Wimmin

#poetry

'Yes thanks I'll speak tomorrow' - sorry that was twitter wanting to know if I knew any of these people.

Mission accomplished.

My wittering on about poetry over the past week or so, and reading poems I have found to her, has provoked the missus into writing again. Obviously having internal gonads, the offer to share it with me was accompanied by, 'only if you've got time/have your coffee/if it's not very good etc'. Whereas, I, who was once female, but now have my gonads on the outside demand she miss the high score on Candy Crush when sharing creation.

Speaking of which.

Just You Wait
I’m glad I’m not a woman,
I couldn’t bare the self obsession,
The checking out of other women
To enforce conformity and not catch me out.
That whole desirability thing,
The pecking order.
The letting him beat you up
Because he looks good on your arm,
Or you can’t get anybody else,
Or both,
Or neither,
Or whatever.
Put up or shut up, carry your load,
Gotta beat the body clock,
Cook tea,
Get up three hours before work
In order to leave for work looking like you aren’t wearing make up.
All the hidden signalling.
Having to put up with men.
Not feeling safe on the streets,
Not being safe on the streets,
Or behind the wheel of a car.
And all that baby stuff
What is that all about?
And then the slow emotional strangulation
Of it not understanding you,
Or you it,
And then crying for days
When it goes off to make a mess of it’s life,
Because they won’t listen,
No one does.
Still if you keep looking pretty
And above all smile.

Ok, I understand, that for reasons of gonad placement, I am not allowed to say such things. But in fairness, I haven't. I am just repeating things women have said to me with the odd 'SEXIST' joke thrown in.

I was intending to use it as an example of the poetry of hate, that sermon will have to wait for another day. The piece does contain some of the required elements, it is anti-kitsch and grotesque, Yet lacks the vital ingredient of inviting the reader to revel in their dislike. Instead, it just invites the reader to hate the poem.

Well actually the V-effect is intended to encourage critical thought.

But....

On a similar subject, and as an aside, I am finding the whole business of selling stuff rather interesting.

Well, it's not so much the selling, that is pretty much your standard back-biting and bile that goes with any selling job. What intrigues me is the conversation at the periphery.

For example, 'where you meant to be a writer?' This question started a rather dull but lengthy conversation of the usual e-peening variety, with the implication that secretly they were Robert Redford in All The Presidents Men (the meme of journalism, the noble art, apparently will not die). Me, being Puck, left a witty comment referencing Ed Reardon. Oh, I know, satire is defined as trolling on the interwebz, especially in threads populated with schoolteacher types.

The question is absurd. You may well have fate's bindi, marking you out to reach the summit of the Amazon smut chart but you are still writing for wankers.

Who are you writing for? Is perhaps more relevant. And the answer is often surprising.



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Cue random picture to deck the Facebooks with jolliness....