Marmiteboy - Urbane Warrior.

Saturday, November 12, 2005

I'm not a poet and don't I know it!!

As documented I've been feeling a bit rubbish this last couple of weeks culminating in me getting some new meds for the increasing anxiety I've been feeling. Last night I had one of my really bad nights sleep. This usually manifests itself in me tossing and turning and lying awake reliving events in my head, or even worse pining for women I fell hopelessly in unrequited love with.

This is a bad idea. It does you no good whatsoever. I have been told before by friends and by professional counsellors that you need to do something about this. You can get up and do something, thus blocking it out or you can write your thoughts down thus expunging them from your mind, at least for that moment anyway.

Last night in my tossy turny episode I was ruminating on a young woman who I was briefly acquainted with and with whom I fell hopelessly in love. It was all unrequited of course and it really fucked me up for quite a while (I won't bore you with the details). So last night, and I wasn't pissed, I decided to write a poem for her. This was at about 1.30 in the morning and as you will see was a mistake. Although this was purely an exercise in trying to channel all the negative thoughts and energy I was experiencing and I don't have any intention of sending it to her, anyway I haven't seen her for an age and don't know where she lives.

When I looked at this poem this morning I fell about in fits of laughter. It is a really bad poem, really bad. Full of self-pity and appalling couplets. It sounded good last night when I was feeling all sorry for myself and was dreaming about what could have happened if she had decided that I was the one for her.

So as a lesson to any budding poets out there and because it is just so shit and it made me laugh, I give you my poem about unrequited love. Billy Bragg, Martha Wainwright and Morrisey eat your collective hearts out ;-) Bracketed comments are my own.

You're the itch I cannot scratch,
The star I cannot reach, (pass the sick bucket)
Like the damp unstrikeable match, (I needed something to rhyme with scratch, sorry)
Lost keys on a sandy beach.

Your memory sets me in a whirl,
Though I hardly knew you,
Like the train window girl, (I nicked the last four words off of Scott Walker)
Disappearing from view.

I could never tell you how I felt,
Nor the longing in my heart, (poor little lamb)
How your voice would make me melt, ( she wasn't a superhero so fuck knows what this means)
You had me from the start.

(Here comes the self pitying bit, get yer hankies out)

My feelings for you were all consuming, (Jesus this is shit)
Unrequited love's made that way (Er yes what's new)
It's painful return always looming (Get a bloody grip man)
It must be kept at bay (Possibly the worst last line in a poem ever, it was 2 o'clock in the morning though and I really needed a wee).

Well that's it. I think that bollocks will be melting the hearts of any women anytime soon. I should stick to lists I think.

7 Comments:

Blogger The Goldfish said...

It's not that bad at all. I mean really Marmite, it may not be Martha Wainwright but it is easily Avril Lavigne. ;-)

However, it tells us nothing about the young lady in question and her possible feelings. You didn't know her very well. It could well have been that she fancied you but was too shy or otherwise engaged to go out with you. In fact knowing your confidence, I wouldn't be surprised if you hadn't even asked.

It was her loss as well as yours. Coming from this perspective (and taking out the astral bodies and missing keys), you might have written;

You're the itch I cannot scratch,
Between my shoulders, out of reach
I waited for you to strike the match,
The gulf you would not dare to breach.

Your memory sends me in a whirl,
Although we barely ever spoke
You were the train window girl,
Me, the handsome platform bloke.

We could never utter how we felt,
You’d walk in, my heart would stop
And my voice would make you melt,
Good job that I had a mop.

My feelings for you were all consuming,
Forbidden love is made that way
But a chance is ever looming;
We’ll meet again, one sunny day.

Well that was my ten minute conversion, I'm sure you could do better. I very much doubt there is evidence to suggest that this wasn't the true state of affairs, other than your personal interpretation of events.

If your mind is forcing you to rake over the past, try to find alternative perspectives on things. I know I have been a bit silly here, but we really don't know the minds of others and although you can't turn back the clock, accepting the possibility of other interpretations casts doubt over the single negative perspective which can but bring you down.

Hope you sleep better tonight. :-)

11:45 pm

 
Blogger Katie said...

Hi Marmiteboy, I don't see anything bad in writing that poem at all! It showed how you felt and your mind was filled with thoughts and writing them down in that way or note form is a good way to sort things out.

You don't have to send the poem to her(the lady you like) You can keep it as something that was in your mind at the time, and I think it wasn't the drink talking but your concience telling how you felt. Don't think it was a mistake as writing it down how you feel in any format helps to sort your feelings out in a good way. I've done that and I've always found it helps me so it will help you mate!

6:03 pm

 
Blogger pete said...

I have had a few long term relationships in me life. But the one woman who played havok with me skull, was one that I only knew for a few months. I still am sometimes 'bothered' by her.

The poem is what you felt at the time, truth is there.

6:51 pm

 
Anonymous Anonymous said...

that was rough marmite. even Pam Ayres would shudder at that. lets hope you got it out of your system for all our sakes!

9:29 pm

 
Blogger Charlesdawson said...

Writing it out is good therapy. Remember Dante and Beatrice, Petrarch and Laura? You keep it up if you want to, Marmite. Nobody's laughing.

11:00 am

 
Blogger Gimpy Mumpy said...

I agree MB. Keep on writing. I find writing a cathartic experience. A bit of Lady MacBeth's 'out, out damn spot' but in the form of 'out, out damn words'. Once they are out and on paper, they lack the power to mess with your brain. You have the power then, the control. Those tempestuous thoughts and emotions become simple words on a page and are thus transformed into something we can deal with.
I believe that your act of writing was brave and healthy.

8:38 pm

 
Blogger marmiteboy said...

Thanks for all your kind words folks, and the rewrite ;-)

I'm feeling a bit better today. Sometimes I just lapse back into pining mode. I'm very good at pining. It doesn't do your health much good but it's not an easy thing to stop.

Goldfish, I am heartened to be compared to that song writing colossus that is Avril Lavigne. Only in my wildest dreams could I hope to compose a song of such poignancy, such heart rending beauty as Sk8ter Boy ;-)

9:44 am

 

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