I reorganised my bookshelves during lock-down. I’m a bit anal about it, collections by author, compendiums by country – drives my wife crazy. I think she’d prefer them by colour. I was easily distracted and an hour’s task lasted weeks.
Buried in the shelves I found gems, such as three collections by Pat Ingoldsby, who writes outrageous poems. I knew Pat years ago when he was a TV presenter and playwright. He eschews that life these days and focuses on selling his poetry books in Westmoreland Street in Dublin if you’re ever over there. He’s much loved and in fact his life-like figure is in the Irish Wax Museum.
One clever poem “Vagina in the Vatican” depicts a vagina sneaking into the Vatican unstopped because no one knew what it was, except for a few who couldn’t let slip that they knew. But I won’t go there!
Here are other verses that still make me laugh:
You can win the National Lottery
And fall out of a plane
The same day,
And land in a combine harvester
Which shreds you up
Into little sections
And compacts you
Into a bale of hay
And all that money
Is no good to you.
Because you haven’t got your health.
This bottle of whiskey
Of wrecking my marriage
Alienating me from my family
Losing me all my money
And completely wrecking my life.
That’s one hell of a guilt trip
To lay on a glass bottle.
Wouldn’t it be lovely
To paint a hole in your floor
Which looks so real
That people drop pebbles into it
And ten seconds later
They hear a splash.
These are the kind of poems we need during lock-down.
First published in Swindon Link