Why I hate poetry, and poets.

Reluctant poet who hates poetry, and poets.

My first exposure to “real” poetry was from a substitute teacher called Mr Simons. The man who burst my bubble about everything I thought I enjoyed and what I considered great!

Usually a substitute teacher steps in and carries on the lesson or subject you had been previously working on, not Mr. Simons, He made it his mission to speak about Poetry, ALL THE TIME! His sentences didn’t ever rhyme….loser. Any way, he asked one Wednesday morning in English class if we knew any famous poems.

First mistake, never ask a new class of first years a sensible question.

I put my hand up instantly, expecting his sense of humour to be the same as our proper English teacher, Mr. Adams. I started to recite my favourite piece of written word, pure genius in my 12 year old mind.

Beans, beans, the musical fruit,

The more you eat the more you…

Needless to say , his sense of humour, (or lack there of) was not the same as Mr. Adams and I was asked to leave the class and wait in the corridor (something I became very familiar with)

I didn’t hear the rest of that lesson but the following day, sure enough, Mr Simons was in again. When he asked if the class knew of any famous poets I raised my hand, to a less than impressed, polo neck, tweed jacket, leather elbow padded wearing Mr Simons.

“Roald Dahl” I said.

“Really? Ok and why is that Craig?” He responded

“Chris sir..”

“Well, not that that matters, answer the question”

“Uh…coz he is funny sir, and it rhymes?”

That was the trigger word. "Rhyme"....Mr Simons did not like things that rhymed.. Now I honestly can't remember what his 35 minute lecture consisted of after that, as I tuned out from the sheer boredom of the rubbish coming out of his mouth. I do remember that sausage rolls were in the canteen that day at break time however.

For the rest of that week and the following one, Mr. Simons covered our class. He also looked after scripture union at the time…(I was a Christian then & Mr Simons was a free Presbyterian and a hardcore one at that…so even his idea on Christianity was hardcore). In class he tried introducing us to my many forms of poetry and poets. Most of it I found pretentious (what I mean by that is, it was all to smart for me) I couldn’t get my head around why you would even bother if it didn’t rhyme or make you laugh….

Years on after my many failed attempts at writing novels, I hunted out my old lyric books. Reams and reams of paper filled with teenage angst dribble, written for the many grunge and punk bands I played in. But some of it was magic! Stuff inspired by Tolkien, religion, bullying and lack of self worth.

As I write this I realise I have gotten away from my point…….to put it bluntly…I used to hate coffee when I was in high school….now I can't function without it and feel like every sip is a mouthful of angel tears!

Poetry is wonderful. There are so many forms, styles, genres, lengths, subject matters, forms of delivery. It is a diverse as art itself. Wonderful. And like the broad word of “art” there are parts of it I like and dislike..

For me poetry is my way to express anger, tell stories and give thanks for beauty.

I feel that this should be split up into a few different posts.

One on anger and one on Fantasy as they are the two main headings that I would place my writing into.

As I said poetry really is awesome, the more I read and the more I discover, the more excited I get!

Poets however are usually a bunch of stuffy idiots. If someone introduces themselves as a poet you should headbutt them immediately!

So with that rambling and loss of direction I would like to draw my post back to a poem inspired by Roald Dahl. I would like to dedicate this to Mr. Simons, in the hope that someday you read this post. You are the first thing I think of when I hear the word poet. I hope you remember the fat boy standing in your classroom that you humiliated and called stupid. You tried to tell me what I liked was wrong and worst of all you belittled the great Mr Dahl.

This one is for you, I hope you have the time,

To read the words of this uneducated mind, I even made it rhyme.

Hopefully you will enjoy it, read to the end with any luck,

If not, well I don’t really give a stuff, enjoy you  right wing *Cough*!  

(that wasn’t it)

This is called Jesus Christ, Zombie Slayer.

In a town in Nazearth was born a boy,

You know the story and you have the toy.

