In Conversation – With a Poet
We go this week to a leafy, tranquil hamlet in the Cotswolds. The hamlet has the rather poetic name of Titchyneesthorpe. Where better to meet with the legendary poet, sculptor, bee-keeper and chin-reader – Arthur Loopy? Now an elderly man in his late seventies he was once much younger. Through independent means he has been publishing his poems to raging reviews. We meet him in his quaint country cottage as he prepares for his weekly poetry reading at the local social centre for the hamlet – The Mangy Whippet.
(He walks down a garden path and taps on the door. It opens.)
Interviewer Good afternoon, sir.
Arthur Hello. Seem to have lost my slipper. Come on in. (The interviewer steps past Arthur into the house.)
Interviewer I’m sorry to hear that. Was it dear to you?
Arthur It will be when I stub my toe on a table leg. You know it reminds me of a poem I once wrote about slippers. (He clears his throat and pulls himself up straight. He’s still in his p-jays with a dressing gown.)
‘See my slippers, slip slip they go,
Slip slip on my feet, slip slip on the floor,
Ten pounds ninety nine from Marks,
Can’t be bad.’
Interviewer How very charming. You’ve been writing now for a long time.
Arthur Too long to remember.
Interviewer Really?
Arthur Certainly longer than seventy years.
Interviewer Is that right? But you’re only seventy now.
Arthur Hmm. My memory is worse than I thought.
Interviewer I wonder if I might ask you a little about your writing process. Can you explain it?
Arthur It’s a fascinating subject. I live in a world of poetry. I simply cannot stop thinking of rhymes all day long. The flow out of me like…
Interviewer The cascading torrents of a mighty waterfall?
Arthur I was going to say a tap. I have only to look at an object and I can feel poetry welling up, like a well. Let me give you an example. Look at the table in the middle of the room. I can make a poem up about that. Listen – (thinks for a moment, then…)
‘Did once a tree in some great forest foretell a future so grand?
Did the Gods look down upon thee and whisper, oh so gently,
“A table shalt thou be. And there to rest a cup of tea.
Maybe a pie.”
Not bad, eh?
Interviewer Staggering. How did you discover this wonderful facility with words?
Arthur Good Lord! I remember it being at a very young age. I was young, innocent, fresh faced with an imagination that knew no bounds. I was in my pram, being pushed by mother. It was a glorious summer’s day, as I recall, and then suddenly a butterfly landed on my nose. I was still barely fifteen years old- precocious. As soon as I saw the butterfly I let forth with the following –
‘Sitting in a pram, I watch your wings flutter on my nose,
I’m cross-eyed with joy.
Reflections back to my auntie’s fan,
Gaily coloured, whooshing
Violently in her hand.
Hot flushes.’
How about a cup of tea?
Interviewer Thank you, yes. So that was one of your earliest introductions to poetry?
Arthur Indubitably.
Interviewer Very nice. Now it’s true, isn’t it, that you are a self-published man? Every major publisher has consistently turned you down for over fifty years. Why do you think that is?
Arthur I was, and am, ahead of my time.
Interviewer Still? After fifty years?
Arthur Well you see fifty years ago I was ahead of my time. And then it turned out that I was ahead of the time I was ahead of. Perhaps even beyond that, too.
Interviewer I see. You’re saying that you’re ahead of the time that’s ahead of the time you’re ahead of?
Arthur Uhhh…Yes, that’s right. Now how about that cup of tea? I saw a tea bag around here somewhere. I had to let my last housemaid go after only a week when she refused payment in uhhh….
Interviewer Cash?
Arthur No, teabags. I thought everyone appreciated a good cup of tea. Clearly not. She muttered something about a ‘bum face’ and I was forced to fetch my hunting rifle. She zig zags well.
Interviewer Yes. I, uh, hope you don’t mind me asking the next question then, I , uh…
Arthur Oh Good Lord! Have no fear. I’m a terrible shot these days. I haven’t actually shot anybody successfully since I caught the postman gazing in a longing manner after my wife.
Interviewer Oh! You were married?
Arthur No. She was my house cleaner in fact. I called her wife out of a term of endearment really. I don’t think she liked it much to be honest. It aggrieved her husband somewhat as well. When you have two men at a civil function, a wedding or a family reunion, both addressing the same woman as ‘my wife’ it can create not a little discomfort in the room. She left me after a short time. (Gazes off)
‘Her hair was black and her eyes were blue,
She’d a pale complexion of a Celtic hue,
She was unlike me and certainly you,
She was my ‘wife’ and her husband’s too.’
(There is silence for a moment. The interviewer shuffles from foot to foot . Arthur comes back from his reverie.)
Sorry. I was lost in poetry for a moment, again.
Interviewer Perfectly understandable. Hearing your poem and the mention of Celtic reminds me of something I read which said that you have, in the past, translated some of your works. What languages do you speak?
Arthur I have a good understanding of French and a smattering of German, learned mostly I must admit, from television. But it did allow me to compose my brief poem ‘Achtung!’ in its original German form.
Interviewer Can I hear it?
Arthur Well, it’s been a while. Let’s see now. Ah, yes.
Achtung! Was ist das?
Ist meine fraulein, swinehund!
Heil! Fraulein!
Und Volkswagen!
Interviewer What inspires you to keep writing?
Arthur Life, my friend. Life inspires me. I see poetry everywhere I look. Just the other day I saw my cat walk in and kill a rat. I was immediately inspired –
Cat flap,
Slap
Slap
Rat
Slap
Rat
Flat.
Interviewer Interesting. Finally then, it seems you’re still very popular locally for recitals. You’re performing tonight in the ‘Mangy Whippet’. What will you be selecting for tonight?
Arthur I will be reciting some of my favourites and one or two new ones I have recently put together, which are of a darker hue. I won’t deny that sometimes I get a little down. My life has not been a complete success. I think I was a disappointment to my parents from the moment they realized I wasn’t John Wayne, and this comes out from time to time in my poetic outpourings. Just recently I wrote ‘Kaleidoscope of Ugly’ in a midnight hour.
Pink are my thumbs,
And yellow my teeth,
Brown are my toes,
And black are my teats,
Blue are my eyes,
And green is my nose,
It’s hell when I try,
To match all my clothes.
Interviewer I’m sorry to hear that. Well, I’m sure you will get the kind of applause your poetry deserves this evening in the ‘Mangy Whippet’. Thank you very much for your time and poetry Arthur.
Arthur It has been excessively pleasurable.
Interviewer I wonder if we might finish with one more final poem. Would that be possible?
Arthur Of course, sir. I like to say that my poetry is like wine. Today we have drunk some of the body of my wine of poetry, yet still there remains to lick the bottom.
Interviewer Are we to lick the bottom now?
Arthur Not today. In fact, you will probably not have a chance to even view my bottom, my poetry’s bottom.
Interviewer Let us not try then today. How about one more offering?
Arthur Granted. This one relates to my mother and is called, ‘No peas for me please’.
Will you not have one on the side of your plate?
Oh mother, no peas for me please.
How about just one, just there in your pie?
Now mother, no peas for me please.
What if I just leave it on the side, by the ornamental dog?
That’s fine, but no peas for me please.
Put one in your pocket and save it for later,
Oh no, no peas for me please, I’m sixty-two!
Not even one?
No!
Interviewer Arthur Loopy, thank you.
Arthur An honour. Now, how about that cup of tea?
The End