My fledgling writing career took another faltering step forward today when I had a poem accepted for a forthcoming anthology. Added to my articles that have appeared in The Red Final and a couple of letters that made it into New Statesman this year, it all starts to sound pretty impressive. If I keep adding to my oeuvre at this rate, I reckon I’ll have my own Evening Express column by 2050. An illustrious literary career is but a Halley’s Comet sighting away.
Until the letter arrived this morning, I had forgotten all about my poetic submission. Like all my best opuses, it was written in the jail when time was plentiful and female distractions were scarce. When I opened my mail, expecting to be swamped by fiscal demands from Inland Revenue, there was instead a chirpy letter informing me that my ‘poem “What Lies Above” has been selected to be included in the book The Creative Touch which can be ordered from all good bookshops worldwide.’ And some crap ones too I should imagine. If their preamble was true, my poem was both the sperm that fertilised the egg and the pussy that got the cock cream, fighting off competition from ‘thousands of entries from some really excellent poets.’ And, once again, some crap ones too. Nevertheless, that wasn’t to detract any from my achievement. The letter effectively stated ‘You rule!’, and who was I to question the judgement of a publishing house that had never even met me? My excitement was tempered somewhat, however, when I saw the enclosed jacket cover. To illustrate the evocative imagery that poetry can summon, the publishers had opted for a seascape. And not just any old seascape, but a dreary low-res, pixellated seascape that looked like it had been shot using a disposable camera that came free with a Christmas cracker. It reminded me of the sort of maudlin holiday snap that can be found churning out of Kodak kiosks and clogging up web servers the world over. The front cover was all waves crashing evocatively on the rocks, while on the reverse, the blurb - framed by more evocative waves, naturally - proclaimed ‘Creativity is a wonderful thing and one of the most rewarding endeavours.’ Utter bullshit; no one endeavours to be creative. Creativity is only a means to an end, it’s not some pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. Unabashed, it continued ‘In this anthology we are offered a glimpse of the way in which not just one poet writes - but a whole plethora of them.’ My goodness - a plethora of poets all banded together in one volume? Can you handle the combined weight of their iambic pentameter? The blurb concluded ‘This book is a unique compilation of unique poetry by unique individuals and in these pages they have all been able to express their art, thus displaying The Creative Touch which drives their imaginations.’ Er, no. Just no. The only things my imagination contemplates creatively touching are lesbians and vulpine phalluses. (Yes, that’s right, I have a fetish for fox cocks. Is that a problem?) And ace as my poem undoubtedly is, let’s not get too pretentious here and call it ‘art’. It’s some words I scribbled on a piece of paper because I was bored in jail, OK? I would rather have taken heroin but I didn’t have any so I wrote a poem instead. And what’s more, I didn’t even write it for The Creative Touch - I wrote it for the prison magazine. Unbeknown to the publishers, my poem has already appeared in print in the Craigie Crack. In spite of being by all accounts a magnificent piece of prose, my ode failed to impress the harshest critics of all - my fellow convicts. Admittedly this may have had something to do with that they were all illiterate. Still, talk about pearls before swine.
As well as a proof of my poem to be checked over and returned, there was also a personal profile sheet enclosed to enable putative readers of The Creative Touch to learn a little more about me, the artist, who had made their uncultured life that little bit more refined by graciously permitting them to savour my magnum opus. As an example, it gave the following profile: ‘Joanne Cooper, author of “Pride Comes Tomorrow” has been writing verse for six years and is strongly influenced by her work in a nursing home in her home town of Epsom. “I love working with the elderly and their stories often inspire me to take out my notebook and start scribbling” she explained. “I want to leave something of myself behind and poetry is the perfect way to get my message across.”’ No, if you really want to leave something of yourself behind, I suggest you ask to be cremated and for your ashes to be used to mulch the nursing home rose beds. Her pretentious profile concluded: ‘She and her husband Ronald enjoy reading, walking and regular holidays in the Canaries.’ Based on this example, there followed a series of questions to complete in order to create my personal profile. Compare Joanne’s answers to mine, as listed below, and you’ll see that the two of us are kindred spirits, bound by our love of poetry and our desire to spread our art to the ignorant masses.
