Tag Archives: Poetry

I was a Lady Godiva Memorial Bnad groupie

The great man himself, Charles Bukowski

The great man himself, Charles Bukowski

This is my first feeble attempt at a “Charles Bukowski” style poem. I know it’s hideous, so try not to laugh too hard. And, by the way, there is nothing biographical about this poem AT ALL! SNICKER! SNORT!

Lady Godiva


I played the bedpan
In the Lady Godiva Memorial Bnad

Wearing a yellow hardhat
In slogans.

9T3, Oh Goo! Harf up a lung!

I did it all
In the New College
That was my home
My sisters
My family

I drank peach schnapps
Straight from the bottle,

A liquid education
Mixing drinks
With chemical precision.

A party cup
Of Long Island Iced Tea
To wash down
The quadratic equations.

Rum and Coke
Seemed a biological

Tequila with beer chasers
Was more than a
Trivial Pursuit.

My lowest
Was gin
And apple juice.

A mat on the bathroom floor
To blot the
Juices of others.

The thermodynamics
Of university passion;
A PowderPuff halfback
In a Devonshire universe.

Of garbage can liquor
And toga party chasers.

Staggering Spadina senseless.

Sex in communal showers,
Sex in dorm room bunk beds,
Sex in restaurant washrooms,
A merry widow of straps and
Tangled limbs
Handcuffs and fellatio.

Garters, stockings,
Teddies and Clancy.

Holding hands
In the darkness,
Lips and tongues

A Skule education
A pre-med major

On my back
At the
University of Toronto.

Want to know more about the bnad?

I never played with the Bnad when this happened - way before my time!

I never played with the Bnad when this happened – way before my time!


Full-contact poetry

From time to time, I have this … issue.

It’s not really an “issue” per se; it’s more like a loss of perspective, a slip in reality. Okay, that sounds bad. What I mean is, sometimes I don’t think I’m really an adult. Sure, I look in the mirror and, after I’ve finished screaming in horror, I see that, yeah, there’s an old broad standing there. But when I’m just thinking, or walking, or out at the movies, or at a restaurant with friends, or driving down the road, I tend to forget I’m allegedly a responsible adult. Instead, I think I’m 18 or 19 again, as thin and tight as a pair of expensive silk stockings with a cocky attitude and fantastic fashion sense – especially when it comes to hats.

I find it really tends to hit home when I’m signing school permission slips for the Goobers. I’ll be sitting there, scrawling my name on some form so they can go on the class trip to Afghanistan or take part in that exchange program where you work as a Sherpa on Mount Everest and it will suddenly hit me: “Shit, these people actually think I’m responsible for these children.” And then: “Fuck, I AM responsible for these children! I’m not old enough to take care of them! I’ve never babysat in my life! Who was the stupid idiot who allowed this to happen?” And then I remember I’m actually in my 40s and at one point gave birth to them and then the whole nightmarish weight of reality sinks on to my shoulders.

I’ve mentioned this “issue” to some of my friends, who assure me I’m not alone; there’s lots of people who feel this way. Of course, this statement is usually followed by sniggering poorly disguised as coughing. Then they quickly pull out their phones, bang off a text, which is typically followed by a quick succession of bings and then uncontrollable laughter.

Sometimes, as I sit in my tiny cubicle at work dreaming up editorial ideas or editing product listings about new micro-mist sprayer nozzles or which is the best pneumatic tire to use for preventing soil compaction, I’ll imagine what I’m going to be when I grow up. I currently have two front-runners:

  1. Be Hayley Williams, the lead singer of Paramore
  2. Become a spoken word poet

Let’s be honest here – Hayley Williams (@yelyahwilliams) is cool. She has awesome orangey-pink hair that looks amazing with everything she wears; she has fantastic fashion sense (I love those tights and the DWEEB T-shirt she has on in the Still Into You video); she can dance; she can sing; she looks great on camera; she knows and hangs out with lots of interesting people; and she probably has shitloads of money. And who wouldn’t want to ride their bike around the house? I could live with that.

But the spoken word poet thing is also very tempting.

A few months ago, a friend of mine posted the following viral video on Facebook showing Lily Myers, a student at Wesleyan University, competing in the 2013 College Unions Poetry Slam Invitational. The poem – entitled Shrinking Woman – was awarded Best Love Poem at the tournament.

And then I discovered Kait Rokowski and her poem – How to Cure a Feminist.

According to her website, Kait was ranked third in the world after the 2011 Individual World Poetry Slam and the 2012 Women of the World Poetry Slam. I couldn’t give a shit – she’s a world champion in my universe.

