Telling Tales
Page 6
high as a horsefly he
goldplates the gangplank
from Backwards under Burbs
to Sin City centre.
Minted in his image I’m
alchemist’s apprentice
craving this countercraft.
You want bling? I can blag it,
pale an’ pocked as a planet
cos I don’t do daylight
an’ gold dust dulls me,
sweating like a sweatshop,
stench like a stinkstone
over a festering flame.
I’ve invested in a
one-way, no-win
gamble for glamchips,
dig for dolebuds in the dirt
recess of recession.
Come kiss the cauldron,
tip the mitt with quick silver
bling me the blingstone,
powder, piss, an’ pepper.
Tweet The Twist mix the fix.
But a watched pot don’t jackpot
so close yer lids, let
my master mix magic
fumes that mouth Smoke me.
Then crucible cracks,
nukes nega nuggets
an’ chemicals choke me.
Exploding expletives,
I down tools, dare to
outmidas my master
and get the yo-heave-ho …
Fired, I’m fired up with
my master’s master
the thought-fox of Fort Knox,
nickname The Canon,
godfather of gold.
So I counterfeit the mould,
don the don of a don,
an’ become The Canon’s convoy.
Come closer, come
watch the wordsmith wax
chemical cacophony,
lies laced with lucre.
Here pants a punter,
high priest of the high rise,
gangplank gangsta.
Croaks the cold Canon,
Fetch me a fifty,
I’ll ice you with interest.
Canon keeps covenant,
pays back the payback
and gangsta’s gagging for
the rags-rich recipe.
Check me, crows The Canon,
master mix millions:
ground chalk to gold chain.
Kiss my Canon balls!
Canon plants a nugget,
giltseed in coat sleeve.
Watch him switch the batch,
whitewash the black ash.
Abracadazzler …
Gold! groans the gangsta,
bling blinds the blinker.
Wants to whip the mix,
Canon flicks his wrist,
an’ conjures more carats
that blink and bling Bite me!
They’re fired as fireflies
higher than hi-fives …
I could tell a tale
how the horseman of hell
got a grand from the gangsta
for the rich quick mix
but this bard’s behind bars,
my sentence is censored
an’ gold dust dulls me.
But flick me a fifty
an’ I’ll twist my tongue
to craft a conclusion:
The Canon’s a con
who’s got it cold coming:
trick the trade you get tried,
gag The Guild you get Guilty,
fuck with fire you get fried.
HARBLEDOWN
The Crow
Scott Mansell
That night Pavel came to my house drunk.
Angel, he said, Why is the crow black?
The crow? I said, What crow? And he said,
Where I from like this. Small place. Is cold
but life good. I young, strong, I look good,
my hair is bright sun. Look at me now.
I play harp and sing like bird. No man
sing like I sing, no shoot like I shoot.
In the wood I read bird, sky like book.
I build house, kill pig, sell pig. Grow rich.
They say, he good man, work hard, clean heart.
I see girl black hair like you. Wild bird.
I love her. Put her gold ring in church,
put her on perch, feed her meat and drink.
I work hard. Buy wife fine dress, red shoe,
fur coat. She cook, she clean. I pay maid.
My wife, she is my queen. I buy her
white bird for pet, white like snow-white swan.
It talk. It say my wife word, it sing
Pavel! to me, my name. It don’t talk
to my wife, just me. Pavel! it sing.
One day it rain bad, sky break in two.
I stop work, come home. My wife not there,
bird in cage talk. It sing, I love you,
Yakov! Not my name. Bird sing twice, I
love you, Yakov! My heart break in two.
My wife, my wild bird, eat worms in wood.
She come home. I don’t talk. Her white bird
sing, I love you, Yakov! She go white.
I take knife and … she dead. I kill her.
Then I break harp, stab knife hard in chair.
The bird, it see all. I mad! My hair
fall out like snow, I will take my life.
My wife, my gem, she love me not him.
She lie dead, swan-white face. White bird lie!
I curse bird its tongue but curse come back.
