Poems

Found poem curated by Helen of Norwich

This is an interactive poem. When I say wild thing. You say are you bored yet?

You are here. 

Wild thing. Are you bored yet?

It wasn’t illegal to throw a brick. She threw a bike up the stairs and stabbed me.

Wild thing. Are you bored yet?

Snakes don’t have lights and money flows towards you.

Vomiting into a bag on a cold, fresh peninsula. He taught us to howl like a wolf.

Wild thing. Are you bored yet?

Exhilarating, but you may drown.

Naked and whipped with native herbs.

Breathing

Cold

Fresh

Wild thing. Are you bored yet?

I’m going to do a wild thing, but not on my bad hand.

Does the shop sell frog pencils?

Where do wood lice go?

One molecule will do it. 

The pheromones in a Tupperware box.

Like I don’t exist.

The first ever song about tardigrades.

They will survive us. It’s just a matter of time.

Wild thing. Are you bored yet?

We tried to kill him more than once. He ate a lot of mince and potatoes. Your children are on the roof. I’m going to get a ladder.

Wild thing. Are you bored yet?

Smell of two stroke oil. I’m hot now. She sat on the L plate. I passed on the 5th. Powered by chip fat and mountain warehouse salopettes.

Rusty riders in Rackheath.

A spiral of panic.

I was really hot but I’m 60 and I’m still alive.

Wild thing. Are you bored yet?

There’s more sun, but he doesn’t care. Gardening to mend a broken heart. I run fearing not where I go. Flowers don’t care where they grow, there will always be more flowers.

Wild thing. Are you bored yet?

You are here.

Found poem curated by Helen Ivory.

Is everybody happy?

There’s a seal in the audience!

He was an incredibly gorgeous nightmare of a child.

I was pregnant.  

The other woman my husband had a baby with, was stalking me.

I go to Sainsburys; trollies are good for contractions.

My blood pressure was through the roof;

I was too tired to have a baby.

The Other Woman phoned the ward and pretended to be my sister.

My sister appeared with her beautiful Pre-Raphaelite hair.

She placed a piece of amber on my heart;

I started to cry; it was like a cleansing.

There was a whooshing – 

the baby bucked like a rabbit.

I was wheeled along a corridor; there was a sink plunger – 

when my youngest was let go onto the world

it was like a David Lynch film.

The hospital closes tomorrow!

•

I stood in front of the mirror

and thought – who the fuck is this?

Face, eyes, lips, my broken nose – 

but there was no me in me. 

I can’t tell you if it was a Tuesday or a Friday

or what phase of the moon.

I was in a bad relationship, isolated

when my best friend delivered me a letter.

She said: Nothing will ever change

until you let yourself hear yourself. 

I was raised a Catholic in Poland.

I got good grades.  I had never been truly myself.

I was really good at that.

But then I started to see bits of me

and it became a whole.

It wasn’t Eat ,Pray, Love, it was Fight Club!

No more people pleasing – 

what did I actually want to do? 

Maybe it’s not about letting go – 

it starts with the LET then you find the IT – 

and then you can find the GO.

That girl in the mirror taught me

you really do need to hang on 

to the one thing you truly need – 

which is yourself. 

•

What I learnt from stealing

I stile from Paul McCartney’s house.

I was seven – Paul McCartney’s toilet roll!

I stuffed it into my pockets,

handed it out at school – it made me throb!

They could see me – 

finally I was special!

I want to hide the wabbles.

Even with Parkinson’s, my dad didn’t’ want to be pulled down:

I’m fine – I’m fine!

But at night I felt the monsters pace the landing.

Who stole the coats?!

As a teenager I lived life on the run.

I flipped the long, black wig off my head – 

it was like a flapping demon.

I stole who packets of cheese and onion.

We weren’t kids from haunted houses – 

we were blazing!

My dad taught me that nobody can see how terrified you are

when you are mooning!

I didn’t have a refillable cup so I got of one those tubs from the deli

and she said – enjoy your coffee love.

That’s’ when knew I’d been stealing from my heart for a long time. 

•

I am the barefoot bard.

I have a deep and magical experience with the natural world.

