The Devizes Arts Festival Poetry Slam

The Devizes Arts Festival Poetry Slam

Tuesday 14th June 2016

So, you know how to weave a villanelle

You’re a master of blank verse and sonnet

You’ve a tale of mysterious mirth to tell

Get on it

For down deep, in the Merchants Suite

When the dancing girls have gone

You, on the stage, rhyming sorrow and rage

Bring it on

You’re a rhymer, a rapper, it burns in your soul

You say that you always knew it

So, bring it to town, camp it up, smack it down

Just do it


© Gail Foster 2016


Free entry, apply online

Back Seat Joker

In which I am no better than the sweary kid on the number 33…


Effing this, and jeffing that

Another bus, another tw*t

Impressing peers with his wit

Sort of.  Slightly.  Just a bit.

Drop the ‘c’ bomb, hey why not

Girls will think you’re really hot

Louder, lad, we want to hear

About the weed and drugs and beer

You smoke and deal and snort and sup

How you get high and then throw up

That college bores you to a yawn

That bigger breasts make better porn

Ooh, a word that rhymes with tank

Have we got Tourette’s to thank

For the verbal diarrhoea

You pour in to our captive ear

Or are you, sunshine, simply rude

Insecure, pathetic, lewd

Wow, a word that rhymes with sock

Shouted loud to cause a shock

Tits and fanny, bell end, bum

Words you wouldn’t say to Mum

What makes you think we want to know

That so and so is just a ho

That your best mate’s a massive tool

It’s just like being back at school

There’s no escape, we’re on the bus

We’ve got to listen to you cuss

All the way to flippin’ town

Please lad, turn the volume down

Before I stand and loud recite

This rhyme I felt compelled to write

Inspired by the irritation

Caused by your inane oration

The bus is crawling up Dunkirk

My poem will keep, you’re just a jerk

Ah, the joys of middle age

Intolerance, indignant rage

Imagine if I’d read the verse

I’d have been like you but worse

So not the time or place for it

Back seat joker, talking sh*t


by Gail

Preacher Man

the crazy preacher man

he speaks

to me

I and the crowd



and squinting

his shadow stands

before the sun

his silver words

are slivering

forth from ancient nets

fisher of men


it may be so

maybe it was

ever so

and so

some say

it may well

ever be

yet know ye this

that nothing new

shall ever stand

against the sun

and speak as He


by Gail