19. Any Port in a Storm
... being an exercise in producing poetry of a completely unromantic nature.
Perhaps the figure who created the most excitement about Poetry in the area of Mexborough in the early years of the 21st century was Tony Goodwin, or “Gooders” as he was known to many of the assorted poets, performers, and punters who came along to his regular Pitman Poets open mic sessions at the Concertina Club.
He presented the evenings with a forthright swaggering attitude and gave everyone the opportunity to read, whatever their background, ability or subject matter. Sometimes the air was blue with industrial level foul language, much of it from Gooders himself, but also from many of the people he encouraged to participate, both in the preambling speeches before their poems, and within their content. Sometimes the poetry was less confrontational but startlingly original in its subject matter, and at other times more traditional sounding work, of amazing depth an insight would be blended into the mix.
Gooders’ would make his presence felt throughout, adding his observations, offering encouragement, cracking jokes, and after an hour or so, calling for a smoke break, from which he would return, as high as Snoop Dogg in a hot air balloon, to preside over a second session which would gradually descend into marvellously incoherent climax, helped along by the sales of “Club Extreme” the extra strong beer brewed on the premises and allegedly named after one of the landlord’s favourite pornographic DVDs.
There was an atmosphere on those evenings, something in the ether. Perhaps it was just what Gooders was smoking, but I think it was more than that. It the thrill of a collection of people discovering the raw power of poetry, away from the page and into the half forgotten concert room of a Working Men’s Club. It didn’t last for long, It couldn’t. It all ended in discord, petty conflicts and jealousies, barrings and boycotts. But while it lasted it was magical.
At the time that The Pitman Poets was at its peak, Ian Parks had returned to his native town, and set up the Read To Write sessions which were to create the most excitement about poetry in Mexborough in subsequent years of the early twenty first century. How would Gooders react to the presence of a new poetical figure on the scene?
To all intents and purposes, he carried on as normal, keeping his feelings on the matter under wraps as well as he could manage. But then Ian decided to put on a gathering of his own. He had the idea of holding an evening of Romantic Poetry to coincide with Valentine’s day, to be called From Mexborough With Love. Read to Write attendees were encouraged to compose their own romantic pieces, to be read out at a candlelit evening at a local cafe.
Gooders decided to make his open mic that week an alternative to Ian’s event. An Anti Valentine’s night in which the poetry would have nothing at all to do with love or romance, but be completely in opposition to it. I have to admit that I found the prospect of this hugely entertaining. What could be more fun, more steeped in the punk tradition in which the Pitman Poets was rooted, than an anti love event.
I set about writing a completely non romantic poem from the viewpoint of a completely non - romantic narrator. Not that I am anything like the bloke in the poem - I hope that I have a little more romance in me than that. But I enjoyed playing the part and giving him his voice. If I am honest, I have at least fantasised about being such a character in the past. I suspect that there are few men who haven’t at some stage in their lives.
Those who read or listen to it can make of it what they will. Its a frippery, a flippant piece of playacting. For the record, on the night, Gooders appeared to hate it. He applauded me loudly right in the middle of it and bustled me away from the mic before I had a chance to finish. No matter - I have since performed it in plenty of other places, and continue to enjoy performing to this day.
I still occasionally bump into Gooders, and hope that he will read this piece and give his reaction at some point. I hope that I have represented him well. Perhaps he may become one of the Sixty Odd Poets one day. I would love to see what he made of the opportunity,
Any Port In a Storm
The ocean’s in the blood of men The blood of men like me There’s something in its vast expanse that calls “tranquillity” Isolation, silence that you could cut with a knife Out there its easy to forget the cares of landlocked life But nature being what she is the calm will not endure The wind and wave will rise and rave and nothing is secure Unsettling, blustery force replaces breezes soft and warm And its any port in a storm my lads Its any port in a storm Ceaselessly tossing, feverish fingers seek solidity Pulsing heartbeat, clutching, grasping for security Till mind and flesh surrender, meld and one idea their spawn Its any port in a storm my boys Any port in a storm With aching body, and bloodshot eyed Lurching twixt Port and Starboard side With dark desires unsatisfied, Many a man has howled and cried “I’m stranded here, what can I do? What wicked force I’m subject to” A terrible hullaballoo… …When distant land hoves into view And its any port in a storm The prospect may not be the best Not perfect in figure and form But when a man’s desperate, needy, distressed Its any port in a storm I’m suffering here, I’m lost, alone, abandoned and forlorn Grant me warmth and sanctuary 'Cause its any port in a storm Its any port in a storm my dear Any port in a storm Let me plunge my anchor into your dock where the calming waters flow Whether it leads to vast expanse or Archipelago For my hold is full of bilge water stagnating down below Needs must, I have to pump it out to regain my status quo Play music to relax me, Come blow upon my horn 'Cause its any port in a storm my dear Its any port in a storm Such rest and recreation will restore me to my health But thankfulness will not surpass my regard for myself Sated, satisfied I’ll feel, rejuvenated, then…. …Forgetting the tempest, laced with fear that capriciously grasped me and threw me up here I’ll connive and contrive to disappear and be off to the ocean again Don’t sigh, miss or regret me Don’t weep, you must agree There’s a plentiful supply of other fish below the sea And the ocean’s in the blood of men The blood of all men born But when things get hard, Its any shipyard Its any port in a storm Its any port in a storm, you swabs Its any port in a storm!