I had a really difficult experience and was stuck in a negative loop

Ayahuaska is a  psychedelic brew that teaches you lessons; 

I was in the presence of my ancestors and a desert-dwelling woman

who drew a line in the sand.  

She said: Have you done everything you can to deal with that experience?

Step over that line and stop telling yourself the same story. 

I then spent a couple of weeks in the jungle

learning from the master plants, healing.

I received surgery from the plants and they removed the trauma – 

but faced with them – I was all: I’m going to die!

But then I listen to what the plants taught me and it was more:

Hello ugly things that ruined my life – I love you

and we are going to do this together.

Love and grief are two sides of the same coin.

Every moment is constantly being born.

•

I know what I am doing – I am a psychologist.

This isn’t madness, it’s research!

If I could just show you this particular diagram I’ve made . . . 

in the end, this lovely women from Montana said:

You’ve wasted enough energy on him - 

fucking let it go!

•

From Ashton you can see Cheshire.

My brother’s wife had just gone into a nursing home.

He found this box in the wardrobe;

her mother was a patient of Harrold Shipman.

No, I don’t want it!

The last thing I want is a box of Harrold Shipman memorabilia!

Burn it – have a bonfire!

•

My story is a love story, not a letting go story.

I am from a small town West of Scotland called Northern Ireland. 

When I got the job here nine years ago

it was a real wrench and now I am going back to Scotland for a wee job. 

Even if you have chosen the change – 

you still have grief.

I am never knowlingly  under-jumpered.

How do you let go of Roys?

How do you let go of Thorns?

How do you let go of the Cathedral, that big gorgeous light house? 

How do you let go of the swans and their messy nests?

How do you let go of the man in the NR3 neighbourhood group who is always losing ferrets? 

Maybe you don’t have to let go?

I am leaving in June but I am coming back in July for the karaoke.

Maybe you can keep your Roy’s socks?

Norwich, thank you – it’s been beautiful!

Two poems were created from this event, please scroll down for the second.

True Stories Live Recipe for a 10 Year Anniversary Cake Poem by Jon Platten

This mouthwatering creation will get your juices flowing. 

It serves 75 – 4,500-ish, over a 10 year period.

Prepare ahead: in the words of Pasco, marinate slowly in kindness and community.

Stories can be written in advance, frozen in time and served at room temperature.

For the filling, you will need: 

• Two magnificent hosts. These are your hero flavours that bind everything together

• Seven storytellers, softened over a bowl of boiling water. Or rather, by the vicissitudes of life

• A sound and lighting team. Remember, presentation is so important. People eat with their eyes

• Front of house staff 

• All the other people who bring this concoction together

• A wonderful audience 

• And some poets, to season to good – or bad – taste

Pre-heat the Arts Centre to 16 degrees… 

To comply with the Workplace, Health, Safety & Welfare Regulations.  

Melt the audience over a gentle heat of banter and enthusiasm until all the ingredients are brought together in a consistent mixture that in no way resembles a sludgy paste. 

Stir in some sharp observations. 

If the weather outside is inclement, add the wet ingredients to the dry ingredients.

Carefully fold in humour, poignancy and authenticity.

Spoon gently… 

On second thoughts, spooning is to be discouraged…

If bored at this stage, play hide and seek in the kitchen cupboard. 

Don’t forget to broadcast this on Facebook Live.

Make yourself some tea in a very big pot before following your oncologist’s instructions to the letter. Add some dates – good value at £8.99.

Sing Happy Birthday then exit, pursued by a bear.

If feeling peckish, work your way through a bucket of sweeties.

Add oil, in copious quantities, tantrically.

If you want to sing, sing.

Bake in the Arts Centre at 180 degrees… 

To the stage.

After one hour, rest for 20 minutes… 

In the bar.

If at this stage the cake melts, refrigerate so as to create a volcano effect.

Sprinkle with a dusting of two-sentence stories. 

For the glaze…

… in the expression, talk for far too long.

Decorate with 50 shades of gender. 

This creative masterpiece is best served chilled

With the cream 

Of storytelling talent.

Finally, as with life, enjoy the good and work through the bad.

