"Gathering Dust"

Imagine how proud you were
Poetry on sale for ten bob
An anthology called 'Versewagon'
That should do the job.
The date label's got an '01' number
And was published in 1982
Been sat on the library shelves
Without a single view.
Out of sight without an issue
Was it all a waste
Hours of thought putting pen to paper
Then designing old fashioned cut & paste.
Immortalised in print forever
Camper van drawn on the cover
I bet you never imagined my copy
Would never be picked up by another.
Until I borrowed your book
After 34 years on the shelf
The cliched moral to this story:
Poetry never brings you wealth.

Dulwich Poet 12th April 2016

(One of the booklets I borrowed from the Poetry Library had never been issued before...it was published in 1982!)

"Giving Us A Bad Name"

You call yourself Proletarian Poetry
Nothing wrong with that
An entertaining night at the Poetry Library
Selling your books not tat.
I'm proper working class old fashioned
Never rob off your own
So I'm proper shocked and stunned
Sat on the 176 bus home.
I just had enough money on me
To buy two books for thirteen nicker
I blame myself for not realising you ripped me off
I wish I'd spotted it quicker.
The total cost on the back
Was twelve pounds ninety eight
Where's my fucking tuppence
I've been conned but it's too late!
I really shouldn't begrudge it
There's no money in poetry to be made
Unless you round everything up by a penny
So you thieving bastards well played!

Dulwich Poet 6th April 2016

(I went to an event at the Poetry Library, about working class poets, bought two of their books....and was overcharged!)

" A Working Class Poet Is Something To Be..."

How do I qualify
For this thing called 'working class'
It's not something you can say you are
While sounding middle class posh
Bold as brass.
For me it's about upbringing
As well as the voice
It's not something you attach to poetry
Giving credibility to your voice.
Saying you live in Sutton
Describing it as shit
Have you been to the Roundshaw or New Addington
Even I'd call those a pit.
You compare Sutton and Luton
Are you 'aving a bubble
One's nondescript egde of suburbia
The other's a Home Counties dump fit for rubble.
Even I wouldn't live in Luton
If you gave me a sackful of cash
And Sutton's got that saving grace
Of a Manze's for pie and mash.
Tonight was about the proletariat
But no-one dropping their aitches & t's
These weren't quite lah-di-dah
But it seemed like a posh wheeze.
I bet you've never encountered a debt collector
Or been banged up in a prison cell.
Or even been able to phone in sick
Cos you can't afford to be unwell.
I somehow doubt you know real poetry
Safe in your suburban home.
Daddy might have had an ordinary job
And nice garden with a gnome.
I've nothing against you or your poetry
Just your self-defined working class
From where I'm from you were comfortable
But I'll let it pass.
Hiding from the rent-man
That's working class poor
Someone breaking open your gas meter
Having kicked in your door.
Your mum having three cleaning jobs
To put school uniform your back
Not a problem you had in suburbia
I'm sure you were alright Jack
I know I shouldn't be so judgemental
We can call ourselves what we like
But to me you're not a working class poet
On your fucking bike!
I've no problem with your writing
Far more talented than me
I'm just saying you're not my sort of working class
Who had a council estate upbringing like me.

Dulwich Poet 6th April 2016

(I attended a free event at the Poetry Library, about working class poetry. It didn't seem too 'working class' to me...)