Menopausal Rap. NaPoWriMo2016


 

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NaPoWriMo (National Poetry Writing Month), is a great opportunity to go through old notebooks and revive dead, or dormant, pieces of work. And that is how I found this piece. I remember performing this just once, at an Australian National Slams heat,maybe three years ago. After that I just left it. So it is nice, today, to dig it out again, tidy it up a little, and put it out there. It is far from “finished”; still needs work. But there are some lines that I like and think are worth saving from the discard pile.

This blog is mostly about love, but specifically about love in the middle years (since that is where I find myself!). Middle-age is a fascinating time, and is becoming more so, as we change our ideas about what turning 50 means. I am not going to turn this post into a treatise on mid-life in the modern woman. This poem was more written as an attempt to capture some of the rhythm and tone of rap. It’s a bit of fun, if nothing else.

The poem I mean…

…not middle-age.

Although that too…

MENOPAUSAL RAP

I stand before you, fat and fifty

Still nifty

In my own, sweet way.

I am a buffet of stretch marks and scars

Each mark a stamp of participation

Watch me walk down the aisle

Trying to smile

As I pile my trolley full of treats for the hoard

Who are always hungry and/or bored

Who live their teenaged lives

Unaware of how my love for them drives me

To get out of bed

When some days I’d rather be dead

Apparently I teach, but I’ve yet to give instruction

Too busy giving succour to the poor

And saving small lives from destruction

I want to scoop them all up in my arms

But I’d be charged with some offence of getting close

So I keep the fence

But god, it’s hard

They call me the sandwich generation

Which has no sexual connotation

But refers, instead, to converging needs

My offspring and my mum and dad

No grateful daughter I, but dutiful nonetheless

Despite the stress

Of two miserable cunts

Just getting older

And more miserable

My home is no model of housewifery

I don’t obsess about the mess

Just get on with living creatively

I’d rather bake a cake than clean the dirt

Rather knit a scarf than iron a shirt

When I was seventeen

I never thought I’d be a triple divorcee

Yet here you see

Optimism triumphing over fact

I still love men

Although the ones I attract can leave me yearning

Even at my age, I’m still learning what it is I bring to the table

It’s not my pretty face, or slim physique

My tits are great, but hardly unique

I steal the limelight

And the covers

I am not an option

For faint-hearted lovers

Being middle-aged is no crime.

Despite its messiness and creaking joints and greying pubes

It is a sort of recycled, patina-coated, prime.

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