Sinister: One inch rock/Poetry fears two

[Anne Ward]

Hello Everybody

Claire, you're not the only one suffering today. I feel like a pig shat on
my head. Still, it was a top night. The Evie Sands thing was a bit of a
curate's egg. Firstly, Chip Taylor, (Jon Voight's brother!) wot wrote Wild
Thing and other such classics played for about a year and told some stories
like those ones that Grampa Simpson tells. You think they're going
somewhere and then, no. Lots of evil people started giggling and it was
like being back at school, trying not to laugh during mass. If Glenn Hoddle
is right we will be reincarnated as earwigs for smirking in the Lord's
house. Then Evie, the tiniest woman in rock came on and said "Here are some
songs from my new CD 'Women in prison'" which did not bode well. I couldn't
see her at all and wondered if she was a bit shy and was actually out the
back with a microphone but it turns out she was there on the altar because
when she bobbed up and down I could see the red crocodile clip that was
holding together her huge rock mane. Things got better after this and she
sang some new songs and some old ones before various members of B&S crept
out of whatever you call the church equivalent of backstage for a big jam.
They did "Take me for a little while" and "Anyway that you want me" and lo,
it was gorgeous. There was some other stuff too that sounded ace then they
all played "Wild Thing" and Ginger Murdoch got to do a guitar solo that
sounded like someone twanging away at a Jew's harp. 

After that, the post-gig meet up at the 13th Note was also top fun. Joss,
it was a pleasure to meet you. You are a true star. Everyone else ruled
too, especially that Warrender John who was making a right show of himself.
Way to go Warrender John!

Anyway, to business. Last week, Linda, terrible minx that she is, sent the
Poetry Parrot on his way to my house saying  "I am off to see that Anne
Ward now.  She is a proper librarian, and may be a little more thoughtful
than you, you dozy tart." God knows I've barely been able to sleep at night
for fear of picking the wrong thing and offending one of you little
flowers. I was going to go for Philip Larkin, for librarians everywhere
(The one that ends "Get stewed. Books are a load of crap" is particularly
good) but it was all too gloomy. There was also a poem called
"Strawberries" by Edwin Morgan which is lovely and vaguely saucy but it was
too long to type so here's Stevie Smith instead. By all accounts she was a
bit barmy and is often described as "eccentric" and "mischievous" which
makes her sound like some kind of terrible Pam Ayres novelty act. But I
really like this poem and it's for whoever was going on about how the
chances of you meeting your ideal person are really slim so you should just
settle for second best. Listen to Stevie - she knows the score. 

The Poetry Parrot is off to see Brad now who is so sensitive he probably
writes his own poetry. Be kind to the PP Brad, he's had a long journey!

***************************************************************************

To the Tune of the Coventry Carol

The nearly right
And yet not quite
In love is wholly evil
And every heart
That loves in part
Is mortgaged to the devil

I loved or thought
I loved in sort
Was this to love akin?
To take the best
And leave the rest
And let the devil in?

O lovers true
And others too
Whose best is only better
Take my advice
Shun compromise
Forget him and forget her



Stevie Smith








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