Poetry Blog by ray pool

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raypool on LIVING AT THE ASTORIA (4 days ago)

raypool on COMMITTAL (4 days ago)

Tony Hill on COMMITTAL (5 days ago)

raypool on COMMITTAL (5 days ago)

Stephen Gospage on COMMITTAL (6 days ago)

Aviva Rifka Bhandari on COMMITTAL (7 days ago)

raypool on VALENTINE (13 days ago)

raypool on SCHOOL RITUAL (13 days ago)

Graham Sherwood on VALENTINE (14 days ago)

Graham Sherwood on SCHOOL RITUAL (Sun, 14 Feb 2021 12:12 am)

COMMITTAL

Gone and done it now

never meant to but still

they had it coming.

I feel better for it

pushed too far Mr Nice guy

that was me

until.....

psychiatric reports, a sentence,

too dangerous on the streets. 

 

     Had to make the point

     otherwise they'd have got the better

     of me and I couldn't have that

     could I?

     Can't expect you to understand

...

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LIVING AT THE ASTORIA

Tucked behind a slip road

fringed by chestnut trees

Middlesex nights were spent

on a bridge over a Burmese river,

in a shower with Janet Leigh

at western saloons

through double doors at the Astoria. 

 

Restaurant above where my auntie worked

back in the day,

forthcoming film clips in frames

tempted us boys to flaunt the censors' warnings

U A or X and even H.

...

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VALENTINE

SWEET VALENTINE

SUPERMARKET LOVE OF MINE

I WILL TOAST YOU IN ROSES RED

WITH THEIR VAMPIRE'S LIPS

AND WITH THIS CARD WILL SUPER DRESS

OUR MANTELPIECE

SUPPORTER OF KNICK KNACKS AND YEARLY DREAMS. 

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SCHOOL RITUAL

Firstly the cupboard as tall and as wide as a dormitory

inside the master's cane as thin as a whisper coiled. 

The precision of ritual sacrosanct with rightul pain,

the outstretched hand a plea for mercy ignored,

a scything sting, the suspension of disbelief, 

 

Grim set face at one end, sultry witness at the other.

Overarching all this the stiff upper lip

twitching with th...

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FIFTIES' HOLIDAY

Light floods in to illuminate our special day,

Mum all a-bustle

preparing the way

for the scrubbed and considered version of my father,

head of the family, old before I was born. 

 

The light turns to sun as we spill

from the tipped taxi onto a London bound platform

await the dark green masterpiece

of an all singing all dancing electric train

that takes us in art deco...

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LOSS

Bereavement brings its retinue, such a long line

coiling around your entrails, hanging onto your coat tails

endlessly posing questions. 

The answers, if they come, are always hollow,

echoes on long tunnel walls in dim light. 

 

When you are confounded don't try using reason

wish it well, let it go on its way

there will be other things on your mind. 

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