I read this at an opportune time. It really cheered me up.
I have long envied artists who draw and sketch each day; who are able to transform ordinary visual experience into art – I imagine it to be a joy.
So here comes Brian Bilston, using his gift of turning the mundane, the everyday into a diary entry and/or a poem, using the power of wit and the ability to mine the language for puns and other delights. He decides to make a diary entry for each day of the year, in order to master and get over life’s blows. His exasperated wife Sophie has just left him.
Life just gets worse. He sinks deeper and deeper into a state of lethargy, with only the cat for company, and his funny and sometimes subversive poems to lighten his mood. His focus narrows down to his neighbours’ bin day and other habits. He finds it difficult in his depressed state to engage with his teenage son Dylan who visits once a week. Sophie acquires a dynamic partner, the paragon of all virtues, a man whose success does not stop him from doing good deeds and who inspires Brian’s son with motivational quotes. As if life couldn’t get worse, this paragon decides he will relocate to the US taking Sophie and Dylan with him - this, just when Brian was starting to bond really well with his son. His son is reluctant to go.
Brian’s job has become increasingly tedious and opaque. (there are lovely pieces of modern jargon and office-speak). He is eventually made redundant. He never manages to read more than a few pages of the set book for his Book Group. He knows he will soon be thrown out. His contributions to the Poetry Group fall on unappreciative ground, while Toby Salt his rival is much admired and goes on to be published and fêted elsewhere.
This poem offends their sense of decorum and “poesie”:
Love in the Time of Cauliflower
Please marrow me, my beloved sweetpea,
so that we may beetroot to our hearts.
Lettuce have the courgette of our convictions
and our love elevated to Great Artichoke.
Don’t leek me feeling this way, my dear,
such lofty asparagus can’t be ignored.
I am a prisoner, trapped in your celery;
Don’t make me go back to the drawing broad beans.
We all carry emotional cabbage:
love is chard and not inconsequential,
but may our passion be uncucumbered
so that we reach our true potato.
Oh, how your onions make my head spinach,
reduce me to mushrooms, broccoli, defenceless.
Only you can salsify my desire,
and I, in turnip, will radish you senseless.
Brian is sinking into despair and becoming reckless. His funny poems sound like the cry of a clown - outward smiles masking a deperate state of mind. This is when the story turns into a murder mystery. Suffice to say that there are certain gaps in the diary, literally torn out pages, and that the mystery is resolved with the means of a poem. Neat.
This poem is about Oxymorons.
Alone together, for once,
I told her how I thought that –
in my unbiased opinion –
the incidence of oxymorons
in the English language
had been growing smaller.
That’s old news, she said,
adding that it had been the case
for almost exactly ten years.
Things got pretty ugly.
But this, in itself,
felt strangely normal;
for ours was
a bittersweet relationship,
a civil war
of violent agreements.
I found myself annoyingly
endeared to her
whilst she thought
my puritanical streak
seriously funny.
Our contradictions
complemented each other
perfectly.
Same difference,
I whispered loudly,
but she, with a sad smile,
after telling me how
I’d left her speechless,
went back to reading
her textbook
on business ethics.
Finally, for those who like the playful, and the nonsensical that makes sense:
Not a Poem
This is not a poem
only a combination of words
broken up in such a way to make
you think it is.
Spacing is important
upper case characters
line breaks
that I have skilfully
manoevred on the page (note too the absence of
upper case characters
see how they make it seem
deeper somehow
it is still not a poem, though,
enough of this now.
The entry in the diary goes on:
What the hell is poetry anyhow? The tearing open of the heart? the baring of the soul? The sharing of a universe? Or is it all mere postrue and pantomine?
Ask someone who cares.