Poetry Blog by Stephen Gospage

It began when a man discovered a hole in his trousers.

A bullet, a burn, an assault? The police were baffled;

They had no answers, only theories.

A suspect was arrested, then released.

Discontent rumbled in the town.

The victim made a tearful public appeal.

Vigilante groups were mobilised.

Journalists probed, going door to door;

An on-line team led a large-scale e...

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My perfect day

Begins imperfect, flawed,

Even downright miserable,

But becomes a little less so

With the passing of the hours,

Until the sentinels of sleep,

Calling from above their towers,

Say : 'This, in its unlikely way,

Has turned into your perfect day.'

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We dash around and do

The things we should not do,

And then enjoy our fun

To countervail the pain

Of races we have run

And will run once again.

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Somewhere out there exists a voice,

Distinctive and unique as yours,

Which shuns the norms of rise and fall

And spits out harsh staccato roars.

Though issued from another place,

It soon seeps through inside your skin,

And, once you bolt too late the doors,

Invades your conscience from within.

At first you notice minor traits:

You say things that you do not...

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One dark Sunday afternoon in the gallery,

We watched the people stream out of the theatre.

I remember the men, identical,

All dressed in sharp, grey suits;

And one sparkling woman of a thousand kisses,

Trying, with inadequate translation,

To explain each one.

(2019)

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