Have Your Cake: Ten Years of TSL curated by Helen Ivory

This is just the start;

we’ve got enough cake!

Thanks for the idea Lucy;

I’ll give it some thought.

Let’s just do a quiet Sunday night in the bar.

Norwich isn’t New York

but . . . ten years later, that’s 480 stories.

A little bit of sparkle over there in that dark corner.

Give me a game of Twister

over a card game any day.

Hide &Seek will be with me till my dying day!

I am hiding there in the bathroom

with the shower curtain wrapped round me; think Psycho . . . 

Kate, pleased come out!

We’d cleared out the minibar,

I got in the wardrobe 

when Jai came back I was doing Facebook live from the wardrobe . . . 

I texted him as the train pulled away, that I’d missed the train.

I was in comfortable in Coach , the quiet coach.

How is this game going to end?

I ran home; hid under the stairs with the hoover.

Schoolgirl error; I’d left a scarf hanging up.

He was so angry!

You’ve given these people some terrible ideas!

We’re married; it’s all legit.

I went onto the Guardian website;

We paid £8/99 to get into this situation!

We had some windy walks on the beach.

I didn’t know what’s going to happen;

I have two small children; I have cervical cancer.

He emailed back and said:

I could read to you; I can make you tea; I have a very big teapot.

Then one day, the oncologist said -  you have to have sex . . . 

This is just the start;

we’ve got enough cake!

Happy Anniversary to you!  Happy Anniversary to Us!

Happy Birthday TSL from Austen, Texas!

Have you got another bucket Sweetie?

Woof/ Woof yerself

Go forth with these buckets and rattle them!

I get there a bit early

Disagreeable pig! Spiteful little Beast!

Oh my god Joan Collins – there she is!

And we stood there shoulder to padded shoulder.

Have your cake!

I am the mother of four children,

when my eldest was ten he was heavily into Minecraft

so I thought I’d make him a Minecraft cake.

I planned to use green icing to weld it all together.

It was a really bad idea.

It was a Minecraft volcano.

I wasn’t sure if I would make it through

but in 2017, I was saying yes to all sorts of stuff . . . 

that packaging would make a great she-wee.

I’d heard about Tantric massage with supposedly a very happy ending . . . 

a three-bed semi in Chelmsford.

I have my eyes firmly shut;

her boobs were smacking me in the back of the head.

There is so much oil;

I haven’t moisturised since about 2018.

I am a stricken seabird.

I have cramp. I am going to be paying to fake it.

She said: when you sit up I want you to look into my eyes 

and say the first thing that comes to mind . . . 

and I said with great intensity: I could really murder a KFC right now . . . 

That night I treated myself to a really long,

really hot box of chicken.

I went to Pride in Norwich about ten years ago;

and then the idea of a podcast was born:

Fifty Shades of Gender . . . 

I got to it in about June and released the first episode . . . 

now I have to keep this up!  What have I done?

I am a recovering perfectionist.

I have just released episode 116 and had sixty thousand downloads.

I’ve discovered a lot about myself in talking to others.

A few weeks ago, I got my diagnosis:

I am officially autistic -I am neuroqueer.

I want to celebrate that! 

This is just the start;

we’ve got enough cake!

I’ve always wanted to sing in front of people.

I tried to write some songs 

but they were never my favourite songs to sing.

But folk songs are already out there 

and connect you with anyone 

who has ever sung them.

Being a parent of a small child has really focussed my mind;

now is the time.  It’s like having my cake and eating it.

And he’s made her a lady of all the land;

she shall ride on a warm summer’s day. 

This is just the start;

we’ve got enough cake!

Thanks for the idea, Lucy!

Two poems were created from this event, please scroll down for the second.

First curated by Jon Platten

Out with the old, out with the old,

So many stories that we have been told.

No-one turned up wearing a kilt

And the lid was kept on Scottish guilt.

In tweeting successfully, avoid getting stick

By saying you’re stealing from children who are sick.

And don’t make your visits to schools any hairier

When the soap shoots out onto your front trouser area.

I’m sure it does not need stating

How David’s been invigorating.

The storms of life can easily floor ya

Especially with Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria.

