Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts

Wednesday, 7 January 2026

Curry Haiku

Veganuary going strong. Went to my sister’s for a vegan curry takeaway and the new Knives Out movie on Friday night. Things didn’t go to plan though and a minor headache I was nursing became a gargantuan, throbbing agony. Drove home and slept it off. 

Did nothing all Saturday. I did, however, come out with this haiku:  

So dehydrated 

Need to focus on fitness 

Staying in tonight 

Seemed fine by Sunday, went to Uppermill with family, had this:

Monday, 11 August 2025

Try Dave's Hot Chicken with Us

This week: 

2 new meetup groups have opened up: Manchester Activity Group and Manchester Motivation Group. Both pretty self-explanatory. 

Journal Club Wednesday at Hinterland. The last one (the first one) was really interesting. There’s a meetup on Manc Mates. Discussion and practice on the art of journaling, on the theme of Freedom according to Eventbrite. That’s the same theme as last time. Dunno if that’s a mistake. 

Thursday night: Poetry night again at Hinterland. I have nothing to read out. I just can’t think of anything that would work. So I’ll probably miss it, but if anyone else likes a good poem... 

Saturday Night: Manchester Nightlife is out once again this time to new food outlet Dave’s Hot Chicken in the Printworks. There are a million fried chicken outlets. Will this be better? It’s certainly newer. Come find out. We might do a few drinks around there after.

 

Later that night British UFC fighter Lerone Murphy takes on Aaron Pico in UFC 319. I’d like to watch it. It’s not easy to find places that do. 

Also, on the blog, a review of the last year and some goals for the next one.

Friday, 18 July 2025

Hinterland Poets

Thursday 10th July – I’m in Hinterland, the vegan alcohol-free bar in The Northern Quarter listening to a poem about kangaroos and masculinity. They're not two images that would normally be mashed together, but that is the beauty of creative writing – it’s allowed. If you can think it, it can go on the page. 

Tonight we’re in attendance for Hinterland Poets, an open-mic night of poetry. Dave Stone and Dave Viney present the night, and on entry I add my name to the ‘poetry fish’ – a cardboard cut-out fish – and take a seat. After an intro (Viney tells us of his work in prisons, teaching poetry), the open mic slots begin. 

I’m fourth out of around 20 poets, and I finally get around to reading this poem Junkie, that I wrote in 2019. I liked other people’s poems, and they seemed to like mine. I’ve done tons of writing over the years but I can rarely think of anything that would work in poem form – a lot of what I write is event write-ups and psychology musings, normally with a lot of multimedia add in to tell more of the story, so putting things into rhyme wouldn’t really work. 

But I’m going to try. I’m making a conscious effort to do other things with my social time than hang around in overpriced cocktail bars. So poetry might work. 

The next Hinterland Poets is on 14th August.

Wednesday, 16 July 2025

Journaling - What is Freedom?

After running a few meetups in Hinterland last year, I found that the vegan cafe could no longer accommodate us due to their own events. Their roster started to stack up with philosophy and poetry nights, all things that, in fairness, I’d be tempted to try out. I’ve been trying to find things to do that aren’t just going to bars and sampling cocktails, so an alcohol-free bar like Hinterland made a good start. 

On Wednesday 2nd July they hosted a journaling class organised by Fi, who had chosen the theme for the evening:  

What is freedom, really? 

Fi encouraged us to free-write, in prose or poetry, what we thought of the word ‘freedom,’ and encouraged us to speak from our own perspective. We were given a few minutes to put together a piece on the subject. 

Here’s mine: 

The hardest thing about freedom is that you don’t realise how valuable it is until it’s taken away from you. Lack of money or time, or other obligations like family commitments can take over your life. But when they don’t, your freedom can allow you opportunities to try new experiences. Freedom, however, has its dark side. Too much freedom and not enough commitment, can bring out other frustrations.

2/7/25 Journaling event in Hinterland Manchester. #creativewednesday

[image or embed]

— Matt Tuckey 🇬🇧 (@matttuckey.bsky.social) July 16, 2025 at 10:00 AM

Fi asked us for our thoughts on ‘Freedom,’ or lack thereof, and she added them to the board. 

