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On my 18th Birthday

This is a bit of a haphazard post as I don't know when I'll next be in front of the computer... maybe tomorrow... maybe the next day. It's very warm in Lanzarote. Shorts and T-shirt, though I've not had the chance to rip off my clothes and lie in the sun yet. Been digging a LOT of compost and have many more duties to attend to over the coming days. The space here at Amatista is absolutely stunning... lots of weird and wonderful plants.... like from a 1960's sci fi series like land of the giants!!

So put your suggestions down for the next poem, share this post with all your loved ones and bring them back here to Simon Welsh Poetry so they too can share in this weird and wonderful experience of co-creative poetry writing with us.

What would you like to hear/see in THIS poem... there is no ceiling and the choices are endless... so start suggesting!! Loads of love from Lanzarote, Simon xxx

If you'd like to refresh your memories as to what we've written together so far, all the poems have stored here for your easy listening pleasure . . .


On my 18th birthday

On my 18th birthday, like, I went to town to vote,
We had to cross the water to the mainland on a boat.
I took my turn at ballet booth. I ticked my little box.
I was wearing favourite trousers and a matching pair of socks.

Then I took the train, then the bus and then the boat.
It were cold on ferry crossing so I buttoned up my coat.
And, finally, I sat at table feeling like a man,
And then my Dad said, “Son, you’re old enough. You can.”

“Can what, Dad?” I said a frown upon my face.
“Listen to the music with me; share its noble grace.”
So after dinner, Mum washed up and I went off with Dad.
He took me to his study; it were really really mad.

He sat me down on arm chair that were old and smelled of dust
And then I realised that he were giving me his trust.
He sat himself right opposite on t’other dusty chair.
I looked at him and noticed that he hadn’t got much hair.

When did he start balding? How did I miss that?
“You’re ignorant,” I told myself. “Dozy little twat!”
I think he saw my thinking. I think he saw inside.
But in his bloody study there were ought where I could hide.

“Sometimes, Son, my mind gets busy. This is where I come.
“I smoke a Cuban Crafter and then I chew some gum. For your Mum.
“I put the record player on and let the music take me;
“The Classicals are magic. They can lift me. They can break me.

So now, my favourite son, my only son, I give to you
My second record player and my Mozart No. 2.
And when you need a break from the noises in your head,
Remember that we’ve had this chat and put this on instead.

“Thank you, Dad” I said, and I took the things he gave.
I knew it weren’t the sort of thing to stick on at rave.
But later on, in bed, and the thing plugged in beside me
I let the music in; I let in right inside me.

I saw that I am God, that all human beings are one.
I felt how it would feel on the inside of the Sun.
I saw the first beginning and I saw the very end.
And when I listened really deep I saw that time could bend.

So, when I go to rest home, to see my aging Nan,
I try to take the record player. Play it if I can.
Nanna loves it. So do I. I sit and hold her hand;
Her favourite one’s Traumerei by that Schumann on the Grand.

There are times when we just sit and listen, looking at each other.
My Mum’s dead chuffed I see my Nan. Shame about my brother.
The nurses like it when I come to play my record box.
And, unlike when I voted, I don’t think about my socks.

I think about my Nan while I’m looking in her eyes.
And while the music’s playing, we both take off our disguise.
I think I’m saying goodbye to her. I think we’re making peace.
They really ought to get that Mozart out on re-release.

Thursday 6th December 2012 © Simon Welsh Poetry



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