By some strange quirk of fate (not that I believe in fate), I managed to scrape into the final of Word Makers Spoken Word Slam Final.
A bit like a verbal version of Ultimate Cage Fighting, using the power of the English language instead of physical force and aggression, there were winners and losers, those who walked away smiling and those who bowed out bruised, bleeding and reduced to tears.
In very much the same manner that music can lift your heart or sadden your soul, poetry can reach the places other forms of spoken language never can.
Now it has to be said, that amongst some hugely talented poets, some of whom are fortunate enough to make a living from their work, I was carried from the cage (metaphorically speaking) battered, bruised and bleeding. But the very fact that any of my poetry was deemed to be good enough to be compared to theirs was a huge buzz and an honour.
Damien and Macca shared the prizes, both winning gigs in the Bournemouth area.
One of my efforts went like this …
Time Lapsed
The roads were quite slick in amongst all the trees
As I flew off to work on my Japanese steed
I was feeling at one, with the bike and had fun
Round the twists and turns of the morning works run
As I happened upon the Old Windsor road
This guy in his van, with his plumbing work load
Made a crazy manoeuvre right into my track
And the Fireblade squirmed as I throttled right back
I evaded the hulk of the white Hyundai guy
Got a really close look at the whites of his eyes
Picked the bike up straight with a blip on the gas
And vented my rage at this ignorant ass
Then all turned to red, as the Peugeot behind
Followed on even though he was totally blind
In an instant I found I had run out of time
And I struck it head on, without changing my line
I was launched off the bike without slowing at all
Splintering ladders on his roof rack halted my fall
Bent knees shattered the windscreen in front of his head
Whilst the on-looking drivers all assumed I was dead
I fell from the roof as a leather-clad heap
While the pain in my guts forced me, wincing, to weep
And my breath was slow coming in a stuttering gasp
As I lay there just wondering if it might be my last
Some people surrounded me, laid on the ground
And I was slowly aware of compassionate sounds
Someone bent down close, to take a hold of my arm
Protecting my twisted prone form from more harm
The stark reality of Now flooded into my brain
And connected events with this dull growing pain
I was checked by the medic who just by sheer chance
Was detained by the traffic, whilst I lay in a trance
He pronounced me unbroken, in arm, leg or neck
Though he firmly suggested my ribs should be checked
Then the ambulance came with its lights flashing blue
And again I was checked over by one of the crew
Coppers helped me to stand and they took off my lid
They asked lots of questions and wrote down what I said
Then they took me to sit on the ambulance steps
While they questioned the driver, who stood there and wept
It is said by some folks that when one nearly dies
That a montage swims by from events of our lives
But I saw, in slow motion, just a large bonnet, red
And the two huge white eyeballs in the car drivers head
Now it’s all but a memory from way in the past
And clearly that slow breath was never my last
I went on to ride bikes and none ever were wrecked
But I’ve never forgotten that time lapsed effect
Richard Blake © 2014
Sometimes we learn more from our defeats than from our victories, last night was one of those occasions.
