Smoking with Crohn's

George Chopping

• Publisher: Unbound
• Year: 2012
• Print ISBN: 9781908717306
• eBook ISBN: 9781908717320
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: European Poetry
• Index: Literature

In 2002, as an alternative means of therapy to excessive drinking and jay-walking in South London traffic, I started writing. At first I kept a journal, noting daily observations and recording a satirical account of my wry and positively cynical views of society and my place within it. A year and two very short stories later, I had discovered my passion for words and particularly poetry. Poems, after all, in my humble opinion, are even shorter short stories… and I'm quite lazy.

My priority has always been to make my writing simple and accessible whilst I lightheartedly describe my experiences of living with Crohn's disease and the endless battles I have with myself as I drift in and out of minimum wage jobs and hospital.

As much on page as on stage, my appeal tends to be to a broader audience, including those who may not consider themselves poetically inclined. Flailing around in the pits of illiteracy, I make up my own words and often misspell or poorly punctuate those that are already in existence. But, with the clichéd excuse of 'poetic license', I continue to scrawl.

A Narrow Boat, Some Big Birds and a Few Fish

An Ode and Apology To The Swan

This morning

the river’s rough ripplings means

that the swans

are surfing past the boat

and the bottoms of banks

where

the mallards rest

with their reversible heads

beaks

embedded in feathers.

Oh Swan, Swan, Swan, Swan

Swan, Swan, Swan

my Swanny, Swanny, Swan, Swan.

Son

of another swan

I’d imag-ion^*

I could never eat one.

Not just ‘cause it’s illegal

I’d just much rather feed you

with the crumbs from my breadboard.

Last night I saw you soar

and ski for many metres

Like

Eddie The Eagle

No. I didn’t say seagull

Because I know you’re more refined

than those scavenging seaside swines

Oh! I love it when you dine.

Stalking the shoals

that dart below

the surface.

Your brontosaurus neck

nearly reaching river bed

and your

quill clad behind

waggling as you dine

dancing in the air

like at the Folies Bergére

Oh Yeah!

Sometimes you like brill

other times bream.

Although, occasionally trout

or, whatever’s about

You’re not fussy.

That’s one of the things I love about you, Swanny

[this next section should be read in a Heavy Metal style,
just like in a lot of poems]

’Cause you’re a proppellerless, porcelain, marshmallow-winged,

passengerless pedalo

a destinationless leisure craft

playing Chicken in the path

of the bow of my barge

He likes a bit of brill

but he never wears a trilby

He’s got a coat of quills

so a biro, he’ll never be

But one time, Swanny

when we were all moored up

the kettle had whistled

I’d got my cup

and I was sat

smoking on the back of the boat.

And you looked at me

so sternly^#

Because I had tapped

off the ash

onto your beak.

Accidentally,

obviously.

I’m sorry, Swanny.

I was thinking more of the other verses at the time, but hopefully you won’t notice that this bit isn’t as strong as the first, third and fourth verses.

The back of boat is called the stern, which is why this is so funny.

Nature’s Noise Pollution

Towards the bridge the canoeist headed

paddling and listening to Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons through the headphones

of his personal stereo

Anything to drown out

the eternal din

of nature’s waterlife orchestra

Lithuanian Park Warden

In St. James’s Park

sat on the path, not on the bench

because it’s caked in bird excrement.

Gazing at the pond and talking to the ducks

wondering why they don’t respond

I laugh at them as I throw at their heads

handfuls of bread crumbs.

I talk to the swans. They also don’t talk back

but I don’t laugh at them.

I shout at the squirrels

a badger

then a beaver.

This conversation’s very hard

as none of the above will respond in English either.

Along comes the park warden.

He said something to me.

I just sat there and quacked.

I don’t understand Lithuanian.

Love Knot

I love wood

wood

is good

I have a wood obsession.

What ever the tree may be

it could

be wood

for me.

Proud erections in the bland flat fields

Monuments for meadows

Statues amongst pylons

Nature’s brother to the lamp post

They be my shelters from the rain

the rubber that erases

the paper of these pages

Wonderful, wonderful wood

I’m not a monogamist

I’m a mahoganist

So tears come to my eyes

each time a tree dies.

Should we anaesthetise

before

you are felled to the floor

and the surgeon saws

you into choppable bits?

I see your rings

they show your aging

I find your bark

really engaging

But now, darling

without pine-ing

I’m swinging, I’m a swinger

of the axe

hitting to split into the centre

of seismic ri...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Letter from Unbound
• Smoking With Crohns
• Smoking With Crohn's
• Smoking With Crohns
• Smoking With Crohn's
• Smoking With Crohns
• Smoking With Crohns
• Smoking With Crohns
• Smoking With Crohns
• Smoking With Crohns
• Smoking With Crohns
• Unrequired Reading.xhtml