Poetry Blog by Nick Coleman

Tags from last 12 months

Recent Comments

Jon Stainsby on The Gifts (Thu, 20 Dec 2018 04:37 pm)

poemagraphic on My Stillborn Child, by Jose Coleman (Thu, 20 Dec 2018 03:49 pm)

Stu Buck on Tempus Fugit (Tue, 9 Jan 2018 01:48 pm)

Juan Pablo Lynch on My Stillborn Child, by Jose Coleman (Mon, 30 Jan 2017 07:23 pm)

Harry O'Neill on Re-Winding Memories (Mon, 16 Dec 2013 11:09 pm)

M.C. Newberry on Re-Winding Memories (Fri, 6 Dec 2013 01:16 pm)

Simon Marks on Re-Winding Memories (Thu, 5 Dec 2013 04:02 pm)

Nick Coleman on The Other Side of the Wall (Mon, 21 Oct 2013 04:09 pm)

Cynthia Buell Thomas on The Other Side of the Wall (Mon, 21 Oct 2013 12:47 pm)

tony sheridan on Thirst (Wed, 5 Dec 2012 11:24 am)

The Gifts

This was written recently by my sister who suffers from Alzheimers. I should not say "suffers" because she cheerfully accepts the different plane that it has set her on apart from the <normal> world. A very gifted author and poet the disease has cruely manifested itself by upsetting the language function of the brain, yet I find her latest works intensely moving and brave.

 

 

This now, i...

Read and leave comments (1)

Alzheimers

Tempus Fugit

Do look out the window, dear.

see

the autumn leaves fall

as the fires die

down.

Read and leave comments (1)

My Stillborn Child, by Jose Coleman

Mhow, India,  January 1941

Oh my heart's darling why
could they not let you lie
under the open sky
outside the wall
where the clean rain could fall
and the sun shine?
Silent. No bird will sing
there where you lie
under the tall thin trees.
They with their pointed leaves
crowd out the light,
filter the monsoon rains,
deaden the air along lines of graves.

Do you rest still,
would-...

Read and leave comments (2)

Re-Winding Memories

Re-Winding Memories

 

Beeching has been at work in her brain.

Branch lines are closing. No train

of thought as tracks disappear

in a tangled undergrowth where,

tearful, she  loses hold of time.

 

"I must get back down the main line

before the wrong sort of memories

cause wheels to lose their grip.

I'm sliding back to nowhere fast.

Wasn’t I your mother once?"

...

Read and leave comments (3)

dementia

The Other Side of the Wall

The other side of the wall

 

Daddy Goeth was a good man.

Never brought his work home.

Gave us  hugs and  kisses

when we did as we were told.

Gave Mama a present, a lampshade.

I remember the numbers, the numbers,

 they made a pretty pattern on the wall.

Apple wood had a pleasant smell

 as it burnt in the hearth.

White smoke, black smoke,

what shade...

Read and leave comments (2)

The Bricklayer

The Bricklayer

 

Bleeding knuckles, torn nails,

the wall about his bed remained.

Uniforms passed through, ghosts,

changing drips, injecting morphine

that killed the pain but not the past.

The bricklayer had made his bed.

 

Mum and Dad had dug the footings

of his wall, his fort, his prison.

Piss in his cot, poo in his pants.

Don’t touch your penis ...

Read and leave comments (2)

The Violinist

entry picture

 

The Violinist

 

Fingers moving to fragments of chords,

he tries to connect to sounds in his head,

but buried in sand, notes slip through his hands,

and the roar of the sea takes over.

 

Fingers strumming invisible strings,

he can’t understand what they’re doing.

His fingertips sense a tune he can’t hear,

and the naked silence takes over.

 

T...

Read and leave comments (1)

Spanking Angels

entry picture

Three odd ones

 

Spanking Angels

 

cream leather seats

silver angels

tanned

bowlered bully wide

back sides

tanned

dead man’s blood

red hands

tanned

gassed thin skin

lamp shades

tanned

but naked blondes

sun bathe

tanned,

- and no one sees the angels.

