There was a time in my early twenties when I did call myself a poet. Looking back on the innocence and pretentiousness of my particular youth makes me laugh now. The poems here are a selection of some of my favourites in no particular order. As a bit of background, I was basically an angry young man after the death of my father at 17; all of this came out when I left the RAF in the form of poetry (which surprised me – most people get pissed and beat people up). At 21, I set up the Live Poets Society at Manchester Poly. The idea was to come out of the closet as a poet, and throw away all that had gone before. High ideals. Ha. It did attract luminaries such as Henry Normal, Dave Gorman, Louise Rainbow and Matthew Welton. Henry got us published in a collection (if you want a copy send an email to mark@markattwood.com), we did some live gigs (which got me into stand-up), and we had a nice time for a while.
I kind of stopped consciously writing in the late nineties, but then realised I’d still got it in me when my dying Aunt Sally requested I read at her funeral. I think this poem “Goodbye Sally” was the easiest to write, the hardest thing I’ve ever done to read, and the best thing I’ve ever written. It brought the church roof down with laughter. Sally would have liked that.

Money is funny in this world full of honey

It started with barter:
The double coincidence

Of wants
and needs.

Then it moved up the social scale:
Proclaimed as the root of all evil

A feat
and no mistake.

Then came fiduciary:
All based on gold

Threadneedle Street
In the London of old.

Now it’s a dollar, a euro, a yen,
A krona, a rand.

It’s just a game;
A house built on sand.

2003

In the lives of so many
You were a shining light.
You were my Aunt Sally,
But now your day has turned to night.

You made me proud to be an Ellingham
And I don’t just mean the thin lips and curly hair.
Your courage, humour and wisdom
Just made me glad that you were there.

You said to me you didn’t want to die.
In that, you were not alone.
You also said, no tears, don’t cry.
I waited ‘til I got home

And now you’ve gone, I speak for all
When I say that you’ll be missed.
In quiet moments I’ll think of you
In heaven, getting pissed.

In this strange life there are so few
I love with all my heart.
The goodness that I saw in you
Means we’ll never be apart.

And now we’ve gathered to say farewell
On this September afternoon.
I cannot lie; it hurts like hell,
But Goodbye Sally.

Goodbye.

By Mark Attwood
Nephew to Sally Asten, 27th September 2001

Elastic is taught, clammy and near
                 Looking around, prop is clear.
                          Rising gently, air is clean
        Sensing the power, fulfilling the dream.
                 Homogenous blue, tainted by abstracts
                                    Emotion runs high, elation it racks
                         Limbs become heavy, gauntlet is lain
        Strain through the tunnel, time not to be vain.
                 Over too soon, sweating and panting
        Re-focus the mind, pick radio rantings.
        Contact controlled, landing is neat
Release is too short, freedom is sweet.

By Mark Attwood
Published October 1991, Live Poets Society, Edited by Henry Normal,
The Amazing Colossal Press

You say “0800 hours”
I say time to get up.

You say “met forecast”
I say weather report.

You say “good morning, sir”
I say relax.

You say “training to kill is a job”
I say it’s a crime.

I resign.

By Mark Attwood
Published October 1991, Live Poets Society, Edited by Henry Normal,
The Amazing Colossal Press

Fewer walls have been built stronger
than the one erected around my heart
painstakingly

brick by       brick by       brick by       brick by
         brick by       brick by       brick by
brick by       brick by       brick by       brick by

it was put up
yet you found a way in.

My insecurity formed a moat
Filled with painful waters
d
e
e
p
e
r

and

w    i    d    e    r

                      than the imagination that is hell
                      yet you traversed it.

                      My battlements protected by archers
                      armed with arrows of evasive humour
                      aimed to avoid and confuse
                      yet you caught them all

                      and I am glad.

By Mark Attwood
Published October 1991, Live Poets Society, Edited by Henry Normal,
The Amazing Colossal Press