I started writing about the same time as I started shaving; it was a radical time of life. I wrote not much of interests, and certainly nothing to do with my life down the pit. I left the pit for two reasons - Maggie shut it and I broke both legs. Hey, life goes on. I repaired the legs, went to Uni - three times - and started working in TV making documentaries with Roger Cook. I packed that malarkey in and started my own PR company. A while back I started writing again, mainly songs, but then poems. of sorts. I've since gone on to get lovely feedback from Linton Kwesi Johnson, "played" a number of festivals and opened twice for Attila the Stockbroker. Those two, JCC and Roger McGough are my key inspirations. I try not to write like anyone, but you can't help influences. I currently reside in the finest city in the world, spend a lot of the lighter days in fields with friends and help to run a music festival that raises funds for charities.
Bouée de sauvetage pêche
IThe demolition sign hung behind the eyelids is taken down. Dust encrusted, caked and baked; eyes are wiped clean. Incomprehension reigned till your fruit rain flushed doubt to its morning grave. The doubt which daily attends the funeral pyres of other’s pages, and stokes the fires and brings on rages, I smell the smoke of burning sages. It has been like this for ages. Would my own flames ever reach so high, if self-immolation I should try, to scorch my earth, blacken my sky – then bathe in a lyrical pool, and ask myself – why? I, that is ungifted of theurgic description, intertextual elaboration, and purple prose perception – let alone existential introspection. I, the landlord of my tenement. Standing on the doorstep refusing beds to strangers and visitors, denying my own guests’ departure. In an ink sea, I drift with Gizzi, feeling flummoxed and dizzy – why won’t he rhyme or row in time with me – maybe I should not mind? Why am I left with nothing to touch or taste or smell, nothing to love or link with? I have simultaneously drowned and waved, waved then drowned. In April I was drowning – then from your schooner you saw me. You threw me a life belt named meaning; it had my name on it. And you sang out – SWIM! AND I SWAM. Between you, me, and the kitchen sink, I’m tired of this mixed metaphorical brink – all I want is to drink. Rotting peaches taste so sweet today. With thanks to Stevie Smith and Philip Larkin
The butcher's window
I would marry her right now if for the rest of my life I could feast on her pies. Don’t get me wrong, This is no attempt at enhanced imagery or less than subtle analogy, That first line is no poetic device, It’s short crust and simple – her pies are so nice! So, yes, me her and her savoury delights I would splice. I could of course, in “lifting the puff pastry of her secret lid, devour the warmth that she hid”, But I kid you not, I like her pies nice and hot. And I’ve nothing to hide, I love licking the gravy inside. So, come on you aproned stringed beauty, let’s get that knot tied. They are so firm and so plump, made with fine English rump. O, did my metaphor stump? But that’s not my intent, My words are not bent. Please make no mistake, With her pastry and steak, this man happy she’d make. Forever.
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
Being Here (27/05/2021)
Water Babies (26/05/2021)
Good old tines (22/05/2021)
Pica Pica (20/05/2021)
Bee Queen (19/05/2021)
Daisy chains at sea (17/05/2021)
Faded Icons (16/05/2021)
Do you want to be featured here? Submit your profile.