Hello and welcome to Nuddybongo magazine’s The Room of the Unknown Poet. Each month we shall be interviewing and airing the work by an unknown, yet great poet. This month may we welcome Wolverhampton poet, Miss Siobhan Poukill. We have decided to call this feature:



Siobhan Poukill, Wolverhampton North Poetry Society’s greatest member, (yet totally unknown) went to Stratford the other day to visit the butterfly farm. She wanted to watch the butterflies and get inspired to write a book of poems entitled ‘O Butterfly, Butterfly’. Siobhan told us, “I want to be a great poet/sonnet writer in the style of Shakespeare and be taken seriously, like Birmingham’s Spoz. Spoz was Poet Lorryet of Brum which he made great and, well I want to do the same for Wolverhampton. Can’t you just visualise it, my name in lights in the town centre ... Siobhan Poukill, Wolverhampton’s Poet Lorryet’.
The papers would say ‘At long last! Wolverhampton is on the map thanks to our brilliant poet, Siobhan Poukill”

When bored with watching butterflies flapping around, she went to the Swan theatre and took in the matinee of Romeo and Juliet. After the show, she went up the street to the pub for a half to drown her sorrows about the lovers, before getting the train home. She chose the same pub where the actors usually retreat to, to get hammered after a passionate performance.

She got talking to them and unfortunately ... got hammered with them. She said her goodbyes and then went for a walk to sober up a little before catching a train later in the afternoon; well, it was a glorious day.
She said to us ...“I left while I could still feel my legs.”
I went past a farmyard and heard a strange sound, a sort of squeal and an oink; a squoink. I looked over the wall into the pigpen. A cute little pig was sat there reciting his inspired version of Shakespeare’s work in pig-English and this little pig’s sonnets/poems were better by far than my efforts and it made me really jealous.
But, another older pig and a cow were trying to put it off because they too were jealous ‘in advance’ that this little pig would become well known and not be zapped and hacked like they would be.


Our bin top reconstruction of what she saw with the words she reported to us to have heard.




She told us that in a fit of misery and jealousy at the little pig’s talent, she called the farmer and had the little swine zapped and hacked for her deep freeze. She said that ‘the crackling was amazing!’


Here are three fine examples of her work for her butterfly poems book:


Oh Butterfly No1

Oh butterfly, butterfly, flap thy wings,
When you do, my heart sings,
It breaks the same heart, when you come from your cocoon,
Then immediately get eaten ... a life of certain doom.



Oh Butterfly No 2

Oh butterfly, butterfly, sitting pretty on a flower,
Wings of patterned dust... did you really all just come from tiny miracle eggs?
But, the net then descends and traps you,
And a evil little shit pulls off your wings and legs.

(In this one she has very cleverly added the word ‘pretty’ and has been shortlisted for the Turner Peace Prize and has been likened to Ted Ewes the unknown Cumbrian sheep poet).


Oh Pretty Butterfly

Oh pretty butterfly, oh pretty butterfly, thank God like birds do, you don’t fly south,
Words of appreciation at such news come from my heart and out my mouth,
Oh pretty butterfly oh pretty butterfly, I’m glad you don’t go,
Instead you stay, and die when we get cold and snow.


A quick example of Ted Ewes work, a totally unknown poet we shall be interviewing in the not too distant future.


Oh sheep, who stares at me as I walk down the muddy Cumbrian lane
Is your life pleasant even when like now when it pisses down with rain?
The shepherd should put you lovingly, in a dry barn
But, he thinks you’re a hardy blackface and the tosser doesn’t give a darn.


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