Some time ago, I made an announcement about the first Nesbit and Gibley book of poetry being in the works. Shortly afterwards, there was a post regarding a quote that helped develop the book. Since, there’s not been much light shed on it all. So, a quick update…!
The book is reaching the final stages. The themes are down and solidified, the approach, the sequence, too, and the latest draft is out for feedback and review from friends and peers. Whilst some of it has been back and forth, up and down, discarded and retrieved, it really has been a lot of fun writing. The title, at the moment a kept secret, might be posted in the coming weeks, along with some other news. So if you’re interested, stayed tuned!
For some of the poems, I debated their place in the book. Wild Fun was one of them.
It describes a bouncy castle (a bounce house, I’ve heard as the American name for it) escaping a children’s birthday party. It becomes this animal, when free from moorings, that flees in the high winds.
However, it didn’t quite fit in the book, for two reasons. First, because I am lucky enough not to have experienced a fleeting castle (as I’ve heard they can be quite dangerous!) it felt out of place; there may be some elaborate metaphor where this could apply, but the book focuses on the more personal experiences. Second, it was more of a play with language and zoomorphism, something that was a lot of fun to write but never had a home.
Anyway, it’s remained in the early stages, so please forgive the clunkiness I couldn’t rid. It wasn’t doing much sat in the notebook, and while it’s not something at all polished, I hope you enjoy it!
(There’s a few more poems that didn’t make the book, all of which will most likely be shared in the forthcoming weeks.)
Wild Fun
Seven years of a life in safety,
no broken arms, sprained ankles,
allergies, divorcing parents,
nothing to give the boy reason
to notice
that the beast behind,
wobbling and waving,
gurgling his friends,
has begun to crawl.
The moorings wormed
their way out long ago.
The wind accelerates, bucking the children
out the front onto the lawn
and the castle
charges forward.
The women climb to clutch their kin
as the men dive
for the slithering string,
hissing through the grass.
It escapes their fingertips,
the steeple horns flee
their grips, and the creature
wrangles bushes and bramble
in a glorious gallop.
It lands and lunges,
trampling the marquee,
buffeting the buffet,
sandwiching the sandwiches.
In full liberation from the ties, it tumbles
in a showcasing stride, the toothpicks teeth
the coloured hide and fly
as it bounds over the stone wall,
armadillos down the bank,
kicking out the paper plates and plastic cups
in a flurry of festive arcs.
Some count the children
while others take to the coast,
rallying the wind and decline,
watching their rented thing
scuttle and scamper across the sand
before sliding onto the water.
Not much to do now but watch it sail
toward the bobbing buoys
on the aqua green sea.
Free at last.
“Everyone inside,” she says,
as she feeds the children
through the patio doors,
capturing the excited ones by their arms.
They calm and their tears are dried
while she serves them each a cheesy pizza slice.
Nesbit and Gibley 