A MANNER OF SPEAKING
Yesterday I went walking,
words kicking in my head, against
my ribs, beneath my soft-soled
feet. And on the way, I stumbled
on a top in a shop with FUckfu
ckfuckFUcKfUCkfuck printed
all over it, back and front.
In 'Wild Pair' it was, white
on black; no splash of colour
to distract or dilute the impact.
And oh, I wanted it. Plain
and simple. Black and white.
I wanted those hot, hard words,
their angular passion sprawling
across my skin just this once
scattering my old school nuns
into corners. FUcKfuckFuc
KfuckFuCk.
F u C k.
A fine fierce word.
A pleasure to practice.
CB
Okay, so today I'm a little rough around the edges. Ragged times can bring out the rebel; I feel like sticking my tongue out and behaving badly. Hence my choice of poem this week. . . I wrote A Manner of Speaking over a decade ago. The F-word - phuque - was definitely not a regular part of my vocabulary back then (I was a conscientious Catholic-then-Anglican boarding school girl; you get the picture. . . ). I envied people who could casually toss the word into conversation without apology and without needing to rush off and say seven Hail Mary's. This poem marked an arrival for me! The first time I read it to my writing group, they applauded and didn't send me from the room to go and wash my mouth out (this is a decade and a bit ago, remember. Times they have a-changed!). Chrissie loved this poem. For some reason it made her laugh till she snorted. Kate, too, would have egged me on. Take me with a pinch of salt today, won't you? ; )
For more Tuesday Poems, please click here.
And here's a small rogue angel. . . also one of Ali's.
