I recently wrote a Haiku (not strictly adhering to the actual rules of course, but that was way too hard) about the 1980's TV show 'Manimal'. Here it is:
MANIMAL
Bones shift like tectonic plates
Skin and sinew cleave, burn and shape
Situation appropriate creature forms. Man.
I know, right? Utter shit. Bu that didn't stop me from writing some more, 'cos I found it amusing to do so, if you must ask why:
AIRWOLF
Body of a Wolf, mind of a Hawk.
Volcano lair.
California sun gleams and flashes, silence.
A-TEAM
Grey, Handsome, Mad and Mohawk.
Vans, plans, planes
The white milk sits, untouched.
KNIGHT RIDER
Hairy chest and stonewashed jeans
Slide onto hot cream leather.
No room in the back.
ONLY FOOLS AND HORSES
Open bars and chandeliers
Loveable rogues and have a few beers
Selling tat, national treasure.
CARRY ON
A wheezing cough, a high pitched giggle, an echo of the past.
Fat ladies indignant, thin ladies cock tease
Gay men attracted, straight men frustrated.
The interweb says that Haiku is for the creation of intimate verse about nature and love, with the verse juxtaposing the truth. So of course, the first thing I wanted to do was write about 1980's television shows - and Only Fools and Horses, which I have always hated, but I wanted something to offset the Americans.
I was inspired by an excellent poem I heard from a friend of mine recently and fancied a go at it. So I started to write another Haiku about how I hated playing football at school, but it morphed into something longer. Of course, I have utterly disregarded iambic pentameter and rhyme, mainly because I am shit at it.
So Here you go, my first ever attempt at poetry. Comments in the usual place:
FOOTBALL AND WAR
Last to be picked as usual, standing alone,
Shivering on a freezing football pitch, just skin and bone.
The shirts team have me sold,
Even though they now have ten players and the skins team 12.
How does everyone else seem so comfortable
in the cold?
The ball rolls past me and I ignore it,
Re-tying my shoelace tightly.
I daren’t run for the ball in case I catch it.
I can’t catch it, because people would see me kicking it.
And I can’t kick it,
Because I can’t remember which way
To play.
I’m totally bricking it.
The whistle blows as the ball rolled 'out', apparently.
I don’t know how they know, the white lines are covered in mud.
This pitch could go on for miles, never ending, or at least
till Orpington.
I’m only here to make up numbers,
Running aimlessly around
my legs muddy like mint matchmakers
My boots two shapeless clumps of brown.
It’s like Kes, but in Kent, and probably warmer.
And Mr Devonish is much nicer than Brian Glover.
Mr. Devonish runs past, whistle in his mouth,
Changing room chatter, heard over the shower.
About Mr ‘Call me Ian’ Devonish.
David Kurtz told Chris Montford
told Victoria Baxter told Luke Bailey that Mr. Devonish
Likes it up the shitter, ‘like Gary Glitter’.
And Luke Bailey told me, adding that I wanted it up the shitter
too.
Not really true.
And ironic, as Luke Bailey is now a gay rights activist
On Twitter.
It’s properly dark now, heavy grey clouds
Hanging over the pitch,
And obscuring the moon.
We’ve still got 20 minutes left, as the school insists
On a proper match-length game.
Seriously, why am I the only one who thinks this can’t end too soon?
Why am I the only one who thinks this is lame?
It’s 7-2, and pitch black.
It’s like playing with ghosts.
The floodlights are crap
And everyone is squelching, muddy, loud, not scary.
I think I’m probably the ghost.
Thank the Lord.
I’m not religious, but the final whistle has blown
And I’ll pray to anything to get me off this pitch.
You’ve got to be kidding me, what’s going on?
Extra time?
What the hell have I done to deserve this – WHAT CRIME?
Nice Rhyme.
I’m numb now.
Shirtless and muddy.
Shivering and, metaphorically at least, bloody.
Another three minutes, and then come the showers,
The final insult, of course, before I walk home.
I don’t really think I’ve got a small penis.
But to listen to the excitement
in the steam and the wet after 90 minutes of torment
it would appear that the general opinion is
I do fall short
of a man’s normal endowment.
Rushing ahead though – still on the pitch,
A thirteen year old
Standing in the mud, motionless, hoping nobody notices him
until the actual, final whistle.
One long blow, dipping in the middle.
I'm muddy enough, and it is dark enough, I might just get away with it.
Until the ball rolls past right past me, coming to a muddy stop.
Right there.
Kick it?
Somewhere?
The shouting and thunderous muddy squelching register in my brain.
Coming towards me.
Quick, kick the ball, again.
That’s twice now.
YES!
The final whistle, cheers and congratulations
to the winning team. Not mine.
8-2 the score, not a bad loss, for a change
Could have been worse,
Could have been 9.
Let’s skip the shower recollection,
It’s a variation of unpleasant
And excruciating.
Back in uniform, trudging home.
a smear of leftover mud on one exposed shin.
My mother is in
She spots the mud and sends me off to the shower,
the second one.