Sometimes life can feel quite tough

But whatever your age, you are enough.

For wartime commemoration, what could be purer

Than throwing beanbags at a cartoon Fuhrer?

If only we could remove real warmongers

By wiping them out with paint thinners.

Out with the old, out with the old,

So many stories that we have been told.

Family calendars are all well and good

But highlight the transience of parenthood.

We heard the grandmother’s clearout fable

About Uncle Cledwyn’s dressing table.

Out with the old, Simon never got bored.

Playing online Scrabble, he double word scored.

Life with the mother-in-law’s not all glory and splendour

Especially when the blender needs a mender.

If to impress other swimmers is your hope,

You should wear more than a bar of soap.

To reach out to faith groups, a scarf was made,

At City Hall it was displayed.

The workmen there were ever so nice,

Asking, ‘Can I take you to Paradise?’

Out with the old, out with the old,

It’s better than staying outside in the cold. 

Second poem curated by Adam Baker

I might be tipsy, but I can’t be fired

I arrived by replacement bus service

I was very glad I did a safety wee before I left the house

It’s cold it’s January

And

I was quite happy to say goodbye to a few things

There’s ornaments, really ugly ornaments

Uncle Cledwins dressing table

Great granny’s drawers

The longest text I’ve ever had in my life

Two blenders and a rear light

Thousands of squares, some from Australia

Some terrible Tracy Emin installation

I spent the rest of my life teaching

I never quite felt… right

I used to feel completely out of step with things

(It was a) Rationale for a controlled explosion

My older brother told me to look out for detonators, whatever they were

It was the truth as I saw it

That feeling is ancient

This was not such a good idea

I’d never done much sleeping around

It formed stiff peaks

It was certainly in with the new

And with the mother in law in the house it was a strain

The wages of sin are death, but the hours of good

I know I’m going to be forgiven

So we mended all the holes

Maybe she didn’t write it like that, but that’s how I read it

This is actually how it’s meant to look

Every single story can be reworked and reshaped

Yes I’m old but I realise I am good enough. I am okay. I can have a good time.

And That’s my conclusion for old and new

What a great poem said the man with a clipboard

Poem curated by Helen Ivory

All life is here.  Cling on to stubborn joy.

Mum never threw anything away;

one day it was time to clear the garage.

False teeth, Benson and Hedges – 

why do you keep a sweetie jar full of party poppers? 

I found my mum’s pin cushion;

I fixed it and now it’s in my house.

I have some more negatives so safe I can’t find them.

But in this photograph - that dress!  Has she got a saw? 

She’s only flipping making that flipping thing!

I learnt a lot about mending from her.

New Year, new life, 1972.

It’s my mum’s hand, my dad’s hand – 

my hand is touching the same piece of paper

that my mum touched, my dad touched.

They are living in me.

I’m them.

I am going to celebrate me!

I’ve brought with me some butterflies

rebirth, joy – I celebrate metamorphosis – 

the winged insects they suddenly become.

A beautiful A1 size butterfly – 

and my father bought me this butterfly tealight holder.

When my dad was in his seventies, he started to forget things.

He said: I just can’t do the Sudoku.

He was forgetting our names – 

he just moved his arm – he wanted to get outside

and he was locked in a dementia ward; he forgot how to walk.

I braced myself, pressed the doorbell – he got up.

He lifted his arm – said You will love these!

all those little butterfly stickers.

You will love these – it was the last thing he said to me.

To celebrate his 90th Birthday

please come to the stage and take a butterfly – 

write on it, draw on it  - a beautiful butterfly.

All life is here.  Cling to stubborn joy.

I suppose it started with my grandfather.

He told me stories, fairytales – 

he wanted to share with me the magical and the fantastical.

I was raised by my grandfather

and when he died, I spent a lot of time in the forest.

The whole world is alive; the trees, the rivers, the stones – 

we all have an energy.

A kelpie is a water spirit to keep children safe.

Trolls occupy all of the woodland, so you can’t live there.

There are terrible people, but so much magic and beauty.

21st December is about the renewal of life, or stories, of light.

I’m here to celebrate Yule!

All life is here.  Cling to stubborn joy.