But this story has another untold layer,

Because Jesus was, in fact, a zombie slayer!

The good book says his Da made stuff out of wood,

But only one thing Jesus made was really any good.

He failed at making tables chairs or beds,

But he made weapons strong enough to cut of heads.

Joseph new carpentry was not in his son’s fate

For he too had a secret life when the hour got late

Before Mary had told him, she was knocked up the duff

They both hunted monsters and couldn’t get enough

One dark summer evening when the sun had lowered

Jesus returned to see Mary sharpening a sword.

He seemed confused and questioned “what is this?”

She replied “son, it’s time to learn the Other family business”

The training was hard but Jesus was ready

He took his time, was careful and steady

The first time he killed a monster worth any mention

Was poetic and seemed to have divine intervention

A giant had raised out of its grave

Jesus attacked it, trying to be brave

Joseph was busy, Jesus left on his tod

So he punched through his skull with the power of a god

The giants body fell like a sack of shit

Jesus kept punching and kicking at it

Joseph pulled him back “son it’s dead”

“but how’d ya know dad?”

“coz you caved in its head!”

As Jesus grew up he saw signs and omens

That the dead were awakened and used by the romans

To further their reach of glory and power

With ranks of zombies, looking for brains to devour.

All through his teenage years he was focused

On the real threat, not one of frogs and locust

His mother told him he was something quite special

Like a polar opposite of the feared Jewish devil.

His obsession gave a reputation to his friends as moronic

But Jesus’s  thought were on something much more demonic

The time had come to follow the signs to the big city

He knew the things that were to come, would not be pretty

On the road he met a beggar...Well... begging

Jesus followed him back to his dwelling

He was not naive, he knew it was a trick

That’s why he was always armed with favourite sharp stick

Inside the house were ritualistic runes

There were also bottles and jars filled with prunes

But those arnt the things Jesus found most troubling

That went to the woman tied up that was struggling

The door slammed behind him, the beggar was laughing

Jesus ordered him to explain, before he started thrashing

“the price on your heads is to hard to turn down”

“me I get, but why this simple girl from the town? “

The beggar continued to unravel the plot

 This often happens believe it or not

There is something about Jesus, his honesty and youth,

That forces the most stone of heart to unburned the truth.

Eventually he learned Jesus was wanted by the unfriendly,

The long lost and forgotten, underground monster assembly

The girl was just having a really bad day,

She just so happened to get in the beggar’s way.

Enough he had heard, Jesus lifted his stick

But instead offered up a roundhouse kick.

The beggar fell back with a crash and a thud

Trickling from the back of his head was a small pool of blood

The girl’s bonds were cut and she ran away screaming

Jesus just behind her for a hard day’s redeeming

As soon as he made it to the first tiny village

He learned of a monster that at night came to pillage

The stories were told round the fire that night

Of the monster that came that Jesus must fight

It had 3 sets of horns,  human legs and the head of a bull

It would eat all their crops, maybe a child or two till it was full

It had already been a few nights since the creature had gone

So Jesus prepared to meet it face on.

The sun set and the roar of the beast could be heard

So Jesus chose the weapons that he always preferred.

An axe with blades than spun at one end,

And an morning star mace that brought many a second end.

The beast arrived, mouth frothing, ready, with growls and howls,

With the fastest of movement Jesus opened its bowels.

The smell was putrid, awful and sick,

Jesus held his nose as he cut of its....um...nevermind

He nailed its member above the city walls,

With a note, and a quote and two furry balls.

Jesus’s fame grew as he traveled the land,

Fighting Demons and evil that lived in the sand

He defeated a spider the size of a bus

That plagued the land with its poisonous puss

He made the shortest of work of an army of gnomes

He waited till they were hunting then burnt out their homes.

They panicked and ran to the well to fetch water,

That’s when they met out hero, and a whole lot of Slaughter

A dragon that plagued the Nazareth farmlands,

Was brought to the ground by the laying on of hands

Not like now when it’s done in church by a pastor

No he stared the bitch down like the Demon headmaster

Once grounded and weak Jesus went for the throat

He ripped the demon in half, and that’s all that she wrote.

