Tag: poet

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Beneath the furled canopy of
Ever green dreams,
Narrow lanes carve through clay
Excavating memories. They
…

On rocks

For all those who argue. For those who can be irrational and unreasonable and who misremember the facts.

Song of Summer

Do you remember summer? It happened long ago
When Wealden hills gleamed green and pink, untainted by the snow.
 
The days flowed on like rivers carving a languid path
From shy blue beginnings to their golden epitaph.

…

Letter of complaint

Inspired by Charles Bernstein’s wonderful poem ‘Dear Mr. Fanelli’, I wrote an epistle.

Dear… should I call you
God?
You go by so many names,
it’s hard to say
which is right.
Might I call you God?
Good.
Dear God,

Saturday, September 8

My first prose poem. That’s all.

“Sasha, from Maidstone, Kent, was last seen on Saturday…” That’s how it went, “last seen on Saturday, September 8, after leaving a friend’s house at around 11. The 17-year-old brunette was caught on CCTV walking towards home, down Union Street.” On Saturday, September 8.

Stardust

This is my love letter to Brian Cox, ha! No really, this is one for all the other science geeks out there who think that fact really is far more miraculous than fiction. 

I don’t need a God,

I’m made of stardust,

Of lust flowing from billions of atoms

That conspired to have me sired.

I am huge, I’m a giant,

…

Would you care?

This poem needs little explanation. I’m sure many people can identify with this feeling – the slow, cold realisation that you are losing someone you love:

Would you care if I left,

Would you be bereft? Would you cry?

Or would you sit dry eyed in despair?

Would you? Would you care?

Would you flood the lands with your tears

…

Toilet talk

For all the women who, like me, spent an unhealthy proportion of their twenties queuing in girls’ toilets in various clubs and bars across London.

He’s got a penis like a pritt-stick.

Oooh, is that lipstick?

Ah babe, can I borrow it?

Thanks love. Your tits

look bangin’ in that top.

Girls, chop chop in there!

…

If I should die

We mourn those who die but, really, who and what are we mourning for?

If I should die,

don’t cry for me.

I’ll be dead you see.

I’ll have gone,

escaped life’s throng

…

The man in the white Stetson

Some meetings are more memorable than others. Some are even worthy of a poem:

Deep in the Welsh mountains where revellers reeled,

We met in a rowdy and colourful field,

In a white Stetson hat, beside me he kneeled,

He was hunting for treasure, I was too, it was sealed.

…