 • Self judgement / expectations 

 • Holding contradictions 

 • Staying open 

• Allowing things to be messy / unresolved 

Another prompt with a 10-minute free-writing exercise came next, on the title: A part of me that longs for freedom is… 

I splurged this out onto the page: 

A part of me that already is free, but I’m afraid to take that step. I could more, solo. I’ve never gone abroad alone. 

 I have memory difficulties. The restriction here is that new places are hard for me to get around. I rely on my phone a lot. New places require organisation. I’d be screwed without Google Maps. That said, I have managed it in other British cities live Liverpool and Newcastle. It could be done. Is a foreign country really going to be that different? It’s a big step, but I’m tempted to test that freedom and plan out a slow adventure. I’d be free from other people’s restrictions, other plans and priorities. If I want to try that club, that museum, I can. 

Do I dare, though? 

So, yes. Automatic writing rarely results in anything other than drivel, but hey, it’s honest drivel. Isn’t that why you read my stuff? 

And Goddamn I need to practice Teeline. Trying to decipher my own shorthand after a few days was like trying to read the Zodiac’s letters, only I’d written it myself. 

I think someone read out a poem at this point, then we dove into a new prompt:  

The Place that I Find Freedom 

The pen upon the page, bringing factual or fiction 

whatever you can think of, without any restriction 

not getting any younger, traverse across the land, 

take the opportunity, embrace with both hands 

order from the chaos, all you need’s a pen 

That’s as far as I got before the timer went. 

Enjoyable group. Good mix of people. Not too pretentious, great venue (I’ve never been to a bad event in Hinterland) and well ran.

Wednesday, 20 January 2021

Inaugruation Day Limerick

Thursday, 28 May 2020

Cummings 'n' Juice

 

With so much drama on the BBC it's hard trying to be Mr Matt Tuckey, but I-
Some how, some way- keep coming up with humorous tweets like every single day.
May-I- suggest a little mix-up to the part-y,
and make a few suggestions as I breeze through
4 in the aft 'cause Cummings ain't home, press in the garden til 6 in the morn
So what you wanna do? Sheeit.
There's a pack full of journos and they want answers too.
So turn down the lights and pull down the portcullis
An essential journey with a child, you know this

Rollin down M6 with your COVID
Stoppin' at petrol stations
Faaaailure
Your mind on Barnard Castle, Barnard Castle on your mind

Wednesday, 31 July 2019

Junkie


Fingers twitching, urges itching
To pull out what's hiding behind the stitching
Trying to focus on leaving it alone
No, you dirty bastards, I'm talking 'bout my phone!
One five three grams of electrical power
Battery life hardly over an hour
Assistant personality extension
More apps installed than I care to mention
Firefox app connects to the mainframe
Facebook and Twitter causing a brain-drain
My main aim- is not to fangle
With the little black plastic rectangle
Kids down mines to make it function
Without cobalt I'd have no compulsion
It wouldn't be so bad but what's making it worse
Is I sit down at my desk and I'm badly underworked
The urge to tweet hits; I just can't stop it
Then I'm delving back into my trouser pocket
Social media brings a hit of dopamine
A retweet means pleasure washes over me
It's overly addictive, so much it's emotive
It's got to the point where my manager has noticed
My bad habits seem to cause some friction
The issue has been raised during supervision
I don't think they realise that this is an addiction
I am an addict. Can't they see past my diction?
You spend years learning to speak and to write
but other shortcomings leave you sleepless at night
A night without sleep means a day out of kilter
Browsing your camera roll, laying on a filter
Where is the will to- resist the temptation
And while work's quiet, find a vocation
But wait, I think, how stupid could I be?
The answer's here, staring right up at me!
Go on your phone and you'll get bollocked just like I did,
But pick up a pen and no-one bats an eyelid.
Give yourself a hit, and then you want more of 'em
Addiction can frequently stem from boredom
Whether Instagram or whether cocaine
No matter the vice, the process is the same
What if it was none of these things, bear with me, just think
What if we changed the substance to ink?
You can probably guess where this is going
Why surf twitter when you could be scripting a poem?
No-one suspects when you're not texting or talking
Matching the vowels releases endorphins
Finding syllables with which to couple up
My vacant occupation is inspiration enough
A matchup with the vowels means I know what to put
Anyway my manager's coming over so I'll shut the fuck up.

