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		Urban Poetry Project
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	Mickleplum Featured Poets: AMANDA WEEKS Amanda lives in Pontypridd, South Wales with husband Carlos, four-year-old son Travis and a cat called Rita. She began writing eight years ago when, at 27, she decided to pack in her job as a collector, invent a pile of A levels and study creative writing and drama at university. She has had several short stories published in anthologies. She has written for The Pontypridd Observer and Buzz! magazine amongst others. Her Welsh-language screenplay Catastroffi was broadcast on S4C in 2006, and she’s had a further two screenplays optioned to Tornado Films. She is currently writing a novel, and attends John Evans’s Fiction Factory on Monday evenings. She is currently working as a supply teacher at Ysgol Gyfun Cwm Rhymni. Previously, she’s worked as a drama tutor for First Campus and as an actress.   Friends Netball One Of Them Days Ponty Baths Rumours Scrubber Space Tanked For The Moments

Friends

My true friends are happy for me

But not you. You smile at me

Then curse me in the pub,

Thinking you won’t be found out.

You bought me wine

And a pretty card, wishing me well

In my new home,

Then told everyone it’s too big,

Badly designed, bad choice of décor,

And too far away from Pontypridd

And the Spar shop.

And who do I think I am?

And how will I pay the mortgage

Or council tax, and manage all that cleaning?

It’s as though you want me to fail,

You want my home to be repossessed

Or the big bad wolf to huff and puff

And blow my house down.

You were so much happier

When I was on minimum wage

In Somerfield. Writing thesis into the early hours

While you had the luxury of sleep.

You came to see me every Saturday at work

And tell me how sorry you felt for me –

Working weekends and smelling of cheese,

Wearing that awful turquoise overall

That accentuated my large hips.

I said it was only temporary,

That one day all my hard work would pay off

And you told me I was wasting my time.

When you decide to work as hard as I have

And put in all the hours

And buy a big house in the country

I’ll be happy for you.

Netball

 I must have really hated netball

To fake illness and a note from my Mam

On the few Thursdays that I attended school,

And sit in a dingy changing room

That smelled of damp, thrush and verukas.

I must have been really crap at netball

To prefer looking at peeling paint

And stains on the ceiling,

Counting cracked, dirty floor tiles

Covered in ancient bubble gum and toenails.

I must have been really lazy

To sit there with a bag of homework

That needed to be done, but never would be

And books that I’d never read

And rotting fruit that I’d never eat.

I must have been really bored

To rifle through blazer pockets

Not looking for anything

Just needing something to do

Rather than vandalise the bogs again.

I must have been really stupid

To not know about you and Rebecca

Until I found your stupid note

In her pocket, next to the polo mints

Which I later pissed on and put back.

I must have been really stoned

To go to your house late at night

And throw a brick through your bedroom window

Hoping it would land on your head

But only getting your feet.

You must have been really worried

When you thought it was Paul the Pusher

Who broke your foot with a brick

Because you owed him money for speed,

So worried that your family moved away.

Oh, well.

One of them days

Ever had one of them days

When you wake up really early

Then go back to sleep

Then wake up again

Then go back to sleep

Then wake up late and think “fuck”?

I had one of them days today

And thought about phoning in sick

Then thought better of it

Then decided to phone in sick

But then thought “fuck it”

And went to work late.

My boss was like “do you want the sack?”

And I thought about how shit it was

But also about the fact that it’s an unemployment blackspot

And I was like “Well I do and I don’t.”

And he was like “That ain’t good enough”

And the fucker sacked me.

So I thought about getting revenge

By setting the fire alarm off

Or scratching his Mercedes

Or telling his wife about him and Ann-Marie

But in the end I just stole his stapler

And made an appointment at the DSS tomorrow.

I hope tomorrow’s not one of them days

When you wake up really early

Then go back to sleep

Then wake up again

Then go back to sleep

Then wake up really late and think “fuck”.

Ponty baths

In the eighties, the school bus would drop us off in town

And we’d head for the open-air baths.

We’d be there until it closed at eight

Get chips from Gim Hong’s in Mill Street

Then walk home in a gang.