I feel cringy talking about love.

Today I am going to be talking about love, a lot!

My hen-do was cancelled because of Storm Denis.

Our wedding was cancelled because of the pandemic.

We celebrated our fake wedding on zoom – 

It happened on zoom; it was official!

Then on August 20th, we got married wearing masks.

It was probably my favourite of the two wedding days.

The reception was eat out to . . .whatever that slogan was.

Roll on wedding number three; I got to wear my big dress.

My favourite part was the ten minutes of sitting still, talking in our room.

If we got married a fourth time, we would probably do it differently; 

spend more time being with everyone. 

All life is here.  Cling to stubborn joy.

I’ve got visuals!

I told my husband I wanted my 50th Birthday to be the best day of my life.

He did look a bit twitchy.

As a rule of thumb, pointers are bossy.

I was a bit overwhelmed.

I burnt down her bedroom but she forgave me.

I had scrambled eggs.

My sister is a shit photographer.

I get to the crime section

and she quickly began to draw a moustache on me.

I didn’t need the health and safety waiver.

I was flabbergasted to be carried round Norwich in a Sudan chair!

We played hide the Brussels Sprout; the van broke down.

Why is that woman being carried around like that?

She must be very important.

I went well lateral in there – I am not good in an escape room.

I get out of my Sudan chair; she puts a beard on me.

I’m from Gatwick!  I have moved on to teal.

Then we proceed to wrestle and they are just sitting there, having their chips.

As if that wasn’t enough, a pantomime horse turns up – 

the back end is here tonight!

I even got to sing – in the family it’s known as The Piss Head Song.

I spent the rest of the evening wrestling – I didn’t even eat the cake.

I love wresting!

Now sing together:

Let’s harmonise, let’s balance

let’s live, let’s give

All life is here.  Cling to stubborn joy.

Can I unplug?

Poem curated by Helen of Norwich

Tell a story and everyone cheers

Every time I have a breakup, I tell a story

Talk to your mum.

Lots of witches on broomsticks

She knew I had made soup

What are you doing on the floor, Sharon?

No bones or muscles

Talk to your mum.

It’s pineapples, but it’s skulls

As a side effect I was producing a lot of poetry

6 verses compressed into a haiku, mastered the 2-gown challenge

I heard the voice of an angel: “you have 3 minutes left”

Licking ice cream from a tiny spoon

I want to stay in the between time

Talk to your mum.

We didn’t have enough money to get drunk

Perhaps I should just go now

She did a gesticulation from a horror movie

I thought; not bloody likely

Just fall asleep, it will be alright

OMG she’s after my soul

I will never say her name

I want to stay in the between time.

Those people are in this room

I’ve never won the book

I wish I’d done panto in Blackpool, Mother Goose on LSD

I was an inappropriate influence

I tell you something about Sadam Hussein- he’ll take it further than you imagined

I do the Women’s Institute on a Friday.

She kept it in the back of the wardrobe

He was the lucky one, he inherited a glass factory

He was a chemist and part-time dentist

He was very helpful to my grandmother

Nobody in this room gives a toss

There may be at least 1 other gay person

Only 6 inches high

I was wearing a suit my grandmother had made

Mascara- the kind you spat in

40 is very old when you are 18

It was your wife or your children

He’d say: “shoot the children”

Isn’t that what all dads do?

Watching the snooker

I don’t want a perm

I want to live in the in between space.

Squeezy pig

I hit my head

In the in between state

I cannot hear myself breathing.

Poem curated by Eve Pandolfi

You have come here; you are doing something splendid.

You’re such a lovely audience. I’d like to take you home with me.

You are allowed to boo when I say “the Arts Council”.

We all wore velvet in 19760.

British Rail billed me for a train.

I was like a Trisha guest in my own show.

This bad thing became my catalyst.

I started to write- stories- and they were published.

Like a cat with 9 lives, 7 to go.

Her name was Crimson. She was my guardian angel.

There have been moments when I have thought “ Fuck my Life”.

You have to believe in yourself, and every cloud has a silver lining. 

Free at last from the tyranny of words.

I look up and see hands in the air, some of them are mine.

