140. ...I make poems.

(poem(s))

Aug 28, 2023

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.

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