Sunday, 21 July 2019

Developments on Last Year's Burgalry, Other Positives

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I mentioned back in May that I was burgled the previous July, now over a year ago. I know exactly who did it. I just don't have the proof.

The culprit- we'll call him Kenny- was recently evicted from the Littlemoor estate, and I hadn't seen him in months. On Tuesday, I saw him on George St in Oldham in a wheelchair, being pushed by another man. Is this the result of a degenerative disease? Or an assault? Or is it an attempt at benefit fraud? Does anyone know anything about this? If so, hit me up.

Recently, police raided a scrapyard in Oldham, and found parts of my stolen car. They're planning to prosecute, so I made sure I reminded them about the the connecting man.

In other news I hit 90kg on vertical grip bench press, a PB I haven't beaten since 2011. This is largely due to Oldham's main sports centre not having a chest machine with vertical handles. Chadderton Sports Centre, where Oldham's Andy's Man Club is held, does. I fit in a cheeky session before the club meets.

Today I visited Orton's Writers Circle in Nexus Art Cafe. I got some great feedback on a poem I wrote. I'll polish it up and you'll see it here soon. They're keen for me to write more of the same style.

Wednesday, 26 June 2019

Zombie


Bags under my eyes, that comes as no surprise,
Staring right at my eyelids for most of the night
Tryna change my viewpoint, get a bigger panorama
Though when you've had Citalopram it comes around much harder
Feeling redundant like an out of date Pepsi
Waking up at random times just like it's narcolepsy
There isn't any cure, you can't just slap on ointment
Just pick up the phone and book another appointment
Sorry, Mr Tuckey, we're an oversubscribed clinic
Our next slot's in six weeks, want me to book you in it?
Another boring clerk, another warning in work
If I make another error I'll go terribly berserk
I try to change my diet up, eat more sweet potatoes,
no matter what I eat, guess which way my weight goes
And that's the way my day goes, it takes a lot from me
Try to live my life like I'm a man and not a zombie
Way past my prime and already a has-been
Thirty-something bachelor, wired on Mirtazapine
But there's always that moment when your head hits the pillow
Where all the day's thoughts start to swell and billow
I forgot one thing, and I didn't do another
Regrets and missed opportunities asunder
All my mistakes and countless blunders
Feeling like the carpet's been pulled out from under
My feet while I'm just trying to stand like a man
The slightest inconvenience I'm out of the chip pan
And into the fire where my thoughts will roar
Calm on the outside but feelings still raw
Here's something to explore: Can I accept my weaknesses,
Lying on my mattress, and sleep with peacefulness?
A zombie-like stillness outside on the surface,
But my heart still beats, and that's why there's a purpose.

Wednesday, 22 August 2018

Meeting Jamie Oliver


Pukka Mate!
Gotta keep those turkey twizzlers outta school, innit?!
Got to Waterstones early, queue already building
Deansgate branch with people out the door
like wet spaghetti.
Obligatory food simile: tick.
Cool guy. Only had seconds to chat.
Not followed a recipe in AAAAGES.
Will now try Jamie Cooks Italy,
my signed copy.


Wednesday, 1 August 2018

A Poem About Allotment, a Northern Quarter Restaurant I Visited

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Quiet trip hop tinkles
through the Northern Quarter venue's speakers
bouncing off the exposed brick
and painted plant-green ceiling.
Allotment: a restaurant, not a cabbage patch
nor a home for pigeons,
but spiced pulled chicken is on the menu.
Loved the Sriracha pork chop with spicy egg noodles,
plenty of choice and originality.
No lamb, or hibiscus on that day, but
no digging required. We just ordered.
Sweet potato wedges, still encased on one side in peel.
I'd have trimmed that off,
but leaving them on gave that
'just unearthed' quality.
Raspberry and lime lemonade an original concoction,
a recommended option for thirsty shoppers.
The back-bar a gin-lover's paradise, varied and transparent.
Like any other allotment, a wooden-themed escape from
the bustling, narrow roots of the Northern Quarter streets.