Was it like the time I tried to learn Klingon?

“ I might have ADHD but I’m still British”.

I am an Aries man, which is why I got married six months after I met someone.

Stop Thinking.

It’s called an Anthology of Hope for a Brighter Future.

I can express myself as a mixed heritage, bisexual, disabled woman over 50.

I am the most me, the most masculine, I’ve ever been right now.

That one security guard at the National Portrait Gallery who managed to call me ‘sir “ and “miss”  in the same sentence.

I believe your birth chart is your sat nav for the soul.

We were part of rebuilding the country, but that bit gets erased.

I always felt restless.

You don’t have to steal a cat to move to Norwich.

The choice was Ipswich

There was just one silver lining after another.

Poem curated by Chloe Yates and Amanda Fox

Somewhere Over the Rainbow

Down the stairs, through Nellie’s yard

I have a confession to make.

Ginger Snaps is dyspraxic

But don’t worry! I’m polyamorous.

Yes, it’s good to be gay.

ARNIE DE FRANCO!!

Heart and soul of Norwich Pride

We had such a proud day

We had a lovely time with fannylove.co.uk.

I was a person who didn’t matter because I was a gay man

I have the gift of the gab my loves

As you were talking we won 3-1

Wibbly wobbly timey wimey,

The jam, the cheese whatever filling goes in the middle.

Eventually, I gravitated towards lesbians

I came out o myself at last!

If you can’t breathe nothing else matters in life.

Fate has been kind.

We’ve never had a question before.

You are a criminal and you are unnatural

Don’t ask where I hid the ring.

I decided there was to be no retreat.

Who am I? What the fuck?

Something about kicking back

Don’t quote me!

This is a poem by Ellie Reeves told at True Stories Live in Whitlingham Country Park in June 2025

Us kids, of which there are many

Honour the Witches,

The mountain of the lost

Hags, hedges,

Bitches in season.

I can hear the boar

We’re standing at the side of this torrent

We don’t know whether to go 

forward or back

If you don’t decide to take a break

Your body will do it for you

Rest here.

Do you know what you are made of?

Between spaces

The most beautiful thing

Liquid gold

one hand in the soil

the other in the mouth

I know this boar

Don’t shout. You’ll wake the baby

You know what’s coming

That’s not what this story is about.

Found poem created from memorable lines selected using the cut-up method.

I don’t know where I’m going but I do know where I’ve been

There will be profane language

This shower just feels like you’re being pissed on

He talked about his personal plums and how they hung

She was from Whittlesea and she was in her 80s

There is no dominatrix in Hunstanton

I need to move to keep the object in balance

What do people do when they are diagnosed with 9 months life expectancy? They sign up for the London marathon

Its not my life that changes, it’s me

And then there was utter fucking chaos

There is no dominatrix in Hunstanton

I never pass up the chance to come out to somebody

Something will always come up

There was Leonard Cohen in the middle of the foyer

I’m the only one in the world doing this with my mouth

She was very good at her job

There is no dominatrix in Hunstanton

The world of therapy is like the world of politics; attracting the last people in the world who should be doing the job

She has managed to get herself into proper pornography

Can you do that now

I try to hide my limp as I go out of the room in case she thinks I am mocking her

There is no dominatrix in Hunstanton

I was not in control of how long the stalking continued

Give up on women, you just keep meeting your mother

You could see them, just quietly holding hands

Her long periods of silence seemed punitive 

You can’t just stay together for the balcony

There is no dominatrix in Hunstanton

The only company I had was an alcoholic Australian

What a way to go out

It is a City for healing

Maybe I’ll go into a Home and meet a man; who knows

The 222 to Uxbridge; no one seemed happy

There is no dominatrix in Hunstanton

1001 albums you must hear before you die; I have 735 left

         I ain’t wasting no more time

         Tomorrow… here I go again.

I cut all the bushes into animal shapes.
Only nice people come here.
Don’t drill the ceiling with your mouth open.
The police are swooping on gay bars
they are snapping on rubber gloves.
Should I stay or should I go?

