International Women's Day

A year ago today, I attended an Open Mic Poetry evening, the theme of which was International Women’s Day.  I have completely forgotten what I performed there – it might have been the one about Krishnan Guru-Murthy  (one of the ones about Krishnan Guru-Murthy - sigh).  That evening lives in my memory as being filled with the sparkling treasures of the talented poets who shared their work; but also because I wrote this when I got home, bursting with inspiration and bursting for a wee from the latte and the nerves.  My darling son had cried for me when I left the house that evening.  Tonight, he was stung by a wasp.  Tough times.  My precious boy, this is for you.

The Rock That’s In The Sea

Because he was crying, I made him a promise

Although he’d never know I would keep it

But his cheeks were two rosy oceans

Into which his love was pouring. ‘Don’t go, Mummy,’

He murmured, picking the shards of his heart from the carpet

Don’t go and read poems to those people.’

The bleeding pieces lay in his hands and I took them

And put them with mine

So with verses circling, I read to him first

But his breath hitched as his bursting lungs fought

For space in the cage of his chest

He clung to my body as if to climb back inside

And for a moment, I wished it – but the cord was cut

And the story was up, so I left

Trailing promises of kisses like a wake

                 -  -  -   -   -   -   -   -   -  -  -  -

Later I kissed Daddy at the door – once, then twice,

Thinking, Men are not so bad after all

Upstairs, I thought about Ophelia while my feet

Sought slippers and I sighed and kept my word. 

My child, my son, the one I weep to see

Lay in a patch of light through a green leaf

His cat reclined, supine, in his arms

Like a lover; ‘Brow,’ she said, and raised her head,

But nothing more than an idle paw escaped the embrace

Of the boy she adored. His upturned face

Moved with the dream he wove

And I stroked the motion of his lips

Thinking, Michelangelo’s got nothing on this

My selfish heart longed to shake him awake

Just to prove my promise kept

But all, and most of all, I wished

To tumble headlong into his head, and take his hand

And run and run until we reached the ocean

Our tears had made

© Muriel Lavender

March 2010

Sorry Cate

Muriel Lavender’s Fashion Tips Number 34:

Never burp the baby on the way to the Awards

© Muriel Lavender

February 2011

 picture © Getty Images

POETRY WITH BELLS ON

 Muriel Lavender at The Bell, Buckland Dunham, FROME

Thursday 27 January 2011

If you noticed any of the ladies in your social circle have been giggling all day for no apparent reason, chances are they spent yesterday evening at The Bell, Buckland Dinham.  Crowds of sophisticated belles of all ages – and one very brave gentleman – packed the Barn to the rafters, to hear Muriel Lavender perform her very first one-woman show. 

 “SUPERB” “ABSOLUTELY FABULOUS” “I MELTED MY MASCARA”

Muriel’s high heels were staggering, even if she wasn’t: immaculately dressed in a leopard-trimmed wiggle dress (courtesy of Deadly Is The Female, where she is Poet-in-Residence), Muriel shared her first collection of poems from a matching leopard-bound volume.  She opened with an hilarious guide to avoiding the most determined of acquaintances, entitled ‘Let’s Not Do Lunch’.  The subject soon turned to Sex, and every lady was soon crying with laughter at the thought that even a Sex Goddess can have too much of a good thing. 

A tear in the eye turned to a lump in the throat, as Muriel shared a touching poem about the heartache of being a working mother as well as a Poetry Diva – but she quickly swept the audience into gales of laughter again with an outrageously saucy take on the Shipping Forecast.  The twin themes of Sex and Radio 4 continued to intertwine throughout the first half, until the audience were ready for a chance to catch their breath and check their mascara.

“HYSTERICALLY FUNNY” “AMAZING” “BRILLIANTLY WRITTEN”

The second half featured a different Muriel – blonde and stripped to her undergarments.  All thoroughly tasteful, of course: a stunning blue corset, lace gloves and frilly bloomers (a rumour soon circulated that Miss Lavender sews her bloomers herself).  With the costume change came a different tone of poetry: letting loose her inner child, Muriel revealed that that inner child was quite the little madam!  You can find out why on The Muriel Channel – available on YouTube now. 

On a vocal journey of flawless accents which left the audience breathless once again, she took them from Yorkshire, in the form of a Monty Python Boyband sketch; through the Highlands of Scotland in a touching tribute to the One Brave Gentleman present; and in a stunning Cowgirl finale, way out to the Bayou with ‘A.D.V.I.C.E’.  If, indeed, Muriel had any advice to offer by that stage, it was lost in the roars of laughter from a crowd of very satisfied ladies.

“WHAT A GIRL”

If you haven’t heard Muriel yet, join her mailing list to find out where she’s appearing next.  Or, if you can’t wait to hear her again, BOOK HER to entertain your party – of ladies or gentlemen, for that matter: much as she enjoys poking gentle fun at the menfolk, Muriel’s style is to do so with love, not unkindness.  How refreshing.