My exploration of spoken word poetry and slam – competitions where poets read or recite original works and are judged on the performance – also helped me discover Megan Falley and her poem – Fat Girl.

Plus Dawn Saylor and her heartbreaking poem – When I Was 14.

Since I’ve discovered these talented young women, I’ve been fascinated. This looks like fun. It looks empowering. It looks like a great way to get away with swearing like a sailor in public with minimal backlash, an opportunity I’m always searching for.

There’s just something about the idea of standing in front of a room full of people and spouting off a string of heart felt words – like “I hope monkeys rip off your danglers, you misogynist pig, and you feel the vengeful heat of the spirit vixen deep in your prostate” – before flashing your boobs at the audience, that feels very liberating. Of course, I might be confusing liberating with embarrassing – that sometimes happens to me.

Anyway, I’ve been working on some poems of my own. I’m afraid they have a real Charles Bukowski feel to them – a bit random, a bit biographical, a bit stream of consciousness with lots of sex and alcohol thrown in. But I promise they don’t mention cats or talk about sexy young girls that read my poetry and then want to spend the night with me, although that might make them more interesting and appealing to a certain type of audience.

Forget it, you misogynistic pigs!

Breaking out of my shell

I want to make this blog a success because, to be honest, I don’t have a lot of successful things in my life; well, at least none that I can see. To work toward this goal, I have decided to take part in WordPress’ Zero to Hero exercise, which promises to help you develop a better blog in 30 days.

I’ll believe it when I see it.

According to the first assignment, I am supposed to introduce myself, which just goes to show I’ve already fucked up this blog thing and made my first post about my Doc Martin/PC Joseph Penhale meme habit. Shit!

To help remedy this error, I’ve decided my second post will be my formal introduction to the blogging world.

Greetings, venerable ones. I am Manure Gurl, a 40-something writer, editor, photographer, wife and mother who lives in the far rural reaches of southern Ontario, Canada; not quite in two-headed calf country but pretty damn close. To get all the stereotypical mumbo-jumbo crap out of the way, no, I do not live in an igloo, although there are some winter nights when my house is probably as cold as one. I drive a mini van, not a dog sled. I haven’t skied in more than 25 years, I cannot ice skate, and none of my children are involved in hockey (sacrilege!). Instead, they are aficionados of the beautiful game, football/soccer, which is played during the summer on a grass-covered field in warm/hot/stifling weather, rain or shine, or in a converted roller rink in the winter (weird but true).

I know you’re wondering, why Manure Gurl? There are several reasons. When I was younger, my best friend used to joke that my eyes were brown because I was full of shit, which wasn’t too far off the mark (my eyes have changed colour since then and are greenish hazel now). I’m a smart ass, a joker, a teller of tales and love hearing and telling stories, the funnier and more off-beat, the better. Also, my first Twitter handle was ManureGurl (I had to go with the creative spelling because someone had already taken ManureGirl, I shit you not) and I still maintain the account. Of course, the main reason is the name has some relation to my day job, what I do when I’m not writing blogs. I write about excrement – shit, manure, crap, dung, muck, guano, poultry litter, droppings, organic fertilizer. I admit, it’s not what I dreamt of doing when I graduated from J-school (I wanted to be a war correspondent) but it helps pay the bills. As the old adage states: It’s a shitty job but someone has to do it.

I’m hoping to use this blog as a vehicle for displaying my true passion, which is writing fiction and poetry. I’m also a big fan of theatre and opera so there may be the odd review thrown in for good measure and, of course, stories and vignettes from my life, both past and present. My world can become pretty fucked up from time to time and that’s always worth a big laugh. It’s better than crying.

I’m a pretty passionate person and can become somewhat obsessive about subjects and hobbies. I’ve been known to research a topic to death, the more obscure and difficult, the bigger the challenge. My current obsessions include collecting Canadian, U.S. and UK first edition books; reading, particularly the 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die; British TV shows Doc Martin and Sherlock; raspberry lemonade; U.S. TV shows Criminal Minds, Mad Men, Homeland, The Killing and The Walking Dead; and losing weight.

I’d probably pee my pants in glee if my blog, or even my Twitter feed, were followed by The Bloggess (Jenny Lawson), British actor John Marquez (@MrJohnmarquez), Matthew Gray Gubler (@GUBLERNATION) or really anybody with a pulse. I know that probably won’t happen, after all these people actually have lives. But it’s nice to dream. And, in the immortal words of that awesome Canadian band, Hedley: I can do anything!