When hair grow back, it black. I sleep bad,
I lose taste, sweet tongue, song. I see things,
bad things, I know when it storm and rain,
know when man die. Crow sit in my heart.
So I come here, small place. Make new start.
They say, he good man. No one know me.
You love me, Angel, you know is true.
Please not say you love me, cage your tongue
in teeth and lips. Your tongue, it cut love
in two. Cage your tongue, sweet, snow-white bird.
Put your hand here. My heart, it is wild.
CANTERBURY
The Gospel Truth
Rap, The Son aka ‘The Parson’
… Stand ye in the ways, and see, and ask for the old paths, where is the good way, and walk therein, and ye shall find rest for your souls …
– Jeremiah 6:16
My beloved, truth isn’t tender, it’s tough.
I’m keepin it real, no rum, ram, ruf,
rhyme for a reason, reapin what it sows –
wheat not the chaff, punchier than prose.
So it flows – Seven Sins was my Crew, you can ask them,
use ta be ‘The Pimp’ but now I’m ‘The Parson’.
Parental advisory, listen to the lesson,
this be no sermon, this be my confession …
Two roads diverged from the A2 –
one went to Heaven, the other Hey, you!
Fancy some fun, brotha, won’t ya park n ride?
I paid a heavy price an I puckered up to PRIDE.
Her lips were wide, painted to a botox smile
and her scent more expensive than the square mile,
chandeliers in her ears and a designer outfit,
gown so long it was trailin in dogshit.
What of it? Sista had diamonds in her teeth,
the only thing concerned me was what was underneath …
her bra was brief, her butt was big, the rapper drowned
in cleavage as full as the Dane John Mound.
Jack fell down and broke his crown for a bling singer,
diva wrapped the rapper round her ring finger.
I loved my enemy, vicar was the MC,
PRIDE was my bride and our bridesmaid was ENVY.
Truth isn’t tender, it’s tough as they come,
keepin it real with a ruf, ram, rum.
Seven Sins was a rough an ready bunch,
my beloved, listen to the power of my punch.<
br />
ENVY hung out with ASBOs and Chavs,
they was the have-nots and we was the haves.
She looked fine as a glass of wine but she craved
the high life, wanted to be my wife, slaved
in the kitchen creatin feasts to seduce me –
Whitstable oysters all tender and juicy.
Her tongue was forked, she was an ace cook
but she was bitchin us daily on Facebook
in French. She had a versatile tongue.
She gave me the rope and I was well hung.
She had two faces, one fair and one foul,
she had two brothers, fresh outta jail.
They were pimps – and she worked for them both,
the bad one was WRATH, and the mad one was SLOTH.
I took a stake in their undeclared business:
PRIDE was my bride and ENVY my mistress.
Truth is tough when it comes to wham bam,
I hit the wrong road, the ruf, rum, ram.
Seven Sins was my Crew, I confess
but repentance is sweeter than a low-cut dress.
WRATH and SLOTH were the Canterbury Krays,
suits so sharp you be bandaged up for days.
WRATH would attack if you said a crow was black,
SLOTH needed crack just to get out of the sack
an’ I was Jack, plantin my cash to hatch gold.
But brothas was hatchin a plot to snatch tenfold,
sent sex on legs times two to unbutton me:
one was called GREED, the other called GLUTTONY.
They had a caterin business called Cayenne,
catered for men, if you know what I’m sayin
but they did weddings, and they managed mine,
GREED for the profit, GLUTTONY for fine wine.
GREED sucked the gold from my teeth till I was poor,
GLUTTONY ate my face till it was raw.
God’s law, if you deal with deadly sins, you be dust …
that’s what you get when PRIDE marries LUST.
The gospel truth is a rough tough lesson
but hear me, beloved, here ends my confession.
In heart, in word, in deed I be repentin –
Canterb’ry Cathedral I be frequentin.
Took the wrong path but now I’m on the right track,
tempted but power of prayer helps me fight back.
Alright Jack, now that God is my guide,
Faith is my sista, Humility my bride.
