Cheryl Cole and some poetry

Despite a horrendous and shocking week in politics, I live in Oldham by the way, that made me fume, I’m not going to blog about it. This is mainly because I’m too annoyed.

Instead I’m dedicating this blog to the two Daily Mail readers sitting opposite me on a train journey from London to Manchester last week. For two arduous hours I had to put up with a narration of what they were reading, presumably assuming that I was their audience.

While I won’t go into every nuance of their commentary, they reached a crescendo when Cheryl Cole was pictured with a woman who was labelled ‘size 14’. The middle-aged very angry-at-nothing man stated to his wife (and presumably me) that ‘no one in their right mind would prefer THAT over Cheryl Cole.’

Now, ignoring the fact that his wife was sitting staring at the photograph because that’s a different issue, his use of the word ‘THAT’ when describing a woman shocked me. I guess it shouldn’t by now, but it never fails to make me go cold with sadness.

He went on to regal the loveliness of Cheryl, constantly berating ‘fat women who don’t know how to look after themselves or their men’. I didn’t respond or even visibly flinch. Even when he switched the conversation to ‘illegals’ I managed to carry on tapping at the keys on my laptop. Finally, he moved along to the subject of women who work, and the use of computers on trains. Even then I didn’t bat an eyelid!
Why, you may ask yourself, am I exercising such self-control? No ranting over politics? No blowing a fuse over sexism? Even the front page of the Oldham Advertiser has seen me turn the other cheek.

The problem, or the possible solution is that I have reached a point in my life where I have to admit that there are some events and some people that defy all reason. Of course, when I gather my strength I will protest against the abhorrent politics, and this blog about Daily Mail Man and his fixation with Cheryl Cole’s tits has rallied me somewhat, I will be restored to my previous moanaholic status.

But until then here’s a something I prepared earlier – a poem about the inner workings of intelligence:

Breadth

Do I need to define my breadth?

Measured in inches, pounds and kg’s
The physical reality of ‘me’ is recorded.
A grim experiment of normalising
Wrapped in the expectation of others.

Do I need to define my breadth?

Measured in degrees, diplomas, titles,
The status of my life lain out:
A tired curriculum vitae
Engulfed in the insecurity of validity.

Do I need to define my breadth?

Measured in mothering, caring, martyrdom,
The fertility of my procreative destiny.
A neurotic standard of goodness
Enveloped in the loss of myself.

Do I need to define my breadth?

Measured in prayers, koans, mantras
The spirit of my being delimited.
A standardised instruction code
Contained in the surrender of will.

Do I need to define my breadth?

Measured in the echelons of my mind
The postmodern deliberating hidden.
A pleasure-dome of sensibilities
Released into a single abstract musing:

I am undefined.

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