Dropped The Moon - www.feedaread.com www.amazon.co.uk/.com/etc
Through book readings, talks, workshops and projects - BUSINESS: I aim to encourage effective management skills, better customer service and improved workplace morale - BOOKS: I aim to work with young, creative minds to develop a lifelong love of books, libraries and bookshops, and to have fun with words and rhyme. CONTACT: email@example.com
January jokers February feckless March morons May maniacs June jesters July jerks August asses September simpletons October oafs November nincompoops December dunces Every month we see them But it seems it is the rule That April is the only month To celebrate the fool.
I've been told that I was stung in the face by a wasp When I was a baby in my mother's arms. She was on her way to the shop across the road When the swift assassin struck me unawares. I've been told that I screamed and my mother was frantic, That I developed a slight swelling in the cheek That Germolene or some such magic calmed eventually. But I've had my revenge on hundreds of the little bastards over the years, The stings of the father, you might say, swatted and squashed By tennis racquets, rolled-up magazines, Irish News copies And whatever else came to hand in duels to their deaths. I have been stung many times since the first incident, stings not so easily dealt with by racquets and magazines, stings that didn't even involve the angry evil of wasps, stings from shallow acquaintances and false friends, stings that leave me with thoughts of vengeance, of loose ends.
I used to work in BHS, Oldham Street, Manchester in 1976. This is a fond memory.
He used to say to me: "You're a great man for the poetry, so you are", in that double-cream-thick Irish voice, undamaged by life in Manchester these past thirty years, unpolluted by dropped aitches, truly a man out of Joyce.
He adopted me as his literary soulmate, giving newspaper cuttings folded and folded and folded again, offering me scraps of poems and articles about poetry from his trouser pockets, like sugar lumps to sweeten the brain.
He was a porter, a lift-and-carry man in Bhs, and his big physical bulk disguised an intelligent mind. Some workmates goaded him with Pat and Mick jokes. He shouted them down and stomped away to unwind.
He loathed them but he liked me because of our wavelength, our fm compared to their medium wave, our need to scan the written words, to read the metre, to understand the point. I was a great man for poetry and he was a great man.