JASMINE MYRA

JASMINE MYRA AT TURNER SIMS, SOUTHAMPTON – 03/05/24

Today I finally disposed of Fat Barry. Fat Barry was our Christmas tree. After being taken down and having his drooping branches trimmed, Barry had been sitting slumped in the yard for over three months. He had become a source of contention. I mean, not really, but a couple of comments, at least, had been made. Ultimately, it was just more evidence, to add to the copious amounts already amassed, that we were not, after all, proper people. And so, one day, my car already full of junk, I shoved him in the roof box and headed for the dump. But once there I forgot all about him. I emptied the car but forgot about the roof box and left Barry undisturbed. A month later I found myself back at the dump. As I waited in line I thought, I must remember about Fat Barry. Fat Barry in the roof box. And I did. I did remember. But I still couldn’t get rid of him. This time I couldn’t get the roof box open. The key jammed in the lock and the lid couldn’t be prised open. I began to wonder if I would ever be rid of Fat Barry. As the days passed I became more and more conscious of Barry, lying there just above my head as I drove to and from work, which was pretty much the only place I was driving to and from at the time. And then, today, I was giving Dave a lift home and he made some humorous comment about what I was keeping in my roof box. “Do you want to know what’s in my roof box?” I said. Dave didn’t exactly say he did but I told him anyway. “Fat Barry,” I said. And I told him the story about my failed attempts to dispose of him. Dave already knew who Fat Barry was because he’d read my blog. I decided to demonstrate how I couldn’t open the roof box. And, sure enough, the key jammed in the lock and I showed Dave how the lid couldn’t be prised open. But then the key shifted and the lid opened after all, and there he was, Fat Barry, just lying there, looking much smaller, thinner and frailer than I remembered him. I was seized by a sudden impulse. I can be quite impatient and I could no longer bear even one more journey with Barry lying prone a mere foot or so above my head. I seized hold of him and roughly yanked him from his resting place. It being after five on a Friday afternoon, the car park was empty, but Dave still wanted no part of it. “There’s CCTV,” he said. “What if you get done for fly tipping?” He walked a few yards away and faced in the opposite direction. I launched Barry into the undergrowth that skirted the car park. It was quite deep and not at all overgrown, so there was plenty of room for him.  He looked quite comfortable there and seemed to fit right in. I decided it was better that he was there where I would be able to keep an eye on him than at the dump where I felt sure Barry would have felt isolated and alone, surrounded by hedge trimmings and grass cuttings. On the drive down the hill I felt lighter. My burden was lighter because I was no longer transporting our Christmas tree around everywhere I went (to and from work). In the car Dave told me about how he disposes of his Christmas trees. He cuts off the branches and uses the trunk for firewood. Dave has developed a system. Dave is a real person. “What are you doing over the weekend?” he asks. “I’m going to a gig tonight in Southampton,” I say, “but, otherwise, no plans.” “Who are you going with?” he asks. “No one,” I say. “I don’t need other people.” “Are you going to write one of your reviews?” he asks. “No,” I say, “I don’t think so. It had begun to feel like a bit of a chore.” “Yeah,” says Dave, “that’s all right. You’re in a different phase now.” Yeah, I think, I am in a different phase. It’s post-Barry. The post-Barry phase. I can only hope that he doesn’t come back to haunt me.

ROCKSTARS

 

THE SICK POET

“I’ve been sick recently,” said the poet. “So I haven’t been able to write any poems, and I’m looking for someone to cover for me.”
  “You’re looking for a supply poet?” said the other person.
  “Yes, that’s right,” said the poet.
  “What does the job involve?”
  “Well, you just have to write some poems and publish them on Twitter or somewhere.”
  “What kind of poems?”
  “They don’t have to be very long. Just short observational stuff really. Like, you might see a horse in a field and write about that. Something like, ‘Horse standing in a field/I wonder what you do all day/Or if there’s anything left to say’, something like that.”
  “OK, and post it to your Twitter account?” 
  “No, not mine, no. Your own, I think it should be. I’m not looking to take credit for someone’s else’s work.”
  “I don’t understand. What difference does it make to you if I post poems on my own Twitter account?”
  “I just think it’s important that poetry doesn’t suffer because I’m ill. It’s important. People need it.”
  “Right.”
  “So will you do it?”
  “Um, what’s the pay?”
  “There’s no pay.”
  “Oh, well, in that case, I’m afraid the answer’s no.”

SMALL WHEEL (2018)

Walking down Lordship Lane this morning, I encountered a man. The man was pushing a wheelbarrow along the pavement towards me. The man was thickset. He had strong arms. He could probably have lifted me off the ground with just one of them. Inside the wheelbarrow was a small wheel, such as might be found on a pram or a child’s bicycle, and a blue plastic bag. The man walked past a tyre shop. On Lordship Lane, you see, there is an abundance of tyre shops. If you’re ever on Lordship Lane and you need a tyre you’re in luck. The man stopped and offered the small wheel to the men that worked in the tyre shop. He held the small wheel aloft with one of his strong arms, and raised his broad shoulders in a questioning manner, but the men in the tyre shop did not want the small wheel. The man placed the small wheel back into the wheelbarrow and continued on his way, pushing the wheelbarrow along the pavement, down Lordship Lane.

DEIRDRE AND THE MAN (2018)

I am sitting next to a man who is texting a person named Deirdre. I try to read the texts over the man’s shoulder but all I can make out are the words "it won’t take me long to pack". Maybe Deirdre and the man are going on holiday. That’s nice.

FAT BARRY

We called our Christmas tree “Fat Barry”. “Fat” because it was particularly broad and big-bottomed, and “Barry” because, well, just because it made us laugh and seemed to fit. Barry’s one of those names that’s not popular any more. You don’t see many new people being named Barry, let me tell you. The name is just gathering dust, like old jam on a shelf, and one day you’ll turn around and all the Barrys will be gone.

NIGHTFISHING, OR FISHING AT NIGHT

Some men fish at night.
They have lights and everything.
The funny thing is you never see them fishing during the day.
Maybe the fish only come out at night.
Maybe the men only come out at night.
I think they call it “night fishing”, or “fishing at night”.

Lights and everything