The importance of getting the name right.
HI,
.
Years ago I read in our local paper that they were thinking of printing a series of previously unpublished poems, written by local people.
Did anyone want to submit their work?
.
As I had nothing better to do that day, so I acted upon a sudden good idea.
I decided to send one my poems in.
.
I duly did so, and received a phone call some days later, to say that my poem would be in the paper on a certain date.
Oh Bliss. Oh poop. Oh me. Oh my.
.
On the great day I rushed off to get the paper, turned to the appropriate page and there it was.
I read it through with mounting enjoyment until I reached the end.
WHAT!
There, at the bottom of the poem, was the name of the author…..AND IT WAS NOT MINE!
No, it was not mine, it was the name and place of abode of some other woman, something like Beryl Longbottom of Ashington!
What a letdown, but really rather funny.
.
You see, I was being rather facetious when I sent the poem in, because I wanted to see if they would publish something with the words bloody and fart in it? And they did!
.
Just imagine though, if you will, the following scenario.
Miss Beryl Longbottom, well known spinster of the parish and leading light of both the local amateur dramatic society and the local W.I.
Devout worshipper, flower arranger and vicar’s little helper, proudly and excitedly telling all her friends, with their cat’s bum mouths, that she is about to become a published poet.
Even reminding them, as the day draws ever nearer, that they must remember to order a paper.
Indeed, on that important day, even ordering a couple of dozen herself for quick dispatch to friends and relatives in assorted far flung places?
.
So, after a quick dash back from the newsagents, having just loudly informed him and the many impressed pensioners ( in the shop to buy their cut price sachets of cheap gruel ) that she is now a published local poet, she rushes, pink cheeked, back home.
.
Soon, sitting cosily by a cheering fire, she takes a refreshing sip of the steaming cup of tea at her elbow and then a neat bite of a tasty bourbon biscuit.
Now, with exquisite, long drawn out enjoyment, she slowly opens a pristine newspaper drawn from the top of the pile which has been arranged, prominently, on the side-table.
There it is, poem of the day.
Is it not wonderful that a decent, clean , old fashioned, well written piece of poetry, using a nice rhyming style can be so thoroughly appreciated in these modern and turbulent times.
Then, consternation, disbelief, shock! The best laid plans of etc, etc, etc.
This is indeed her own name but not her poem, unfortunately.
Oh dear, how will she ever dare to look the dashing vicar in the eye again.
.
.
Here is my poem.
In dialect, no less.
-
-
ME MUTHA’S DEED MAN.
-
Nowt’s green roond heah
It’s alle bluddy concrete
Bluddy beach is gone
Nowt but a crappy auld seat.
Me Mutha’s deed man
Aye, ahm bluddy glad
Wi alle these changes
Shid tek it bad.
Shi luvved them trees doon bie the ‘Lark’
Coonsills buggered off hinny
Wi wor bluddy park
Thiv changed it alle
It id break ah hart
Prougress and change man
It’s not worth a fart
-
LOL
PS: The paper did ring me to apologise and they did eventually insert a small note, deeply buried in the middle of the newspaper, to say that I wrote the poem.
I wonder if that satisfied poor Beryl?
.
.
