FACEBOOK: http://www.facebook.com/HenryRabyPoetry BLOG: http://henryrabypunkpoetry.blogspot.com/ SOUNDCLOUD: http://soundcloud.com/henryrabypoetry YOUTUBE: http://www.youtube.com/user/HenRab1?feature=mhum#p/u/0/DitWSlHwFuQ E-MAIL: email@example.com TWITTER: @HenryRabyPoetry Henry has been writing and performing for 4.5 years now. He has gigged in York, Leeds, Bolton, London and Edinburgh. His style ranges from the surreal (poems about punk dinosaurs, Horse Gods, zombie apocalypses) to the political (poems about marching, strikes and protest). Henry has supported Attila The Stockbroker, John Otway and John Cooper Clarke, as well as winning the Barefoot In The Park poetry slam 2011 and coming second overall in the Hammer & Tongue Poetry Slam at the Edinburgh Fringe 2011. Henry has a one-man show called Letter To The Man (from the boy), part-spoken word, part-workshop, part-theatre. The show encourages audiences to write a letter to themselves in the future to make sure the person in the future doesn't forget the person in the past. This can be booked for any venue, bar, theatre or simple open space. Henry also edits Snapping Turtle Press, a DIY poetryzine which combines his work and other poets from across the country, more information here: http://www.facebook.com/SnappingTurtlePress Henry can perform from 5 mins to 30 mins in any capacity and always looking for open mics, gigs, poetry nights etc. He also refers to himself in the 3rd person.
I woke up one morning to the sound of my alarm clock calling me to rise and face another day but I couldn’t help feel my world was swamped in grey. I expected to witness a splash of jet black and fire red horizontal lines streaking across the sky into forever but instead merely treated to overcast clouds and foul weather. Did you ever get the feeling someone had pulled a dirty trick, that this isn’t the only world to ever exist, once upon a time there used to be another world they not only made fade away like a dream at dawn, but also tried to carve from our minds one panel at a time. I remember a world of spiky hair, red and black hooped jerseys and Abyssinian Wire Haired Tripe Hounds. Armouries stacked with catapults, peashooters and water pistols, carties and an endless supply of rotten tomatoes. Unruly, unrulebale kids raised and educated on Bash Street, Minxs, Dodgers and Menaces who accept authority like Lord Snooty needs charity. Did all the Dads and Mums and Mayors and sergeants and Teachers and headmasters finally charter a master-crafted stratagem to keep these hoodlum youths at bay? Did they realise it would turn the world so grey? Did they dismantle the world with such subtle revenge you woke up one morning and wondered when all the mischief ended? Did the Dodge Books get thrown on some sinister bonfire or left under a mountain of dust in some old abandoned attic, each word and dodge left unreadable and static. Maybe I got the last train out of Beanotown when I asked my Gran to cancel my subscription and cut off my 60p addiction to be replaced by a hunt for CDs and surreal TV. But I still try and wake up each morning with a plan for the Hi-Jinx of the day, what scheme accompanies this 12 panel scandal. Fights a blur of dust and fists, puns coming thicker and faster than a combination of Fatty and Billy Whizz, the reader’s voice accompanying every story in this weekly, ever-living glory. Our thoughts are made real in clouds hovering above our heads. Never let the slipper have it’s bitter victory, never become a softy and quiver and simper. Think what glorious rebellion we could achieve under the menace-manifesto of a British Comics Masterpiece. I pressed snooze on my alarm clock and drifted back to sleep
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
Viewed 1147 times since 16 Nov 2011
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