Biography

I like cats more than humans.
I like profiteroles A LOT.
I am growing tired of my piercings.
I have seven beautiful notebooks, and not one is full, and some are not started; nearly all my work is written in jotters at work or onto the computer. It doesn't really matter.
I refuse to drink ale, even though my Dad is disappointed in me.
I often write about things that have nothing to do with me.
I am 6'8".
I play in a folk band but we never practise.
I like gypsies and think we should give them a break.

Samples

Where We Were Was Always The Sea

Where we were was always the sea and inside the sea was me.
But the sea wasn't always free to do as it pleased
As it did back then
When surf touched the bone
Cemented into the walls of the cliff
And the stiff wind dried clothes upright like drowning men.
Our house was resting all those years ago
Not dry and brittle like a hummingbird's nest
Where all the furniture creaked as you sat
And little galaxies of dead skin moved on the wind back to the sea
And the surf
And the sand.
Open windows were the path
And Irish gales blowing provided the engine
Chundering and splurting out into the sky
Held down with ship's rope.
I smelt biscuits and held a piccolo on a string from grandfather's mattress.
All my friends were further inland, in houses built of dry stone
Where no moss grew
And the trees stretched their long legs across the earth beds of great kings who were buried with their wives
With sad still eyes no older than me
But made to see the old light rising over old hills.
They had seen the sea in picture postcards and on TVs with coin slots
And our little pier drooped sadly when they strutted by,
Never looking at the wet only at the dry.
I played by myself then,
And found the cave where Jane had died,
And where she left her jewels full of crabs so that they would scuttle out if disturbed.
But the crabs had gone,
A braver one than me had shook them loose and taken them home.
So I make my own jewels,
And my own princess,
And my own hangman
And my own treasurer
And to that cave I will go,
In a little seaweed robe,
And play where Jane died,
My own friend,
And my own home.


Notches In The Door

One day we will all grow up and see how close the fences really come.
The panthers we rode as children will curl up and dry like snails climbing the path
To the greenhouse, and their jungles will shrink to dry-tongued hydrangeas
Screaming from inside filthy bottles. The wardrobes, backs of cars, dead logs in woods,
roofs of garages, the garden sheds will no longer house glistening armies arrayed for war against
disobedient brothers, the dead mice will no longer serve as transport for mayors, dignitaries,
foreign princesses. All there will be is wood, unpainted like the back of a geisha's neck,
metal unadorned and smells rising like bile across school night skies.

No, we will have to learn to read, learn to add beads, serve our own needs and
dress to digress, successfully undress so as not to make a girl laugh.
We will have to understand wars where no one is winning, and read about
people who are laughed at in coffee houses, yet are named gods to our ears.
We must whisper fears and not shout them, because we are told that tears
rip life like rice paper and make us bad employees and husbands and wives.

We will have to take up hobbies like flags on a sailing ship, to strut our
minds, so chaotic and unknowable, while really all we want
is a sea breeze and a good book.
And we will be asked to look into black irises, cough down tubes,
Be knocked and battered and left weather beaten and sore
Yet still better, after all this.

And we will realise, after all this, that those woods are still there, with a few more cares
hidden in the branches and the sound of rushing wheels close by.
The castles still stand, hidden by a few more creepers than before, and Neighbourhood Watch
plaques pronouncing death to any child that venture here.
We will rip our suits, tear our hems and break our loafers on the solid ground
But feel bonfires again shooting missiles at our bare arms,
And the taste of stolen liquor.
We will come back, again and again, taking holidays and lapping up petrol,
Climbing over stiles half-dessicated and mostly dead, and kissing gates removed, their ribs
pointing up to the canopy. We will feel the rustle of paper armour
and the hiss of words, recording all we did, all we created, all our worlds,
Here, in the castle hidden in the trees.

Dark And Deep Old Night

All is silent, all collects sound,
On this dark and deep old night.
Kestrels dream and the mountain stream
Sits still just a little quiet.

And the doors that creak, and the love that seeks
Rest on this deep old night.

A girl that searched for a necklace that won't hurt
Died on this deep old night,
And the battered battle dog that murdered Mother Moon
Broadcasts on this deep old night.
And the answering bitch four valleys away
Longs for the cuts on his thigh.

In a swimming pool under miles of shouts
Here rests the deep old night.
And on a mountain ridge a collared bear
Roars on this deep old night
And three little children with dolls in their cupboards
Conjure worlds in which they can fight.

A jetplane pilot with four wedding rings
Is grounded this deep old night.
A cicada who trills with his carapace of song
Sings louder on this deep old night
And the grandfather lost on a beach at sundown
Still is flying his kite.

The restauranteur frying screams in milk
Sweats on this deep old night
The couple swapping body hair under Granny's old cloak
Sweat more on this deep old night.
The universe under the kitchen sink,
Glows all the more bright.

And I may be sitting, with you far below
Set up for a long cold night,
The hair that I grow is never long enough
Under the moonless light.
But I'll end this song, and we'll move along
Until the next deep old night.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

Last blog entry

Previous: In A Balloon Over The Sea

View or make comments. (0 comments)

Read other blog entries by Rob Sherman