TFE's writing prompts are always so fruitful. I would say that the poems I've written to his prompts have been some of the best I've done in the last 6 months. Also he's such a good nudger...I think I've been wanting to write the poem below for ages, for example, but I only got round to it this week thanks to his latest idea.
This week TFE has Nuala Ní Chonchúir and her book 'Portrait of the Artist with a Red Car' at his blog (she was here last Friday or so, remember) and so he's asked us all to try and write something to the 'red car' theme. It's not something I would have thought of doing myself (cars have been a real problem to me in the last 10 years) but OK...he says 'do'...so I do. (Though it was only after writing the poem that I reread TFE's post and realised that the task was "have the words 'red car' in it"...mine only has 'red' and not 'car' but I can't change it now...and anyway what's a little rule-bending between friends?).
Luckily I had a red car once...back in the mid 1990s (back in the days when I drove regularly and with pleasure). Here's a tiny picture of one just like it (and yes, mine was that dirty too):
It was a Volvo 340, quite middle-of-the-road and staid and that was weird because this was during one of the very non-staid phases of my adult life (much clubbing, much madness, very little sleep). My DJ partner and I (for visuals of us back then see here and nip down a bit) used to turn up at the trendiest places in this very untrendy car and god knows what other people thought of us for it. I suppose in retrospect it was some kind of anti-fashion statement but I didn't really think about it at the time. It was just a car. It was cheap. We were never stopped by the police in it (though the fashion police...well...).
Anyway, here's the poem. There are several references in it that you won't get if you weren't around that particular clubscene at the time (Vague at the Leeds Warehouse) and really I suppose there are some references that only Daisy & Havoc will understand (that was me and her). It was a funny old time – wild and free...in so many ways. The club was run by eejits with overblown senses of their own importance of course...but then what nightclub isn't? You can't have everything.
This poem's for Georgia.
Here come the girls (DJ memory mix)
It's the coolest club in town And we arrive hot And safe Cushioned in red volvo OAP sofas for seats
We slam the old boot down Stride past the panting queue And drop those metal boxes BANG To the cobbles with attitude
p.s. I would have posted a pic of my old record box at the top (covered in stickers and all that of course) but I can't find it to photograph. I think it may be buried in the garage somewhere (apt I suppose).
Originally from the north of England, I live in Angus, Scotland where I walk a lot, think a lot, listen to lots of music, sometimes write poems, sometimes read poems out to other people, sometimes write songs, read all kinds of odd things, watch a bit...oh and I look after my family too.
I sometimes organise poetry and music events - details are usually here (though nothing coming up in the near future). This year I went travelling with my family - photos and notes are here. Now we're back I have moved to a new regular blog - it is here.
More about the song
You can buy my book (published 2008) from my website if you fancy it (go to 'book' page) or from www.amazon.co.uk if you prefer the comfort of the multinational corporation. My book is printed on recycled paper and card. I have 12 different poetry postcards available too.