The time was drawing near, Jesus felt it in his waters

An army was closing in on Jerusalem, an army of deadly rotters.

Now this bit is true that you learnt in Sunday school class

Jesus did in fact reach the city on an ass.

The road ahead was in fact paved by palm leaves

As their saviour entered the city of thieves

He fought many a serpent out on the water

Helped fishermen Avoid an untimely Slaughter

Brought roman employees out of the trees

Taught them to kill city monsters to settle their fees

As the time there went on, he grew his own gang

To battle the bloodsucking villains with fangs

Their fame was still growing and got even larger

When his posse of heroes defeated a bloodthirsty charger

They had a warrior, a thief, a rogue and a healer

They even brought into their ranks the son of a peeler

Together they helped to clean up all the streets

This started to anger the Jewish elites

They had their own order for dealing with freaks

But that unit had no work or no danger for weeks

Jesus’s group were doing such a good job

Not to mention their leader was such a heartthrob

One day they agreed to get rid of the new boy

They followed and stalked him which brought them much joy.

They saw him feed thousands with fish and some bread,

This really made them want the foreigner dead.

His followers loved him, they had no doubt,

But just a little bit of cash, one would surely sell him out.

One such traitor put up little to no fight,

Proving once again the rabbis were right.

After a dinner party where they all drank some wine

Jesus chilled in the garden, Peter checked he was fine

Instead of a nice peaceful midsummer evening

The night was filled with roman armour that was gleaming

The soldiers however in the armour weren’t fresh

They wee rotting corpses with stinking green flesh

With a moan and a grunt they came at the two for a Skirmish

But they were knocked and beheaded with a quick fancy flourish.

The zombies kept coming no end in sight

By this time all the disciples had entered the fight.

They cut and they grinded the skulls of the dead

Untill the garden of grass was stained a dark shade of red.

Finally when the rotters had been Freed from their mauling

The disciples were alarmed to see who was calling

One of their own, Judas the prick

He had joined up with the leaders and joined their ranks thick

With a quick fluid motion, you’d he forgiven to miss,

Judas condemned his old friend with a quick little kiss

Away he was dragged by more guards they could handle

They were left with jaws dropped by the state of this scandal

Only one of the disciples let out little alarm,

Because he had seen the bite marks on Jesus’s arm

He knew that it would only be a matter of time

Before the men who made zombies would die for their crime

The trial was quite quick, he was sentenced to hang

From a cross on a hill, the only one from the gang.

The rest had taken off to fight the dead around the city

The zombie quad had ended, now that was a pity

By the time Jesus died on the cross on the Friday

The body was wrapped up and cleaned nice and tidy

But on the morning the body has moved from the cave

Redemption and punishment hit the city like a wave

During prayers a figure stood at the doors of the Temple

This figure was menacing and anything but gentle

It tore through the worshipers like a knife through butter

Some tried to call out, but gave only a blood filled splutter

Before Jesus was executed he wasn’t inspected

They missed the zombie bite that had got him infected

Now stronger than ever, as he just demonstrated

Jesus had become the one thing he once hated

Risen from the grave he was born once again

With the soul purpose however, not to save, but eat men

He was sound of mind though not a mindless biter

But an overpowered, supernatural, post-human fighter

So this legend is different from the tale in the Bible

This one is much more brutal, more rugged, more tribal

The news of Jesus transformation wasn’t widespread

Of how a carpenter’s son, became the king of the undead

So don’t ask you Pastor or rabbi or priest

About how the church follows the practices of Jesus’s feast

Communion has changed, thankfully its a lot more fresh

The wine no longer is blood and its wafers not flesh

So please keep it quiet, if you want say a prayer

And Thank whatever God you want, for Jesus, the zombie slayer.

C. Mahood