Pomes. Po ems. Po yums.
I remember waiting for my mates outside the sweetshop opposite our school gates rolling a rap around in my head in the quiet gap ahead of them crossing the road back to the wee wall where we’d sit and shoot the shit for a minute before returning to school grounds. I had this line about being a “rhyme virgin and beat surgeon”. I can’t bring myself to poke further into that memory, that couplet's plenty enough cringe. I think I'd have been 13 so cast your critical eye back at your own awkward teen self before laughing too hard at my painful lyric.
I kept the rhyming to myself. The idea that I’d share whatever it was I was playing with in my head, say it out loud or that I’d even write it down wouldn’t have made it close enough to the surface of my consciousness to remotely qualify as an actual thought. I’d rather have been dead.
I’ve always rhymed and played with words. My head moves fast, jumps erratically from subject to subject and playing with the words that make up the thoughts slows them down so that long enough to squash ideas into some kind of coherence jacket. I’ve always liked to roll ideas along a path of my own creating and watch the concept cadence undulate. Or whatever.
I’ve posted poems on this Substack before (search “Poem” in the archive) and I’ve even managed, as my confidence has built, to add audio recordings. Still, it gives me a wee nervous tummy, as I write this, to think about putting them all in one place and sharing.
Fuck THAT. Forge forward.
Let’s get to slaying that self doubting recrimination dragon.
My name is Paul Lambie and I make poems.
And here they are, collected from across my Substack all packed together in one place like a for real album, like a real poet might do because I am a real poet because I make poems and so I am and that’s that.
I like that these words, uniquely arranged by me make an object. They have a physicality. They're not just thoughts in my head, they've been kneaded and shaped into something you can hold in your head.
They only exist because I made them exist.
When I share them I add another layer of tangible reality. Maybe they're only really REALLY real once I share them. They’re probably all works in progress. Will they always be? Every time I say them out loud they’re different.
I’ve posted most of these before but this altogether thing feels more solid. It's a bit scary.
Onward!
There’s a previously never posted poem right at the very end. It’s my absolute favourite poem. It has a mistake in it but I don't mind.
Have a listen if you like. Or don’t. Either’s fine. Really.
The titles have links to the original posts where you can most often find the words written down if that’s your thing. The poem
10 Poems.
These poems are, variously, about adjusting to new roles, anxiety, perspective taking, climate crisis, masculinity, neuro-divergence and love.
I'm trying to tie them up in a bow and make an album. Put it out on cassette for my thirteen year old self. Make him proud. I will. I’m working on it. In the meantime here's a bunch of words, uniquely my own, spoken out loud and caught in my phone and released into the internets for anyone who gets the urge to click.
Poem 1. … Domestic Chore Hack.
Poem 2. … Depilation.
Poem 3. … Feasting on Nuts.
Poem 4. … Where does the sky start?
Poem 5. … Victor.
Poem 6. … Leisure Centre Suggestion Box Entry #16.
Poem 7. … Get Well Soon or Platitude Problem.
Poem 8. … Digger.
Poem 9. … Dozy eyed to the woman I love.
Poem 10. … Meet Puppet.
(this last poem suffers from some puppet conflating - a ventriloquist’s dummy and a marionette are not at all the same thing. You can’t make an omelette without breaking a few legs)
All of the above written and performed by Paul Lambie. As usual.
I do wonder what these are for. What am I supposed to do with them? I suppose that’s why I’m releasing them into the wild like this. I like taking them to open mic nights and saying them out loud. I like when an audience laughs in the right places, I like the looks on their faces and I fucking LOVE a big round of applause. I don’t think I’d ever had one until I started reading poems out loud and I like it a LOT.
So are they just for puffing up my ego? That makes them seem a bit shallow. Pointless sound pollution?
None of them are provocations likely to encourage revolution. I don’t see these words changing the world.
But as I’ve begun to share the weird way my world feels, my confidence has kind of unfurled. So maybe that’s they are training wheels. I’ve met other people who’ve seen familiarity in the feelings. Maybe they’re training wheels on the relationship bike that lets me cycle my thoughts into places where connections are made.
Pushing it a bit.
They’re art I think. Are they? Aren’t they? I expect they probably are. I made them up. They didn’t exist before me. No-one ever in our whole species’ history every combined these exact words in this exact order and said them out loud quite the way I do.
So maybe they don’t need a purpose.
I dunno.
Maybe you can let me know what they’re for? What they do?
If you know someone with a nut allergy or someone who likes making every piss count please share.
Every time someone subscribes I get an email from Substack to let me know and EVERY time I get one of those emails I do an actual out loud WOOHOO! If you haven’t subscribed already, please do. If you know someone who might please invite them to join up.
Right to the very bottom? Oh my days, you’re TOO much.
I absolutely love you.
Paul.
Only my view of course, but I think you are supposed to channel your creativity and release it like you do.
That's your part of the bargain, those who read it can think what they will, but from my own babblings I hope that they > inspire, help, makes someone laugh or even make them rethink their world view. I think your words do too.
Keep on being you, that's your purpose.
Ps I used to rhyme as an MC back in my rave days (cringe factor 50 thinking about it now 😬 ) but hey ho it was an creative outlet of words.
I love how generously you share your process with us. The fear and the 'fuck it' moments. Thank you!