Back Track (Grime Mix)
Harry ‘Bells’ Bailey
Now you’ve tuned to or leafed through this volume,
if you like any tales, tell the whole room!
If you slam this slam anthology,
for the sick bits, here’s my apology:
to all Christians we misrepresented;
to all faiths that were nil represented;
for the hardcore macho and sexist,
every encore showing sex as sex is;
for the stereotypes, I hold my head low,
should I fix the mix? April said no,
keep the cursing, class A’s and violence.
Our intent was to showcase this island’s
love of retelling tales in its fierce pun
not to cut out the gem from its pierced tongue
so we’re keeping it real on the papyrus:
all that’s written is written to inspire us …
Author Biographies
Mrs Alice Ebi Bafa: I was born in Nigeria, married at 12 and lived in Ghana until Kwesi died. Then I married a man from Sierra Leone who died on our wedding night. Then I married an Englishman who died. Then a Nigerian who died also. My fifth husband is toyboy, live and kicking.
Harry ‘Bells’ Bailey: worked as bouncer when studying at London Guildhall Uni. Ended up managing pub. Now owns five London gastropubs, including legendary Tabard Inn in Southwark. There, hosts monthly storytelling night, Plain Speaking, which mixes live performance with Skype.
‘London Bridge is dumbing down’ The Telegraph
‘High-brow meets Hi-tech’ The Guardian
Tim Canon-Yeo: was born in Singapore but schooled in the UK. After obtaining a Medieval English degree from Oxford he was a TEFL tutor for several years in Colombia. Now he’s a personal trainer and has been bodyguard to paranoid pop stars. He resides in Kent and writes a poem a day.
Yves Depardon: is a French-Canadian Professional Speaker and Business Coach living in Soho, Central London with his long-term partner. He’s published 20 self-help books and six novels, including the multi-million best-seller, Young, Free and Sinful (Impress, 2007). He regularly uses poetry in his presentations. His ‘love2Bme’ lectures attract a 2,000-strong online audience.
Missy Eglantine: born St Lucia/raised in Lewisham/R&B singer-rapper-poet/recording debut album/training 2B lay preacher/studied French UEL Stratford/owns 3 greyhounds/Love Peace & Justice/volunteer 4 RSPCA/just opened beauty salon Peckham/Nails Jewels & Curls/Life is busy!/1st collection Excuse my French/published by Salt 2010.
Femme Fatale: dark cabaret performer and per(form)ance poet. Owns Whitstable-based vintage clothes shop, Second to None, specialising in ’40s and ’50s era. A film noir aficionado with large private collection of DVDs and videos. Likes dead poets: W. H. Auden, Edna St Vincent Millay and Thom Gunn. Poetry must have strict constraints.
Mozilla Firefox: I’m the illegitimate offspring of The Brothers Johnson and the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence. I was dragged up off the Old Kent Road, London. Poetry’s my first love: we have an open relationship. I adore the heroic couplet but free verse is OK, as long as you’re wearing adequate protection.
Huw Fryer Jones: is from Colwyn Bay, North Wales. Studied music at Liverpool and did busking whilst a student for beer money and to impress the ladies. Brilliant! A born matchmaker, he makes his living singing at weddings. His lyrics are romantic: his verse is comic. Has published a poetry pamphlet with Seren.
Yejide Idowu-Clarke: I am a poet and publisher of academic books, educated at Queen’s College, Lagos. I read PPE, specialising in Philosophy, at Magdalen College, Oxford, gaining a First Class Honours. I completed my master’s degree in Creative Writing at Oxford Brookes University in 2009. I am based in London and Lagos.
Robert Knightley: is Professor of Creative Writing at UEA, a poet who has represented the British Council in Egypt, Turkey, Lithuania, Russia, Spain, Morocco and Algeria. His work is translated into 15 languages. His third collection, Truth, Honour, Freedom and Courtesy (Carcanet Books, 2010), was shortlisted for the T S Eliot Prize.
