A long time ago - in the mid to late 1980s when I worked for the Humberside Youth Service, I attended a training course. One of the activities was something to do with gender awareness. It was a mixed group of about thirty people, We all sat in a circle for an icebreaker activity which involved each of us in turn coming op with a sentence that began “Because I am a man I feel…” or “Because I am a Woman I feel…
Perhaps it was because I was young and immature (perhaps I still am) Or perhaps it was the fact that I was not used to thinking in those terms at the time -the idea of gender awareness was very new to me. But I found the whole thing very difficult. Everyone seemed so focused, so thoughtful. All the men seemed so apologetic, almost ashamed. When it came to my turn, I couldn’t help myself. I said something along the lines of “because I am a man, I find this whole exercise quite ridiculous” and then unable to contain my laughter I left the room. As I left, I heard the facilitator calmly say - “well that’s OK, it’s a valid response” which only made things worse. I went outside the building (a nice hotel in Bridlington as I recall) and walked around belly laughing alone, until I felt composed enough to go back in.
The experience has stuck with me, and I still often think about the idea of what it means to be a man. I asked a few men and people who identify as male, if they would like to contribute some poetry on the theme, and here are some of the results.
If you would like to join in, there is still time. Feel free to send in some of your own stuff. I could add it to this page or to a future Men Only Two (Penthouse or Knave perhaps) Meanwhile enjoy the poetry here.
Poems
Asparagus - John Curry Sedimental Mind - Jake Hepworth My Type - Mick Pettinger Surface Tension - Glenn Barker I'm Man Enough - Paul Brookes I'm Not Crazy - Frank Colley
Asparagus - John Curry
Now that retirement is upon me all those seemingly endless days ahead I’ve got time to do all those things I’d no time for, All those books to read, not just buy. Time to walk the hills, through dark woods, by shorelines. To write a stanza or two if I’ve a mind. Ride my bike down to the allotment to see how my asparagus grows It won’t be ready for years yet Sam tells me I'm not even sure that I like it I breathlessly reply Paint the Hay Wain, Mk II in the kitchen Write that book about cowboys from space Stop the bath tap from dripping Weed the path, Fix the drain Buy a dog for long walks as long as it doesn't rain Eat and drink whenever I want to, whenever the mood takes hold Get fit, Get supple, Get a six pack maybe then I can fit my old clothes I go to the gym twice a week now, with intent to tread rubber and lift weights. But all I do is stand at the entrance wondering if I’m at the right place. My hands grip the kit bag so tightly I fear that the handle might snap I'll give it a miss again this week my hips are proper playing up I’ll be back here again though, Next Tuesday to defeat my demon with my inner mad beast I could always skip straight to the sauna, but I’m not sure I could stand the heat.
John is relatively new to poetry, and is currently putting together a collection for a projected 60 Odd Poets page. He broadcasts a music and interview show - Ordinary People on Sine FM radio. Catch up episodes are available online.
Sedimental Mind - Jake Hepworth
It is with bitterness that my mind is befouled but they say you are what you drink, and I am a bitter man. Thrice hopped and dry is the mind that it's beholder should conjure these few shallow words of short sight. Much of the devil's work is done when a woman falls prey to the deceptive fangs of seduction. The rest, is when a man's mind is bereft, and left bent over with the illness of love. A tipple may be yeasted, but it is no poison without sweetness, and love leaveth no charlatan, whence it's sweetness hath been eaten. That is why, I, am like, the bitters of my tipple. Once sweeter, but the fungus of love, mine eater. It's spoils, the spores of mine yore, subject me to vore, and I am left no sweeter, only bitter. But like my mind, a glass soon runs dry, and that is why, I, should be hopeful, that by, what is always left, is the dregs, and when I wash it down, I raise the glass high, to mine eye, and with hope it should be, that one night, I should see, through the bottom, and it be clear enough to magnify, past my own short sight. <<< Another recent convert to the wold of poetry, Jake is a sound engineer from Sheffield. He has been featured on Sheffherd, and further examples of his work can be found on his instagram account j.hepworth_poetry
My Type - Mick Pettinger
