Gulliver The Poet’s view of his introduction to Mouthy Poets and Say Sumthin 5

3 Jul

One of our new friends came to join us at Say Sumthin 5… Michael, bearded-gentle-giant, our very own Frenchman. He shared his ever evolving Weeping Man workshop (we hope he can return and take us through a day long version some time soon).

As I drove him to the station he asked if he could read me a piece he had written about his experience… here it is for you to see:

I thought I’d lost it,
my mouth emptied out.
I thought it was gone,
my lips a tall dam
keeping in an empty lake of words,
in the mountains, at the end of winter, before the snow melts.

I thought I’d lost it
until I was touched
by talent, skill, warmth and hard work.

I.

It started with a meal,
it always does.
Rice and beans,
curried chicken
hurried boys that do not clear their plates
and fifty odd mouths
going thoroughly through
arm deep pots of words.

If I counted all the grains of rice
I’d thrown down my throat, yesterday,
there would not be enough to tick and clock
all the words I gulped.
Good words too,
words that click.

Words like “the sun is a yellow clock on a blue table cloth”;
young words and old words;
words that are whispered in the ear,
and words that are kept at arm’s length;
heart felt words and words that you find on the floor.

Yesterday was a bit messy,
like all Revolutions are:
people running around without direction,
but running all the same,
until they run out of words to spare.

II.

This morning, I wake up in a house so warm
I called it my home even just for one night.

I look up to a view of white brushed clouds
on a purple sky painted on the ceiling
and splurging out on the walls upholding it.

On my right there is an orange flickering light
with its cable cut out at the base.
(The ones that plumbers and road workers put on the top of their cars to impress their sons.)
 Well, it’s impressing me right now
and it does not do much: it just is.
Hanging on the window sill,
filtering through the Northern Sun,
maybe it’s my own personal sunrise.

This morning, I wake up in a house so warm
I called it my home even just for one night.
You will find fifty odd socks
spread out on every surface.
Random bits and bobs
on the carpeted floors,
cardboard corridors
like forts I made in the woods as a kid,
wobbly walls, doors
coming out of their hinges
for having been open to strangers
too many times.

At first glance, I thought the house was held together with stacks of books,
It turns out the house is held together by Anne.
She is the Queen of the Mess.
No time to hoover, she’s a mother of three
if you don’t count Freddie,
the overexcited bouncy terrier that
I am told pisses everywhere as protest…
and I lost the rest.

You know a dog is loved
when told, in the living room,
the best looking sit is assigned to him.[1]

You know a house is a home
when the nephews and the nieces
come all the way from the top of the hill
down to the house at the bottom of the hill
to talk about poetry.

You know a house is a home
when the heating is on in the middle of June.

III.

I thought I’d lost it,
my mouth emptied out
I thought it was gone,
my lips a tall dam
keeping in an empty lake of words,
in the mountains, at the end of winter, before the snow melts.

I thought I’d lost it
until I was touched
by the searing heater that makes my insides melt.
I wonder what would happen if I opened my mouth.

 


[1] It makes me want to sell all my words
to give my Rosie a mansion and fields around it
so she can stop treating her cat like a dog and get one.

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