Hobbies: Smoking weed, downloading hardcore pornography.
Profession: Drug dealer.
Ambition: To control the weed trade in the Grampian region, and ultimately the whole of Scotland.
When did you start writing and why: I started writing when I was in prison serving time for drug dealing and perjury.
How would you describe your style? Spiky with blonde highlights.
How would you like to be remembered? Give me a break! I’m only 26, I’m not an intravenous drug user and I eat my five fruit and veg a day. I’d like to be remembered as a going concern.
Who would you like to be for a day? Scarlet Johannson. So I could stand in front of a full-length mirror and frig myself from dawn till dusk.
Have you written anything else? Yes, lots of things.
What? Well let’s see, I wrote my name on the side of a bus shelter this morning. And then there was that letter I wrote to Lily Allen professing my undying love for her and threatening to stalk her if she didn’t reciprocate.
What is your biggest fantasy? No, I’m not making this up; this was a genuine question. I don’t even know where to start with a poser like this. Let’s just say that Joanne Cooper would be horrified to discover that her poem had been published in the same volume as such a filthy pervert. God forbid some of his lascivious proclivities might rub off on her by proxy of the printed page.
What is your worst nightmare? Midgets, it's got to be midgets. And Pete Burns’ lips. In fact midgets with Pete Burns’ lips. That would be pretty scary.
Well, I hope that reading the above profile has enabled you to come to a better understanding of the genius behind ‘What Lies Above’. Hang on, you’ve not even read the poem yet, have you? Well I suppose I could reproduce it here so you can marvel at its awesomeness, but that would be selling it short. To be frank, it’s too classy for a smutty weblog like this. If you want to read my poem, you’ll have to buy the anthology when it comes out, just like all the other cool kids. Although if you’re too embarrassed to walk into your local ‘good bookshop’ and ask for The Creative Touch, I suggest you inveigle a friend into doing the honours for you. And ask him to pick up some KY jelly and a box of extra small condoms too while he’s in town. Then you really will be able to enjoy the creative touch.
Until the letter arrived this morning, I had forgotten all about my poetic submission. Like all my best opuses, it was written in the jail when time was plentiful and female distractions were scarce. When I opened my mail, expecting to be swamped by fiscal demands from Inland Revenue, there was instead a chirpy letter informing me that my ‘poem “What Lies Above” has been selected to be included in the book The Creative Touch which can be ordered from all good bookshops worldwide.’ And some crap ones too I should imagine. If their preamble was true, my poem was both the sperm that fertilised the egg and the pussy that got the cock cream, fighting off competition from ‘thousands of entries from some really excellent poets.’ And, once again, some crap ones too. Nevertheless, that wasn’t to detract any from my achievement. The letter effectively stated ‘You rule!’, and who was I to question the judgement of a publishing house that had never even met me? My excitement was tempered somewhat, however, when I saw the enclosed jacket cover. To illustrate the evocative imagery that poetry can summon, the publishers had opted for a seascape. And not just any old seascape, but a dreary low-res, pixellated seascape that looked like it had been shot using a disposable camera that came free with a Christmas cracker. It reminded me of the sort of maudlin holiday snap that can be found churning out of Kodak kiosks and clogging up web servers the world over. The front cover was all waves crashing evocatively on the rocks, while on the reverse, the blurb - framed by more evocative waves, naturally - proclaimed ‘Creativity is a wonderful thing and one of the most rewarding endeavours.’ Utter bullshit; no one endeavours to be creative. Creativity is only a means to an end, it’s not some pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. Unabashed, it continued ‘In this anthology we are offered a glimpse of the way in which not just one poet writes - but a whole plethora of them.’ My goodness - a plethora of poets all banded together in one volume? Can you handle the combined weight of their iambic pentameter? The blurb concluded ‘This book is a unique compilation of unique poetry by unique individuals and in these pages they have all been able to express their art, thus displaying The Creative Touch which drives their imaginations.’ Er, no. Just no. The only things my imagination contemplates creatively touching are lesbians and vulpine phalluses. (Yes, that’s right, I have a fetish for fox cocks. Is that a problem?) And ace as my poem undoubtedly is, let’s not get too pretentious here and call it ‘art’. It’s some words I scribbled on a piece of paper because I was bored in jail, OK? I would rather have taken heroin but I didn’t have any so I wrote a poem instead. And what’s more, I didn’t even write it for The Creative Touch - I wrote it for the prison magazine. Unbeknown to the publishers, my poem has already appeared in print in the Craigie Crack. In spite of being by all accounts a magnificent piece of prose, my ode failed to impress the harshest critics of all - my fellow convicts. Admittedly this may have had something to do with that they were all illiterate. Still, talk about pearls before swine.