 

 

Cremation

sails of space dust

spat out on solar...

Read and leave comments (1)

Oh What a Joy!

entry picture

Oh, What a Joy!

 

When your bladder is bursting

and you’re dying to go

but try as you might

you can’t start the flow

oh what a wonderful joy it is

when a tube up your dick

allows you to piss

 

When your belly has blown

to the shape of a ball

and Movelat powders

are no help at all

oh what a joyous sound to hear

 the gaseous blast

as...

Read and leave comments (3)

Thirst

entry picture

'performance'  - maybe, 'poetry' - not.  Audio inspired by the Eurovision Song Contest and a few pints, with music by 3-fingered George.

 

Thirst


I'm sitting on a tractor seat
loading bales of straw,
with spool-valves at my fingertips,
dusty eyes rubbed raw.

There's seven hundred more to cart
but thunder's in the air;
and many hours work ahead
before the field is ...

Read and leave comments (3)

Dementia

Had another go at last verses

“Despite their dementia  they do remember well that they have a family that is never here for them. They call their names into emptiness, and cry at the thought of abandon .” a comment from BBC website

Dementia

 

I cried and sucked their teats. They drew a face on me

 in their own image, one I never asked for,

constructed a smile and ears to...

Read and leave comments (0)

The Schoolmistress

The School Mistress

 

She hides behind walls of hollow words,

clay words baked by burning hopes.

Words moulded from mud and straw

surround her dust drenched days

as desert dunes drift the passing years.

No bells ring from these ramparts,

no wisdom wrung from these  words,

no new life flung to find the heavens.

The silence of expanding stars listens, learn...

Read and leave comments (3)

Ethnic Cleansing

Not really poetry, but wanted to mark the 20th anniversary of the start of the Balkan conflict

 

Ethnic Cleansing

 

Nationality?

Ethnicity?

Religion?

Race?

Working Class?

Middle Class?

Toff?

I am a musician

I am a farmer

I am a builder

I am a lawyer

I am a painter

I am

I

Without a label.

This was prompted by reading of ...

Read and leave comments (1)

The Disappearance of John J. Dyer

entry picture

 

The Disappearance of  John J. Dyer

(another try at this one)

 

Mr Dyer, in rainbow shorts, plump

and pink under a palm tree, smiles

as he pats Miss Burtenshaw’s rump,

golden grains of sand on the beach

flowing through his open fingers.

 

Soft over rooftops a lullaby’s heard

as Dyer dreams of the one-armed bandit

in the back bar of  his favourit...

Read and leave comments (3)

One Night Stand

entry picture

One Night Stand

 

Skinny-dipping off Seaford Head

in the ripening sun.

Bobbed hair and a giggle

stripping off the night,

calling me to follow,

white breasts firm and smooth

as wave-sucked rocks,

a slender back begging

to be played from neck

down to where wavelets

make her tip-toe and

water laps tight curls.

 

Shingle has shifted a bay ...

Read and leave comments (2)

The Heron

entry picture

The Heron   (a fable)


The pike sups on a tadpole

 in this turgid lily-pool

where the grey can swim unseen.

 

Decorated with gold-braid

the ostentatious swish

lazily from under lilies

filmed in the focused eye

of a patient leveller.

 

A shutter clicks, splash,

gold thrashes on the green.

A blade slides, splash,

...

Read and leave comments (0)

political

Re-written Red-eyed Steer

entry picture

re-write, hope it's better and not overworked:

The Red-Eyed Steer

 

he never got away did Fred

his sister did, got it away

with a foreign man in uniform.

 

mother and dad called her a whore

so he did too, lost her for good.

we found the photograph she sent

of her wedding day, her escape.

he’d saved it in a wooden box,

with a white five pound note

...

Read and leave comments (5)

This site uses cookies. By continuing to browse, you are agreeing to our use of cookies.

Find out more Hide this message