As if Muriel didn't have enough to say, now she's saying it on YouTube

Please watch Muriel's first YouTube video, produced with the help of the Media team at Frome College (Frome = A Wonderful Place).  In this clip, Muriel is overwhelmed by a surfeit of information conduits - when all she really wants is to escape with a quiet cup of tea.  Ironically, you can follow Muriel here on the blog, on Facebook (she's not THAT over it then), Twitter or her own website.  Look out for more coming soon!

MURIEL IS A DEADLY FEMALE POET

Christmas is the perfect time to unleash the inner Femme Fatale – and at Deadly is the Female next Wednesday, you can be there to see it happen. 

Outrageous performance poet Muriel Lavender will make her first appearance as Deadly is the Female’s official Poet-in-Residence, during the St Catherine’s late-night shopping evening on Wednesday 17 November.

Proprietor Claudia Kapp looks forward to welcoming her customers with seasonal refreshments to go with the live entertainment.  “Deadly is the Female has always been unusual and daring, so a poet-in-residence fits like a glove.  Muriel can’t resist our faux-vintage clothing and accessories - why not come in and find your inspiration?”

Muriel first discovered Deadly is the Female whilst visiting relatives in Frome.  “I fell in love with the shop instantly – we were meant to be together,” she says. “The clothes are dazzling, flirty and fun: just like me! With her exquisite style, Claudia’s captured all the glamour and class of the 1950s pin-ups, and I’ll be celebrating that.  I believe that poetry is not for reading, it’s for performing.  In six-inch heels.  Ta-Daaaa!”

To find out more, visit Claudia at www.deadlyisthefemale.com and Muriel at www.muriel-lavender.com.  

Sex (or, Yes Thank You, I Have an Adequate Supply of Satisfaction, Sir Mick)

The Women’s Liberation generation fought for rights

At a time when it was not considered ladylike to fight

The victory was crushing for the menfolk of the day

But I’m not sure that Women were the winners in the fray

We gained a lot of power – but we gave a lot away

If this was 1952 I could have read a book

While he fumbled in me nightie for a little bit of nookie

He never would have thought about the missus’ Satisfaction

‘Are you finished yet or not, dear?’ was sufficient Girl Reaction

But the Sexual Revolution changed the way we loved, and whether

For good or ill, we’ve got it and we’re stuck with it for ever

Thanks to Wimmin in the Sixties and their blessed Wimmin’s Power

I’ve to act like I enjoy it and I want it every hour

It isn’t that I don’t – for goodness’ sake, I’m not a nun:

I have urges just like every other girl under the sun

But I’m tired – don’t you get it?  I’m exhausted by the grind

Of work and chores and kids, I’m bored, and then I’ve got to find

The perfect lover deep within me when it’s time to hit the sack!

Well, I tell you now: she’s f**ked orf and she isn’t coming back

If you like it dirty, take a sponge and wash the car

If you want a little spice, nip down to Al’s Falafel Bar

If you want to dress me up in something slinky and revealing

Bugger off!  You must be joking, love – I simply am not feeling

Like I want to lace myself into a posture-threatening bra

Or insert a – tell the truth, I’m not that sure what those things are

Inside my head, inside my body, there’s another me

She delights in six-inch heels and in sexy lingerie

She’s transported by the touch of silk or fur upon her skin

Excited by the frenzy that her lips can put you in

If she isn’t sighing on her back she’s purring on her knees

But sometimes even she prefers a sit down and some tea

Poking round in unexpected places till we’re half insane

They think of us as car engines or model aeroplanes

All they ever want to do is have a fiddle with our parts

They spend forever rummaging to find the bit marked ‘start’

They’d be happy if the mystery of Woman was explained

With an exploded diagram like in those manuals from Haynes

It’s no good trying there, you know, I’m not a garden shed

He’ll be stopping in a minute so’s to stand and scratch his head

Wondering what he came in for, the absent-minded bloody fool

- Funny really, cos they always know exactly where their tools

Are kept, they’re comfortably in reach at any moment, day or night

Which is why you shouldn’t ever let their hands out of your sight

Pockets are for handkerchiefs! the Schoolmarm always said

As she clipped another sweaty little beggar round the head

The minute that her back was turned it’s folly to pretend

That they weren’t vigorously shaking hands with their new bestest friend

We – women – we are blessed with bodies beautiful, top-full

Of secrets, dark and glorious with rhythms magical

In every way as earthly-strong as the unending tidal pull;

Wouldn’t it be simple if instead of what we’ve got

Our equipment was in front – like blokes – just like a letterbox?

Yes!  That would do the trick all right, how easy would it be:

“How pet, d’you fancy takin’ a special delivery?”

Our menfolk shout, then go to grab your knockers (steady on the door

Furniture, we know you’re there, just press the button), or

If they’re particularly dexterous they could ring the little bell

(If it was like that, I might go a little Parcelforce as well)

And the postman always does it twice! – could anything be better?

I won’t hesitate next time the boss says Muriel, take a letter

I admit it: I’d be a Domestic Goddess if I could –

Because we can behave like men, it doesn’t mean we should.