Sunday, 24 June 2018

18-24/6

So, this week, I asked Georgia Harrison from last year's Love Island, who she thought would win in a fight between a baboon and a badger. (Baboons, as they're more 'aggy.')

Other than that, I grew some balls and read out a poem about depression at Orton's Writers Circle. I got some great feedback on it and I'm now ready to knock it into shape before churning it out to a few magazines. I felt a little awkward reading it out but the group were understanding and supportive.

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Wednesday, 13 June 2018

Last Night

Far from happening last night, I wrote this in 2014 after a rather weird excursion to Newcastle. The following is based on reality, but you can probably guess where the fiction takes over. I took this to Writers Connect to get feedback, then promptly lost the notes. They appeared again four years later in a giant pile of papers in my lounge. The feedback group encouraged me to 'divorce it from reality,' which I've done only slightly, although as I was drunk I don't honestly remember it with enough accuracy, so I may have made it more true to life.

INT. SMART CLUB- NIGHT

In a VIP booth, a group of men in late 20s / early 30s sit around a table with a built-in ice bucket, pouring out vodka, bourbon and brandy.

EXT. STRIP CLUB- NIGHT

The group congregate outside. One of them, Matt, a slim, short lad, is noticeable more drunk than the rest. One of the larger, bigger members of the group, Jason, speaks up.

JASON
Matt, we're not going to get in here unless you sober up.

MATT
I'm sorry, and you will do what?

Another member of the group, FERRO, steps between them.

FERRO
Woah, woah, woah. What the fuck?

JASON
Matt, you need to apologise for that now.

FERRO
Yeah, you do, you dickhead.

MATT
Alright, sorry, whatever.

Ferro pushes Matt away from Jason.

CUT TO:

INT. HOTEL ROOM- MORNING

Matt and Ferro wake up in twin beds. Matt looks decidedly hungover.

MATT
Ugh.

FERRO (chuckling to himself)
Matt that was the most pissed I've EVER seen you. Um, Matt, you might wanna apologise to Jason 'cause you were a DICK with him last night.

MATT
What... what did I do?

FERRO
Jason was telling you to sober up so you could get into that club, and your response was basically, “What are you gonna do.”

MATT
Oh, for fuck's sake. Really?

FERRO
I wouldn't, y'know, make a big song and dance out of it, but just be like, 'Sorry about last night,' and move on.

MATT
Oh, I dunno, y'know. A song and dance might be a perfect reconciliation.

INT. DINING ROOM
Big band music swells. Matt marches down the staircase with a cheesy grin, doing jazz hands and high kicks. Jason sits at a dining table, bemused.

MATT (singing)
I'm sorry about last night

FERRO & HICKS (backup singing)
Last night

MATT
I realise that I was a massive twat with you
I'm sorry about last night

FERRO & HICKS (backup singing)
Last night

MATT
I might have to work on my attitude
I realise in hindsight that I was a turd
I blame it all on the Woodford Reserve
And now I must make sure that you have heard
I'm sorry about last night

Enter busboys pushing mops in synchrony, wearing aprons and barbershop quartet straw hats.

BUSBOYS
He's sorry about last night

MATT
Yes I am

BUSBOYS
He knows that he can sometimes be a bit of a dick
He's sorry about last night
He's hoping he can get your forgiveness quite quick
He just didn't want to pay for a lap dance
And he thinks it's a shame you have taken that stance
Now he'll do anything to redress the balance
He's sorry about...

FERRO and HICKS (overlapping)
Sorry about, Sorry about...

Busboys grab ketchup and mayonnaise bottles from nearby tables and spray them symmetrically over the walls, then throw them aside, take off their hats and circle them across their sternums.

BUSBOYS
Last niiiiiiight!

Matt drops to one knee at Jason's side with hand extended. Busboys gather behind him in formation. Jason mouths a forkful of hash browns and shakes hands with Matt.