I built a beautiful life; I didn’t belong.
This indecision’s bugging me.
I did a Smelly Cat competition;
I was 28, I was working behind the
scenes –
like when a fly can’t get through, can’t work its way out.
I took a bus to Norwich, I thought; this is where I live now.
If you don’t want me set me free.

I lit a fire with Mrs Dalloway,
and I call it the duvet of love.
Only nice people come here –
there is a pattern – it’s in the book.

I like a cockapoo, but I also like a cruise.
I was brought up not to notice feelings –
this indecision’s bugging me:
Milo stay or Milo find a new home?
I was sniffing his ears and they smelt of popcorn.
If somebody knits you a jumper, they bloody love you.
Only nice people come here.

*

You need to put your foot up and ice it.
Should I stay or should I go?
Am I depressed or am I bored?
Stop asking questions.
I decided to fix vehicles to try to fix people –
you need to put your foot up and ice it.
Should I stay or should I go?

If you want to move a piano come and see us.
I really want that knitting pattern,
I love this song –
I long to be your glitter shaker;
I think I should stay.
Only nice people come here.

By Helen Ivory.

i.

From time to time, we think about
the kids playing freely––
not too freely––
along the clifftops,
living in a lighthouse,
eating pretzels and doughnuts and drinking hot chocolate.
But that was not to be.
There is always hope. Still, sometimes I feel everything
is impossible. I worry I will end up like
the beached whale we saw––very sad. It was dying on
the shore with its cock out.
Then I think about Norwich––all the great spaces
and friendly faces,
how close we are to the sea.

ii.

From time to time,
I make these big decisions
for the most peculiar reasons: Oh, Epping has a forest,
I’ll move there;
flogging second-hand clothes
and bric-a-brac; becoming the lead singer in a band;
climbing out of a bathroom window
and over parked cars, and––the klutz that I am––
breaking bones/rearranging my face.
That was all before my husband died.
Now, when I consider my new place––
this courtyard is a let–down––I think: The grass may not be greener,
but it is less brown.

iii.

From time to time,
I think about the loveliest lady you can think of:
Gwen. She is four feet six
and approximately a thousand years old.
And the boxer who dared
not mess with me: ‘Charlie Manson’. All groups
have an arsehole and he was ours––until
he joined in a game. Everybody goggled!
He drew my portrait, twice––they are up
on my wall and call to mind
all the small kindnesses that made me cry. Now––if I visualise
the garden with a tall high-security fence––
the voice inside my head will say,
‘The grass is much greener today.’

iv.

From time to time,

I think about Mum and Dad
having lots of adventures––
doing lots of Australian things. Dad,
recording videos in that classic Dad way. Dad, who installed
the sprinkler system in Sydney Opera House. Mum,
hiking and climbing––being
afraid of heights but doing it anyway.
Mum, caught on camera,
catching a big fish.
And the photo of my dad with a little fish.
From time to time, they think about moving to Australia.
But they know the grass is greener
here in Norwich.

v.

From time to time,
I think about the dead cat
being pulled from a garden bush
by a man in rubber gloves,
and the loving hush of the children gathered,
struggling to let go.

vi.

From time to time,
I think about my best friend, Billy.
On the 1st of last November,
he had to be put down.
Now I have another horse, Rosie.
Sometimes we need to let
the new grass grow . . .

vii.

From time to time,
I think about being out in India,
panicked about not having
a correct piece of paperwork. And I recollect
children who had sad, dark eyes, and people
who had amputated limbs.
From time to time––when I think
the grass is greener
somewhere else––
I am reminded of my privilege
and my freedoms,
everything I have,
right here,
right now.

viii.

From time to time,
I think about
my post-university European summer––
the summer that ended––
moving to Japan and becoming
a chauffeur to a nine-million-dollar chalet.
(I can hear myself say,
in the months before,
‘Capitalism – get rid of that.’)
And how I snapped
my anterior cruciate ligament
and had to go back
to my parents’
house.

From time to time,
I think about how I now approach
life with fresh eyes.
Not fertilizer. I have seen
Filthy Women; Women in Revolt;
communal healing on a club dancefloor––
like a really upbeat Quaker meeting.
In time, I know I will find
my bigger purpose.
Sometimes I do little jigs
around the living room. No one leads and no one
follows. I just go with the flow,
like gardening for biodiversity–
gardening with nature,
not against it.

ix.