Frankie Lynn: once upon a time, there was a wee girl who grew up in an open house with open books that opened minds. They grew their own food and ran a vegan cafe in Edinburgh, Tatties and Neeps, giving free food to the homeless. One day, she found a magic pen …
Scott Mansell: My school report said ‘Scott will end up famous or in prison’. I left school with no qualifications, went from runner to trader at London Stock Exchange. Learnt Russian at night school and specialised in Eastern Europe. Retired at 40. Married an English teacher and started writing as a hobby …
Soul Merchant: was converted in Wigan Casino ’74 and hasn’t looked back. Became Northern Soul record dealer and for years ran massive stall in Affleck’s Palace, Manchester. Specialised in rare imports, white labels. Been DJ for 20 years. Now has regular spot at the Twisted Wheel. This is his first published piece.
Robyn Miller: Bolshy big bi redhead. Taurus, Leo rising. Part-time barmaid, full-time motormouth. Likes performance poetry. Punk poets John Cooper Clarke, Joolz, Steve Tasane. Loves Luke Wright, Hollie McNish, Kate Tempest. Anything that packs a punch. Wrestles for relaxation. Hates glass ceilings, religious bigots, size 8 anything. Lives, drinks, fights in Deptford.
monkey@puzzle: creates crosswords and quizzes for national newspapers. The ‘100 chars’ form came from Chaucer’s intro to the ‘Monk’s Tale’: ‘… first, tragedies wol I telle,/of which I have an hundred in my
celle’, and Carol Ann Duffy’s quote: ‘The poem is a form of texting … it’s the original text.’
Mel O’Brien: was born in Belfast, raised in Chatham and teaches English at a secondary school in Gravesend, Kent. Her poem was inspired by The Long Memory (1953) starring John Mills, filmed in and around Gravesend. Also, Jonathan Nolan’s short story, ‘Memento Mori’, that was later adapted for the film Memento (2000).
Rap, The Son aka ‘The Parson’: learnt my skills on the street not the classroom/African ancestry, spittin in my hands free/born, bred and battlin in Canterbury/Set an ex-sample to inspire you/if gold rusts, what will iron do?/Fired by KRS-One and the Bible/in the hip hop academy, an Old Skool disciple.
Ozymandia Reeves: was expelled from school before she learnt to hate poetry. Taught herself Anglo-Saxon and got Medieval Studies MA from York University. Been professional carpenter for years. Was runner-up in Ilkley Literature Festival Competition 2010 and now working on first slim volume and audiobook. Originally from Norfolk, now lives in Leeds.
Klaudia Schippmann: was born in Bordeaux and schooled in Dartmouth, Devon. Inspired by the creative process of Alice Oswald’s Dart, Schippmann often interviews her poetic subjects, attempting to replicate their speech in verse. ‘Things’ is a literary recreation of a conversation with a socialite on a BA flight from Hull to Cartagena.
Memory Anesu Sergeant: Originates from Zimbabwe. She practised for several years as a barrister specialising in land law and leases. However, she began writing seriously during maternity leave and completed her first collection, Coat of Many Colours (Bloodaxe, 2008). She learns her poems off by heart and reads regularly on BBC Radio 4.
Dr Kiranjeet Singh: Formerly a plastic surgeon with a passion for poetry, she now prefers to reconstruct lines on the page rather than the face. This piece was partly a response to the newspaper coverage of the beheading of Manju Kunwar in 2012; partly homage to the concrete poems of sculptor Carl Andre.
Jeu’di Squires: English & Cre8ive Writing wordsmith @ Goldsmiths. She wears the emporer’s new clothes embroidered with red&white flowers. Jeu’di’s learning the French horn & her fave read is La Disparition by Georges Perec. She intends to write her poetic thesis, Hidden Love Letters, in invisible ink only legible under UV light.
Geoff Sumner: left school at 16 to run fruit and veg stall in South London. Done every job you can think of, bailiff, used-car-dealer, door-to-door salesman. Now a stand-up who kills heckles with a couple of one-liners you won’t print. Only drinks red wine. Likes doing poetry gigs, less money, more laughs.