It's not lonely, and when it is, ya enjoy the peace and quiet. I don't strop about footy or get excited about cars. I like music and poetry especially when they involve a bar. I feel it's easier being one of my type. To be solitary is ok in this role. There's no worries of expectations to push a life out. This civilization doesn't deserve children. Not when money matters more than people. But back to what I am. I'm easy going and tired Occasionally a maungy and tiresome fellow but usually I'm laughing. I'm the pack horse when things need moving I stand watch of my loved ones In case the drunkards might battle. I teach the things I wish people had taught me. I play the songs that break me so people see I am fragile as trampled frost. I am driven to create and push aside things that waste my time. There is one life and I don't wish to waste a second of it. Keeping focused on everything but the other type. I can window shop all day but I'd never be able to afford one. I'm just a poor man A simple, plain, old man. <<< Mick is a poet and Musician who works as a teaching assistant. He was featured as number 25 of the Sixty Odd Poets
Surface Tension - Glenn Barker
Your words and hobnail bile ran over my touch-soft water, and sharpened it with knife edges. Cut – sliced – diced, packaged and stored, inaccessible. Frozen it lies, deep-wedged ice, layer on layer, hard, over a Baikal depth. Skates groove and graze and scrape, making no impression on my layers of brittle memories, numb cold to touch. Show me a man, a mile high, who doesn’t pull his own blades into the morning, past the heave and sweat of inner quarried night hours. He’s still searching for himself, his flesh, his divided essence, surviving on stucco chat, roughcast shoulders and hard-trimmed, foursquare resistance, storm warnings ignored by a toughened soul. The code of conduct remains intact; stone silence, stone weight, stone voices and gym-stares, killing the air, outside and inside, with another round of steroid push and puff, and echo-snap man-chaff: “I’m fine”. <<< Glenn is a south Yorkshire poet, writing on a wide range of subjects, always with depth and feeling. He featured as number 31 of the sixty odd poets, and regularly posts his work on Bluesky @rotherwrites.bsky.social. His poem "Midnight Collage" was recently published in Glow an anthology by the Broken Spine Press
I’m Man Enough - Paul Brookes
18 in 1980 week afore starting uni, lads night out and your dressed in Burton's bright yellow like a canary, socks, shoes, shirt, jacket, because it's cool. Lads boast they down 11/12 pints of John Smiths bitter a night, shag a lass then do same next night. You've never done neither. Follow lads round like fresh meat, loud and brash, they talk of shagging bints, fast cars, live bands you've never seen coddled by your mam and dad. Four pints in and your eyelids droop, bitter makes you fall asleep, lasses in short skirts with intentions nuzzle up but loud music means you can't listen to what they're saying and wouldn't know what to say. Lads jostle you. "We're off to neet club. A tha cumming?". I shout an apology. "Got to be in by 11." They get off. I leave the pub, buy a pizza and pissed walk home uphill chomping on greasy slices, cardboard box too big, one side of road to another. <<< A tireless and much published poet, Paul runs the Starbeck Orion poetry site on Substack as well as the Wombwell Rainbow, a fantastic resource used by poets worldwide. He featured as number 3 of the Sixty Odd Poets
I’m not Crazy - Frank Colley
I’m not crazy I’m just having time out If I don’t respond, there’s no need to shout. I’m not crazy, I’m just having time out. My mind is a mess, it’s messing about. I’m not crazy, I’m just having time out. I'll be ok in a minute, no doubt. I’m not crazy, I’m just having time out. I am not brain-dead; I'm having a thought drought. I’m not crazy, I’m just having time out. No need for you to stand there and pout. I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy. I’m just having time out. Having time out. Time. Out. <<< Frank, writes poetry and runs workshops in the South Yorkshire region. He has a number of published collections including The Story of Soldier A (Glasshead Press), which features work drawn from his experiences in the armed forces. He featured as number 5 in the Sixty Odd Poets
I know Paul Brookes, and it is nice to see his poem here. I find these poems very relatable and I admire their sensitivity and honesty.
Fascinating subject, with which I struggle to identify: brought up mostly by mum/big sis merely aspiring to copy big bruv far away in army. Dad had to work which sounded dreadful. I got that right at least. I like Glenn’ s use of juxtaposition and turn of phrase. Even though I enjoy some blokeish stuff like motorcycle racing and rock music, oh and female company… ooh contentious?, I don’t identify with testosterone. Yet I’ve acquired a competitive streak. I regularly thrash Ali at scrabble🤪. I reckon this could go deeper though. The male poet, what’s his agenda? How doth (sorry) he compare with other polar/admix weshethemither?