Rhyming with Cigars

Back at the end of 2011, I put this poem on my other blog.  I'm not quite sure why it wound up there, but for the sake of consistency, I'm now including it amongst the poems on this blog, which is focused on poetry....

Rhyming with Cigars

I'm not a man who frequents bars;
Or thinks it cool to down large jars
Of beer; I've never ever tried cigars;
I don't get sweaty seeing big, fast cars,
And consequently have no scars
From crashing and then seeing stars.
What, you ask, do I live on Mars?
Not at all, I've watched the movie, Lars
And the Real Girl, grammar I can parse,
I know the name of the Curé of Ars,
(John Vianney), know that Fars
Is a province in Iran, formerly called Pars,
Can differentiate Picassos and Renoirs,
However, I've never finger-picked guitars
In bazaars frequented by Russian Czars.

Proctalgia fugax

I'm not usually given to writing poems about physical ailments, but while the topic in this poem is, in reality, quite unpleasant, it also has its humorous side. 

Proctalgia fugax

The condition known as

Proctalgia fugax

is like squatting on a bed of tacks,

or rather, one gigantic tack.

PF attacks a person’s back -

specifically the canal

that’s inner anal - by

cramping up some muscle, which

don’t make one feel swell, or well. 

Proctalgia fugax waits till night-time to

perform, waits till you’re relaxed and

fast asleep, then wakes you with a

pain that racks, and taxes your

ability to calm remain, stops you

dozing, insists from resting

you desist, says, get up now if you

know what’s good for you!

Proctalgia fugax isn’t good for you.

You’ll come to no harm, but there’s

no kind of balm that will ease the pain

as it increases to the max.

Forget defecting to the loo, or

defecating in it; PF doesn’t

signal imminent evacuation –

except from bed, of course.

Sometimes walking helps, though

you’re not required to leave the

house; some recommend

sitting, but on a tennis ball,

putting pressure on the perineum -

I don’t think that’d help at all;

or taking paracetamol by two, but

PF, say the experts helpful,

once waxed will wane before the

tablets ease the pain.  Some in

hot water sit, some ice apply–

neither of these sound nice

to me, and who wants in the

freezer ice to find, or boil up

water, in the dark of the night?

Women can ignore this next:

for men PF can rise when you’ve had

sex - post coitus it will let you sleep

awhile – then waking you in pain,

adds insult to injury, now

stands the slack and rested member

up once more, ready to bounce

back, then stacks woe on woe,

puts you under attack both front and back.

Proctalgia fugax sometimes

comes by day, whether at work

or play: transmitting a fax, or

shovelling the road, taking

dictation or hauling a load,

riding a bike, aquajogging,

feeding the ducks - or snogging.  

But night-time’s its favourite,

making the most of its doubling-up

impact to tumble you out of the

sack, with its pain in the

crack giving you flak.

Eventually, backstage,

things begin to assuage:

you return to your bed, but you’re

restless and hot, and like any

lurgy that lurks you are

cautious of aftershock,

your partner disturbing,

who tosses and turns till you

stomp out of bed and go sleep on the

couch.  PF’s not an ‘ouch’, it’s never an

‘oooh.’  Colonoscopy’s closer or

that horn of a rhino you saw in the

zoo, goring you. That might be

hyperbole, but you’d

exaggerate too if Proctalgia

fugax happened to you. 

Proctalgia fugax is a severe, cramp-like pain, deep in the anal canal. It usually lasts for a few seconds or minutes, but can sometimes last for up to half an hour. Between attacks there is no pain at all. Most sufferers have only 5 or 6 attacks a year. You may feel a need to defecate urgently, but nothing happens. It may even make you feel dizzy, or give you a headache. It occurs in both men and women. The pain often wakes sufferers at night, and men may have an erection at the same time. Some men experience it after sex. It is a mysterious condition; no one knows what causes it, but it is probably a spasm of the rectal or pelvic floor muscles and does not mean that you have anything seriously wrong. There are various methods of relieving the pain.

The shoe

The end of year busyness caught up on this blog, and it's been semi-abandoned for the last few months.  The busyness meant that poems in the pipeline had to wait to be reviewed and redrafted and so on.  Here's one that's finally made it through the system...

The shoe

Finally -

the shoe that has lain for a 

year on the footpath, has gone,

the shoe that months ago was the

focus of an inquisition of the

boy who had carelessly

left it lying on the asphalt.

The shoe that

caused lying:

I don’t know where it’s

gone!  I didn’t lose it,

it just...vanished.

The shoe that brought

angst to the pocket of the

mother, and angst to the

ear clipped by the father.

The shoe that may or

may not have been

flung over a telephone wire,

that may or may not have

dropped out of a backpack.

The single shoe that was

late for its appointment

with its sole mate, that was

last reported Missing in Action.

The shoe that untimely

caused its mate to pass its

use-by-date.

The shoe that while

lying became an

artefact, progressively

hidden beneath the

local trees’ detritus. 

The shoe that lay

believing it was part of the

homeless community,

sleeping out at nights, its

laces trailing beneath its

bedclothes of last week’s

blossoms and some tree’s

seedlings.

The shoe that was

available to the

first one-footed

person of smaller stature

who happened to hop along.

The shoe that was

left behind for any

person who owned a

bereft and mateless single

shoe that was the equivalent

left, or right.