In an hour.
And there you go, if you stayed to the end, then bloody hell - well done!
MANIMAL
Bones shift like tectonic plates
Skin and sinew cleave, burn and shape
Situation appropriate creature forms. Man.
I know, right? Utter shit. Bu that didn't stop me from writing some more, 'cos I found it amusing to do so, if you must ask why:
AIRWOLF
Body of a Wolf, mind of a Hawk.
Volcano lair.
California sun gleams and flashes, silence.
A-TEAM
Grey, Handsome, Mad and Mohawk.
Vans, plans, planes
The white milk sits, untouched.
KNIGHT RIDER
Hairy chest and stonewashed jeans
Slide onto hot cream leather.
No room in the back.
ONLY FOOLS AND HORSES
Open bars and chandeliers
Loveable rogues and have a few beers
Selling tat, national treasure.
CARRY ON
A wheezing cough, a high pitched giggle, an echo of the past.
Fat ladies indignant, thin ladies cock tease
Gay men attracted, straight men frustrated.
The interweb says that Haiku is for the creation of intimate verse about nature and love, with the verse juxtaposing the truth. So of course, the first thing I wanted to do was write about 1980's television shows - and Only Fools and Horses, which I have always hated, but I wanted something to offset the Americans.
I was inspired by an excellent poem I heard from a friend of mine recently and fancied a go at it. So I started to write another Haiku about how I hated playing football at school, but it morphed into something longer. Of course, I have utterly disregarded iambic pentameter and rhyme, mainly because I am shit at it.
So Here you go, my first ever attempt at poetry. Comments in the usual place:
FOOTBALL AND WAR
Last to be picked as usual, standing alone,
Shivering on a freezing football pitch, just skin and bone.
The shirts team have me sold,
Even though they now have ten players and the skins team 12.
How does everyone else seem so comfortable
in the cold?
The ball rolls past me and I ignore it,
Re-tying my shoelace tightly.
I daren’t run for the ball in case I catch it.
I can’t catch it, because people would see me kicking it.
And I can’t kick it,
Because I can’t remember which way
To play.
I’m totally bricking it.
The whistle blows as the ball rolled 'out', apparently.
I don’t know how they know, the white lines are covered in mud.
This pitch could go on for miles, never ending, or at least
till Orpington.
I’m only here to make up numbers,
Running aimlessly around
my legs muddy like mint matchmakers
My boots two shapeless clumps of brown.
It’s like Kes, but in Kent, and probably warmer.
And Mr Devonish is much nicer than Brian Glover.
Mr. Devonish runs past, whistle in his mouth,
Changing room chatter, heard over the shower.
About Mr ‘Call me Ian’ Devonish.
David Kurtz told Chris Montford
told Victoria Baxter told Luke Bailey that Mr. Devonish
Likes it up the shitter, ‘like Gary Glitter’.
And Luke Bailey told me, adding that I wanted it up the shitter
too.
Not really true.
And ironic, as Luke Bailey is now a gay rights activist
On Twitter.
It’s properly dark now, heavy grey clouds
Hanging over the pitch,
And obscuring the moon.
We’ve still got 20 minutes left, as the school insists
On a proper match-length game.
Seriously, why am I the only one who thinks this can’t end too soon?
Why am I the only one who thinks this is lame?
It’s 7-2, and pitch black.
It’s like playing with ghosts.
The floodlights are crap
And everyone is squelching, muddy, loud, not scary.
I think I’m probably the ghost.
Thank the Lord.
I’m not religious, but the final whistle has blown
And I’ll pray to anything to get me off this pitch.
You’ve got to be kidding me, what’s going on?
Extra time?
What the hell have I done to deserve this – WHAT CRIME?
Nice Rhyme.
I’m numb now.
Shirtless and muddy.
Shivering and, metaphorically at least, bloody.
Another three minutes, and then come the showers,
The final insult, of course, before I walk home.
I don’t really think I’ve got a small penis.
But to listen to the excitement
in the steam and the wet after 90 minutes of torment
it would appear that the general opinion is
I do fall short
of a man’s normal endowment.
Rushing ahead though – still on the pitch,
A thirteen year old
Standing in the mud, motionless, hoping nobody notices him
until the actual, final whistle.
One long blow, dipping in the middle.
I'm muddy enough, and it is dark enough, I might just get away with it.
Until the ball rolls past right past me, coming to a muddy stop.
Right there.
Kick it?
Somewhere?
The shouting and thunderous muddy squelching register in my brain.
Coming towards me.
Quick, kick the ball, again.
That’s twice now.
YES!
The final whistle, cheers and congratulations
to the winning team. Not mine.
8-2 the score, not a bad loss, for a change
Could have been worse,
Could have been 9.
Let’s skip the shower recollection,
It’s a variation of unpleasant
And excruciating.
Back in uniform, trudging home.
a smear of leftover mud on one exposed shin.
My mother is in
She spots the mud and sends me off to the shower,
the second one.
In an hour.
And there you go, if you stayed to the end, then bloody hell - well done!
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