It was where we socialised, met boys,

Caught colds and got sunburnt.

Then some cunt at the council

Closed it down

Said it was too expensive to run.

The following summer we sniffed gas –

There was nothing better to do.

I feel so sad to see the old baths

Crumbling after years of neglect

Japanese knotweed growing inside it

Where we used to swim, so carefree.

Razor wire is wrapped around it

To keep people out.

But it doesn’t stop the rats.

I wonder if they have as much fun

As we used to. Hope so.

Rumours

They said she was a witch –

The old woman at number forty-nine,

So we never played ball near her house

Or chased her cat.

The crowd outside the chip shop

Moved when she appeared,

She never said “excuse me”

Like everyone else.

When I fell over, running past her house

She heard my scream.

I shivered when I saw her

And dreaded the torture that

She was bound to give me.

I couldn’t run and couldn’t shout.

“That’s foot’s broken,” she said.

She helped me inside, sat me down

And gave me her phone.

Whilst I phoned my mother

She put a bag of frozen peas on my foot

And stuck a lollipop in my mouth.

“Don’t tell anyone I was nice to you, mind,” she said.

“People think I’m evil and I like the peace and quiet.”

Now, as I try in vain to finish my script,

Kids running up and down the street

Shouting, spitting and swearing,

I’m half tempted to start a rumour

Just like old Agnes did.

Then maybe they’d fuck off.

Scrubber

From the minute I wake up

I can hear her sweeping brush against the pavement

And wonder how many particles of dirt

Have settled since the last cleansing exercise

Eight hours ago.

Then she moves on to the windowsill

The paint faded through constant rubbing.

Next is the turn of the lamppost

All graffiti is executed

And Goldie the labrador’s piss is bleached.

Her windows, already gleaming

Are wiped to within an inch of breaking –

Nothing must spoil her view of the street.

She needs to see if litter is dropped

Or blown from less clean terraces.

The ice cream man parks outside

And she watches like a hawk.

Once, his predecessor dropped a wafer

She is on tenterhooks until the van

And it’s unruly customers have gone.

She waits for her husband to come home

Through the back door –

He’s not allowed to use the front passage

For fear of spoiling the carpet.

But he doesn’t come home, so she cleans some more.

Space

He left a space.

Never knew he was a “he” until the post mortem.

The little life. I never saw his face

 A tiny body. A huge space.

He left a void.

It couldn’t be filled with drink or drugs

Believe me, I tried.

Six months’ gestation. Eternal void.

He left guilt.

Was I wrong to decorate his room,

Buy a pram with matching quilt?

Three pounds, two ounces. Heavy guilt.

He left despair.

A freak with bad insides

A child I could not bare.

Neo-natal death. Life of despair.

He left me

Alone with my bottle and pills

And people saying it wasn’t meant to be.

A wanted son. He left me.

Tanked for the memories

Down and out on all-day bender

I recognise your voice

Before I even turn round.

“Oi, nutter!” you call

“Pint of lager and lime and a packet of cheese and onion?”

It’s as though we saw each other yesterday –

Not fifteen years ago.

We drink and laugh

At funny things we did together,

Talk of the places where we used to mosh –

All of which demolished now,

Replaced by the New Cardiff,

A place we can’t afford to live.

We reminisce about the music we loved

Now called “old skool”

And the musicians we wanted to be

Now called “veteran rockers”

And feel old. And long to go back

And listen to Anthrax.

You laugh at the make-up I wore

And joke that my skirts resembled belts

And mock my taste in boys.

You seem to remember everything about me

Except one crucial thing –

“Why did we stop being friends?” you ask

I pretend I can’t remember

I don’t want this good day ruined,

But you had a new girlfriend called Donna

Who didn’t like the fact that you had female friends.

When I phoned you, upset, you asked me not to call again

For fear of upsetting Donna. Fifteen years have passed.

I’m glad you didn’t end up with her

And that your new woman has no problem

With you having female friends.

Theoretically, we could be friends again,

Realistically, I can’t be arsed.

But thanks for the beers, Neil.