JASON
Alright mate.

He chews on. The room is silent.

MATT
Did I really say that, though?

CUT TO BLACK

Wednesday, 6 June 2018

Farting Contest


The following is a poem written by my Uncle Dick during his time in the RAF. From his surrounding memoirs it appears it was written between himself and a few other officers, with 47 Squadron in Sudan and Eritrea some time between 1939 and 1941. A bit of googling will reveal some very similar poems- who knows how all of this originated. If there are any World War II historians who fancy doing a bit of, um, alternative research, by all means get in touch.

Dick recently celebrated his 100th Birthday and was encouraged to recite this at the party. What a legend. It's too good not to appear online.

I'll tell you a story that's certain to please
Of a Grand Farting Contest at Shitton-on-Tees
Where all the best arseholes parade in the field
And compete in the contest for various shields.

Now some lift up their arseholes and fart up the scale
To compete in the contest for the barrel of ale
But others, whose arseholes are biggest and strongest,
They go in for the loudest and longest.

Now this Easter evening had brought quite a crowd,
And the betting was even on Mrs. McCleod,
For the papers had said in their evening edition
That this lady's arsehole was in perfect condition.

The ladies lined up for the signal to start
And winning the toss Miss jones took first fart.
For, although she'd no chance in a farting display
She'd the prettiest arse that you'd seen in a day.

Next young Mrs Pothole was called to the front
And proceeded by doing a remarkable stunt,
with hands on her hips, and tightly clenched hands
She blew off the roof of the sixpenny stands.

Next came Mrs Pinth who was backed for a place
last year she was placed in the deepest disgrace
for dropping a fart that beat the church organ
She gassed the vicar, poor old Mr Morgan.

But Mrs McLeod reckoned nothing on this
She'd had some weak tea and was all wind and piss
So straining her arse, all opponents defied
She unluckily shit and was disqualified.

Then young miss Pringle appeared mid roars of applause
and promptly proceeded to pull down her drawers
For although she was only four feet tall
She beat the whole lot and outfarted them all.

With hands on her hips she stood farting alone
And the crowd were amazed at the sweetness unknown
The judges agreed without hindrance or pause,
First prize, Miss Pringle, pull up your drawers!”

She walked to the rostrum with maidenly gait
and took from the vicar a set of gold plates
She smiled at the crowd as they started to sing,
and farted the first verse of God Save the King.

Wednesday, 30 May 2018

Undercover in the Officer's Mess



NaPoWriMo's Day 17 prompt suggests that we write a poem re-telling a family anecdote that has stuck with you over time.

My mum's Uncle Dick, greyed and portly,
welcoming us into his flat. Nine decades
of stories, anecdotes and experience.
Royal Air Force pension keeping him comfortable,
he hands me a cold glass of orange juice
and casts his mind back.
I realise, too late, I should be recording this.

Granville, my mum's dad, arrives at the RAF barracks,
war weary, the grit and oil of a hundred trucks washed from his skin,
The Cairo sand long gone from under his nails.
Some time in the 60s, out near the Suez Canal,
Granville is here to see his brother.
The familiar strangling Egyptian heat,
A world away from the mild and refreshing English sun.

Dick is an officer, a few decorations on his blazer,
quiet reminders of the roaring horrors of those six years.
His friends and colleagues are all his level,
The like-minded and fellow-afflicted.
A spare jacket is an easy procure, Granville's size.
His brother's disguise.

They enter the Officer's Mess, Granville quiet,
eyes roaming.
The war ends, he thinks, and only now do I go undercover.
Crackle of a snooker break towards the back,
a couple of pints being clinked together
in a thin layer of cigar smoke.

A door shuts. Eyes head to the sound,
a flock of salutes.
Warrant Officer on deck. Granville mimics the officers.
Dick makes some formal introductions. The blagging continues.
I see you have the Africa Star,” says the Warrant Officer.
Granville nods. He's not felt this uncomfortably warm since Cairo.
Well done.” A polite smile for Granville. A knowing glance to Dick.
The Warrant Officer departs. The brothers had earned their breakfast.