Friday, January 18, 2013
Back at the end of 2011, I put this poem on my other blog. I'm not quite sure why it wound up there, but for the sake of consistency, I'm now including it amongst the poems on this blog, which is focused on poetry....
Rhyming with Cigars
I'm not a man who frequents bars;
Or thinks it cool to down large jars
Of beer; I've never ever tried cigars;
I don't get sweaty seeing big, fast cars,
And consequently have no scars
From crashing and then seeing stars.
What, you ask, do I live on Mars?
Not at all, I've watched the movie, Lars
And the Real Girl, grammar I can parse,
I know the name of the Curé of Ars,
(John Vianney), know that Fars
Is a province in Iran, formerly called Pars,
Can differentiate Picassos and Renoirs,
However, I've never finger-picked guitars
In bazaars frequented by Russian Czars.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
I'm not usually given to writing poems about physical ailments, but while the topic in this poem is, in reality, quite unpleasant, it also has its humorous side.
The condition known as
is like squatting on a bed of tacks,
or rather, one gigantic tack.
PF attacks a person’s back -
specifically the canal
that’s inner anal - by
cramping up some muscle, which
don’t make one feel swell, or well.
Proctalgia fugax waits till night-time to
perform, waits till you’re relaxed and
fast asleep, then wakes you with a
pain that racks, and taxes your
ability to calm remain, stops you
dozing, insists from resting
you desist, says, get up now if you
know what’s good for you!
Proctalgia fugax isn’t good for you.
You’ll come to no harm, but there’s
no kind of balm that will ease the pain
as it increases to the max.
Forget defecting to the loo, or
defecating in it; PF doesn’t
signal imminent evacuation –
except from bed, of course.
Sometimes walking helps, though
you’re not required to leave the
house; some recommend
sitting, but on a tennis ball,
putting pressure on the perineum -
I don’t think that’d help at all;
or taking paracetamol by two, but
PF, say the experts helpful,
once waxed will wane before the
tablets ease the pain. Some in
hot water sit, some ice apply–
neither of these sound nice
to me, and who wants in the
freezer ice to find, or boil up
water, in the dark of the night?
Women can ignore this next:
for men PF can rise when you’ve had
sex - post coitus it will let you sleep
awhile – then waking you in pain,
adds insult to injury, now
stands the slack and rested member
up once more, ready to bounce
back, then stacks woe on woe,
puts you under attack both front and back.
Proctalgia fugax sometimes
comes by day, whether at work
or play: transmitting a fax, or
shovelling the road, taking
dictation or hauling a load,
riding a bike, aquajogging,
feeding the ducks - or snogging.
But night-time’s its favourite,
making the most of its doubling-up
impact to tumble you out of the
sack, with its pain in the
crack giving you flak.
things begin to assuage:
you return to your bed, but you’re
restless and hot, and like any
lurgy that lurks you are
cautious of aftershock,
your partner disturbing,
who tosses and turns till you
stomp out of bed and go sleep on the
couch. PF’s not an ‘ouch’, it’s never an
‘oooh.’ Colonoscopy’s closer or
that horn of a rhino you saw in the
zoo, goring you. That might be
hyperbole, but you’d
exaggerate too if Proctalgia
fugax happened to you.
Proctalgia fugax is a severe, cramp-like pain, deep in the anal canal. It usually lasts for a few seconds or minutes, but can sometimes last for up to half an hour. Between attacks there is no pain at all. Most sufferers have only 5 or 6 attacks a year. You may feel a need to defecate urgently, but nothing happens. It may even make you feel dizzy, or give you a headache. It occurs in both men and women. The pain often wakes sufferers at night, and men may have an erection at the same time. Some men experience it after sex. It is a mysterious condition; no one knows what causes it, but it is probably a spasm of the rectal or pelvic floor muscles and does not mean that you have anything seriously wrong. There are various methods of relieving the pain.
Tuesday, January 08, 2013
The end of year busyness caught up on this blog, and it's been semi-abandoned for the last few months. The busyness meant that poems in the pipeline had to wait to be reviewed and redrafted and so on. Here's one that's finally made it through the system...
the shoe that has lain for a
year on the footpath, has gone,
the shoe that months ago was the
focus of an inquisition of the
boy who had carelessly
left it lying on the asphalt.
The shoe that
I don’t know where it’s
gone! I didn’t lose it,
The shoe that brought
angst to the pocket of the
mother, and angst to the
ear clipped by the father.
The shoe that may or
may not have been
flung over a telephone wire,
that may or may not have
dropped out of a backpack.
The single shoe that was
late for its appointment
with its sole mate, that was
last reported Missing in Action.
The shoe that untimely
caused its mate to pass its
The shoe that while
lying became an
hidden beneath the
local trees’ detritus.
The shoe that lay
believing it was part of the
sleeping out at nights, its
laces trailing beneath its
bedclothes of last week’s
blossoms and some tree’s
The shoe that was
available to the
person of smaller stature
who happened to hop along.
The shoe that was
left behind for any
person who owned a
bereft and mateless single
shoe that was the equivalent
left, or right.