From time to time, I think about going to
a ‘job expo’ in a world-famous
melon-growing region––sounds like a
euphemism to me––hugely hungover,
trousers and shirt barely clean.
The big new building and a TV crew. The director of the centre
and beaming chefs with a cake
baked ‘just for [me].’ I cannot simply eat the cake;
I must comment on its quality. And do that before
we take ‘a filmed guided tour’ of the
‘vocational technical training facility’.
On the tour, we saw: Plumbing
(alluring loo bowls and rows of latrines); Welding;
Building Crafts; Hairdressing; Beauty Therapy; and––a sorry lifetime after the start––Baby Massage.
I had to roll with it––it was the most
intense careers fair I have attended. Ever.

By John Murphy

Found Poem from best lines compiled by Molly Naylor

Fen rules: you stop for no man.

All the best decisions are made at 2am at the kitchen table.

Am I close?

Of course, I wasn’t.

I thought, I’ll wear my new lipstick.

It was David, a minibus and us.

He could never understand why I moved out.

I knew I needed to stay really chill.

Cartoonists lead very lonely lives.

You are playing a dangerous game and possibly incurring the wrath of 60 million people.

I’m there to lose my virginity.

You must have had a good sleep, you look amazing.

Putting things up your bottom again were you?

I opened the door, and there was a bowl of washing-up.

We had a smooch and a kiss. She will eat you alive.

Where’s the eel man, where’s the eel man?

Get your sexy daughter on the phone.

Do you know how the coccyx came by its name? yes, I do , actually.

Every night we sat around the campfire. Sparks would fly.

And so I jumped.

Found Poem from best lines compiled by Molly Naylor

She told me what it was and I said, “Don’t be so daft”.

I said, “ Go and get some oil from the popcorn machine”.

He would be trembling with excitement; I would just be trembling.

I just need Clint to make my day.

He was wrapping up a toilet seat.

You need to get in the taxi, get to the airport and get to fucking Fiji.

I’m allowed notes because I’m old.

Maybe I’m just really excited about seeing Martin again.

This could be a zombie chicken.

She’d drive by, looking out the side of her eye.

The thought of Beccles boxing club was terrifying.

Best not, eh.

Yellow is in the box, I repeat, yellow is in the box.

An unbelievable capacity to make mess.

I’m even more grateful for the things I have.

She said, have another look.

And so I named my tortoise, Baby Jesus.

Found Poem from best lines compiled by Molly Naylor

That’s part of the fun of the game, trying out being new people,

It’s got a wine list,

It’s my easter goodwill,

I don’t really like to laugh at people’s mistakes,

I regret language. I regret humankind,

I’m an asexual flirt which is definitely a tease,

When people say “never again”, it pisses me off,

If you fuck up, everyone in the ship goes,

Does the shop sell frog pencils? Linda, 39, Chelmsford,

But it’s OK cause we are seasoned,

For about 7 years, you’ve been wearing a mask,

I was pretty tired of doing a cowboy accent,

No one would lie on an anonymous PDF,

She was the last version of me that they believed,

You could have an adventure,

You can’t polish a turd,

I’m sorry comrades, we are going to have to abandon ship.

Found Poem from best lines compiled by Molly Naylor

I want to meet the man inside.

It’s not the kind of thing you tell people.

I don’t know anything about canaries. I live in Putney.

Safe to say, teenage me wasn’t getting much attention.

That’s not the recipe for a chill high.

Welsh vicar seeking femme lady with traditional values.

Stories make sense of the chaos of life.

It’s going to be hard to describe without making it sound shit.

Just know he’s sexy and we like him a lot.

Thank you for channelling me instead.

I’m a Tory but I don’t mind that you’re left wing.

Dogs don’t have boundaries. They just love you.

We can go to Stonehenge and play.

We have a responsibility to give them the best life we can.

It’s quite a scary gig.

Experience told me to trust my gut instinct.

It comes when it’s ready.

We settled down to sleep under the stars.