does a Tiger Have a Stripy Bum?

Does a Tiger have a stripy Bum?

I wonder, who I should ask?

Is the blob fish always glum?

Or does he wear a mask?

"What silly questions" says my mum

“Lets ask them round for tea,

then you can question them, instead of me!”

Poem 3. Samarra

Escape your shackles.

Ride away to you own fate.

False sanctuary

Does a Tiger Have a Stripy Bum?

Does a Tiger have a stripy Bum?
I wonder, who I should ask.
Is the blobfish always glum?
Or does he wear a mask?
"What silly questions" says my mum
Lets ask them round for tea.
Then you can question them, instead of me.