Rhyme

rhythm

ODE TO NORTON LINDSAY

Norton Lindsay, four-eyed git

Was a schoolboy and a twit.

With stubborn hair and long thin nose

Dainty shoes and awkward clothes, Crooked teeth and large jug ears, He was the butt of jokes and jeers. Norton, such a funny lad

Had a Mum but not a dad.

She did her very best for him

But never taught him how to swim......

A fateful error for poor Nort,

‘Cus in a heavy downpour caught Got swept away down flooded drain

All washed away by dreadful rain. How appalling, what a shame.

His dear mama must take all blame.

If he’d been fatter, broad of beam And stretched his clothes at every seam

Then through the grid he could not slip

As broad of shoulder and at hip He’d be wedged and stuck in tight Resulting in - no more than fright. The moral of this sorry tale

Eat more grub and drink more ale!

A sorry tale if ever there was one. There is a dark sort of humour in Norton’s story that lend’s itself to Quentin Blake’s illustrations I think. I wrote this little rhyme in November 2008. It came into my head as I was driving to Stratford upon Avon and passed a sign post for Norton Lindsey, immediately I saw this character in my mind made up of the words, they formed around him. I wrote a lot poetry at this time and have pages of them. Two silly ones like this, the other is Morton Baggot, another village close to Stratford. Another signpost. The rhymes/poems arrive, unbidden, into my mind almost completely formed. This still happens, quite often in the wee small hours of the morning. I wake up, in the dark and silence, there is a poem writing itself. There is such an urgency to them, I almost always have to sit up and put them down in my notebook. Kept at the bedside, a green leather moleskin filled with scrawl. There have been many notebooks. My handwriting at 3am is questionable ....sometimes I am stubborn and refuse to do the poem’s bidding. The cost, words circle in my mind like prowling animals waiting for release until dawn breaks. If I do get back to sleep, I wake in the morning with the words on my tongue. They must be outed.

I’ve written something for each of my grandchildren, these are a simple outpouring of love. Usually provoked to life by their birth. It’s hard for me to say out loud how much I love these little souls without sounding saccharine, the poems however, are generated and free my heart to speak without reservation of each child’s stellar significance.

I have a poem for each of my children. There is a very specific beat to these. They come almost from my womb, my deepest birthing place. Each one different, but the same. This rhythm is my own heartbeat, my life I think. I know how to read them, to make sense of them. That’s important. In some ways I feel that my internal workings are entirely governed by rhyme, that my organs all correlate to a particular rhythm that is uniquely and entirely mine. I think this is true for each of us, ‘fearfully and wonderfully made,’ Psalm 139. It’s seen in our walk, our speech pattern, our way of being. I think I’ve always had an internal movement at play, as a child, it worked its way out through my body, my arms and legs danced. That’s still there, certain music means bits of me immediately start to move. The music moves through me, in my bloodstream, the limbs, torso, head follow, they cannot help themselves. This is not to say I’m a fabulous dancer… I’m limitless when I dance. Can be embarrassing for a partner. My bestie has something similar at work. When we were in our late teens we’d go clubbing 4 nights a week and take to the dance floor in our platforms, wide silk trousers and halter necks, lips glossed and we danced. We danced together, we danced with fellas, we danced.... till 3am and closing. Someone would almost always offer us a lift home. The guys were older than us and all had cars. They didn’t molest us, they loved us. They saw us home safe. I’m not sure where we got our energy, up for work the next morning on 3 hours sleep and taking the bus to the office. Today, when we are together, shopping or chatting, she will break into a little humming tune of her own making. Or a few lines of a song... I’m not even sure if she’s aware of doing it. Doesn’t matter where we are, it just empties out into the air. BB, her twin has a similar thing going on. At a wedding, you won’t get her off the dance floor - or him. It’s almost holy.

The movement continues to flow but mainly through words inside, for me. There is less opportunity to go clubbing now. Kitchen disco and a glass of fizz still stirs the frame into action, I dance with my eyes closed. I am somewhere else and the words and rhymes are ever forming.

A while ago I sent some of my work to the poetry society. A prestigious body of poetry experts. This was before rapping and the spoken word had become such a public thing and so popular. I did this to see whether my writing had any substance, could they become a book? The response was crushing... I was advised that I might get work writing sentimental couplets for Clinton cards, but that was the most I could hope for...my work lacked everything required that constitutes good poetry. I put down my pen and for quite a long time, I didn’t write a thing. How easily was my light extinguished. I accepted their judgement.

What fools they are at these inflated institutions, I see that now. What a fool I was to listen instead of believing in my own creative expression. Not because I see myself as Poet Laureate, but because there is room for all types of expressive communication. On Instagram now there are countless young poets posting their work, speaking it out and quite often, it rhymes. People like Lucas Jones, James Mooney to name just two. They’re wonderful. I’m delighted. I’m encouraged. They, too, speak from their heart. To their own beat and rhythm. With their own unique voice and there’s room for all of it.

Listen to your heart, feel it’s beat within your chest, allow it space to speak, to move, to be. Forget the expert, the professional. You have it in spades. Till the next time.

A

Ps. And this... tell me it doesn’t get you moving... https://www.instagram.com/reel/DFOrqirPg8f/?igsh=bTNtZDJidDRzOW84