Saturday, 22 March 2014

Yes, I'm aware there's a spelling mistake, it's called "irony".

Toward the end of last year I wrote a book, The Ballad of Kissy Sizzle, and made it available as an eBook on Amazon. Earlier this week it came out in paperback and has had some very flattering sales figures already, along with some lovely reviews and comments. I also heard from a lot of people that they, too, have written books but that they haven't attempted to have them published. In my opinion, in this modern age, there's no reason why these folk shouldn't have a go. Publishing on Amazon is easy enough and won't cost you a penny even if you never sell a copy. If you don't fancy that then try where you can upload your work and have it published as a free eBook. There's no excuse, and what's the worst that could happen.

And so to the main part of today's blog, another bloody poem. Sorry.

Four decades ago or maybe more,
Whilst sat with my dad on our parlour floor
I began to learn the art of the pen
To get me set for that day when
I'd have to sit in a room full of peers
And spend the following twelve or so years
Filling my head with the knowledge of things
That'd help me to cope with the trials life brings
To spell, to read, to add up, to learn
The tools I'd need to be able to earn
A wage to keep a roof overhead
And make sure my loved ones were never unfed
To keep the clothes upon their backs
To be a consumer and pay all my tax

So there we sat, cross legged on the floor
I was aged three, or maybe four
My father wrote out the whole alphabet
Then slid me the page while he went to get
The bacon and eggs and hot cup of tea
My mother had waiting in the scullery
He sat at the table and watched my face
As I stuck out my tongue and started to trace
Those squiggles and scribbles that made no sense
But that if I copied out right would earn me ten pence
To spend as I wished in Mr Harris' sweet shop
On fizz bombs or bubbly or a bottle of pop
To take to my granddads where I was to stay
As I did every week so my parents could play

But back to the story I wanted to tell
Of Saturday mornings learning to spell
An hour or less of my fathers free time
That enabled me later to write down this rhyme
He planted the seeds for my teachers to feed
I was able to write before I could read
Now some might say that's arse over tit
Like learning to walk before you can sit
But at three years of age what would you rather,
Sit colouring in or learn from your father?
That man so big and smart and strong
Who, in your eyes, can do no wrong
Passing down to you his knowledge and skills
So that one day you can also pay bills

So I learnt the art of using a pen
Of writing my name and counting to ten
Then I fumbled and floundered through my education
And took my place in the land of taxation
Alongside my father and neighbours and friends
Scratching a living till the day it all ends
But along the way, a trillion thoughts thought
And scenery seen and small battles fought
Moments that pass in the blink of an eye
And fade in our memory as time passes by
But to lose such events to the annals of time
Would have to be a pointless crime
When armed with nothing but a pen
We can write them down to visit again

And better than that we can share those pages
Letting our story live throughout the ages
In diaries and journals or sprayed on a wall
Our scribblings and musings might outlive us all
Just write it down somehow my friend
And pass it on before you end
Every day's unique, no two ever the same
And only you see your own little frame
Of the beautiful picture that's played out before us
So share it with all in a wondrous chorus
Of words and of thoughts and of tales of lives spent
Scrabbling around and trying to pay rent
And making our way from cradle to crypt
Trying our best to stick to the script

So sit down and write your own version of what
You see and you do and you are and you're not
No matter what medium you write down the caper
Whether Twitter or Facebook or Blogspot or paper
So long as you share it your song will be sung
Long after your own last round bell has been rung
Don't worry about the grammer and spelling
The important parts all lie in the telling
We all have a tale of gladness and strife
Battles won and some lost in this war we call "life"
You may think that you're dull and that no one will care
What you thought or you did, but they will, so please share
Your dreams and your passions and all that you knew
Your take on this life, your own personal view


1 comment:

  1. Great sentiment expressed in this poem, I really enjoyed it. Thanks.