As well as a proof of my poem to be checked over and returned, there was also a personal profile sheet enclosed to enable putative readers of The Creative Touch to learn a little more about me, the artist, who had made their uncultured life that little bit more refined by graciously permitting them to savour my magnum opus. As an example, it gave the following profile: ‘Joanne Cooper, author of “Pride Comes Tomorrow” has been writing verse for six years and is strongly influenced by her work in a nursing home in her home town of Epsom. “I love working with the elderly and their stories often inspire me to take out my notebook and start scribbling” she explained. “I want to leave something of myself behind and poetry is the perfect way to get my message across.”’ No, if you really want to leave something of yourself behind, I suggest you ask to be cremated and for your ashes to be used to mulch the nursing home rose beds. Her pretentious profile concluded: ‘She and her husband Ronald enjoy reading, walking and regular holidays in the Canaries.’ Based on this example, there followed a series of questions to complete in order to create my personal profile. Compare Joanne’s answers to mine, as listed below, and you’ll see that the two of us are kindred spirits, bound by our love of poetry and our desire to spread our art to the ignorant masses.
Hobbies: Smoking weed, downloading hardcore pornography.
Profession: Drug dealer.
Ambition: To control the weed trade in the Grampian region, and ultimately the whole of Scotland.
When did you start writing and why: I started writing when I was in prison serving time for drug dealing and perjury.
How would you describe your style? Spiky with blonde highlights.
How would you like to be remembered? Give me a break! I’m only 26, I’m not an intravenous drug user and I eat my five fruit and veg a day. I’d like to be remembered as a going concern.
Who would you like to be for a day? Scarlet Johannson. So I could stand in front of a full-length mirror and frig myself from dawn till dusk.
Have you written anything else? Yes, lots of things.
What? Well let’s see, I wrote my name on the side of a bus shelter this morning. And then there was that letter I wrote to Lily Allen professing my undying love for her and threatening to stalk her if she didn’t reciprocate.
What is your biggest fantasy? No, I’m not making this up; this was a genuine question. I don’t even know where to start with a poser like this. Let’s just say that Joanne Cooper would be horrified to discover that her poem had been published in the same volume as such a filthy pervert. God forbid some of his lascivious proclivities might rub off on her by proxy of the printed page.
What is your worst nightmare? Midgets, it's got to be midgets. And Pete Burns’ lips. In fact midgets with Pete Burns’ lips. That would be pretty scary.
Well, I hope that reading the above profile has enabled you to come to a better understanding of the genius behind ‘What Lies Above’. Hang on, you’ve not even read the poem yet, have you? Well I suppose I could reproduce it here so you can marvel at its awesomeness, but that would be selling it short. To be frank, it’s too classy for a smutty weblog like this. If you want to read my poem, you’ll have to buy the anthology when it comes out, just like all the other cool kids. Although if you’re too embarrassed to walk into your local ‘good bookshop’ and ask for The Creative Touch, I suggest you inveigle a friend into doing the honours for you. And ask him to pick up some KY jelly and a box of extra small condoms too while he’s in town. Then you really will be able to enjoy the creative touch.
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