Kevin Raymond

Biography

Hi. I'm Kev. Retired printer, reluctant radio presenter, awkward actor and pondering poet of many years. I decided earlier this year... that all these poems I've written... need to be heard by the public... or what was the point of writing them in the first place? So, with that in mind... I thought open mic poetry nights was the way to go about doing that. I've read at four such nights recently... and am looking to expand on that by reading at even more… to build up my confidence and style. I refer to my stuff as draining board drama... as the poems are usually about happenings in our community, or people I both know and grew up with, where I'm from in Pimlico, London. I'm seventy-one years of age... London born and bred of Southern Irish descent. My poetic influences are for the most part as follows. AB (Banjo) Paterson. Sir John Betjeman. Frank O'Connor. Charles Bukowski. Edna St. Vincent Millay. W.H Auden and many others. I initially began writing short stories... that in truth I was never happy with, until one day in a second-hand book shop. I came across a copy of, "Person, Place and Thing", by Karl Jay Shapiro. The first poem in the book, "Scyros", was written in a style that I'd never seen before and knocked me sideways. Since then, most of my work has been written in that same style... it seems to suit the way I'm trying to get my writing across... in that the poems usually have two or three characters in, with plenty to say for themselves! Cheers for reading. Thank You. Peace... in Eastern Europe and in... The Middle East.

Twixt Tombstones… From A Bygone Age… by Kevin Raymond.

We sashayed… t’ward an open grave That blustery mustard after-noon at Kensal Rise The Harrow Road, absolutely choca Block, in suave old lags, and fragrant boxers Keen to bid farewell… in top-notch stolen rides. Our parish priest… in an half-inched Merc Nervously prepared to do Gods work Distracted by… a pair o' right sorts in the rear One perched upon his cassocked lap, Proffering nips o’ Jameson, and the craic Tempting celibate thoughts… to almost disappear. Be-suited Jim-Jim… at the wheel Of a recent top-notch pristine steal Kept a lazy eye out… for nosy local cops Van The Man, purred from the speakers, Jim and me… three good eyes between us Reccied future hoisting opps’… in passing shops. Just passed, had been a shining gem That rare jewel… among iffy shifty men Loyal to long Loved mates… in times of need If say, bailiffs re-possessed your telly? Sustenance, to fortify a youngster’s belly? He’d be there… to rectify what vexed… a.s.a.p. Anyways, enough of all that maudlin crap Tis crystal… majority of the chaps Held in high regard… yer man just passed away? So much so… close mates… spent the past few hours Half-inching; sprays, wreaths, bouquets and flowers From anonymous graves… they passed along the way. Dodgy motors parked; we sparked up fags In between nervous wheezing drags Embracing wizened lags, what chose a rascal’s path The Yard…dispatched a senior Alki copper That in our eyes… seemed pukka… proper After all the nice little drinks partaken… in our shady past? Just then… four publicans, six bookies Armani clad, exuding… hookey Stepped from a Hummer, what plain took our breath away? Or maybe, t'was the gobby stripper driving? As a show of respect, doing the right thing Trying hold her tongue… and quivering décolletage in sway? The troubled priest… read out his words, Barren trees… the sound o’ chirping birds Offered serenity… to a sombre sallow scene We dropped a sod, each on the coffin Pulled out hankies, midst bouts of smokers coughing, Reminisced, what an eighteen karat diamond… he had been. The publicans, though owed a wad of money Thought a Cozzer, being present there right funny Till Jim-Jim marked their card, bout showing some respect I’m told the bookies took a punt, showing up that day Plus la quivering décolletage… held in sway As part o’ their departed punters… penultimate request. Reluctantly, shaking hands with the Alki cop We stood and gawped, as wavering he sped off, “Good o’ him to turn up... blitzed”, our Jim-Jim hissed, ”Still… s'pose, both number plates… allegedly gone missing Two rear tyres... mysteriously hissing… Odds on, being stopped by fellow cops, he’ll be more than pissed?”. As per… the last request… suggested by our mate... the stiff. Peace... in Eastern Europe and in... The Middle East.

First Crop. (for Connie Foster) by Kevin Raymond.

Joshed, that early dawn in… The Boro Market Minces on a fragile… vellum… wicker basket, “Ere didn't whatisname... Moses, float by in one of these”? I’m reminded of balmy London summer mornings Bleary-eyed, half-awake… still yawning The Boro, The Garden, The Fields, bacon sarnies… Rosy Lee. Good humoured banter twixt comers and goers Market porters, salesmen, buyers, growers Right hard at graft, while The City of London slept Endless talk of… horses… football… boxing… dogs How that lucky so and so… managed to nick a nice few bob Every jovial sentence starting… ending with an… eff. It was like… I was entrusted The Crown Jewels to watch over When we loaded that Moses Basket on our motor My guvnor warned me, “Kev, keep a beady eye on these”, So, I did… what Con told me to do Sat back… sparked up a smoke… me nails a chew He nipped off to the caffy, for bacon sarnies and Rosy Lee. Back of our bow n arrer, on Tachbrook Street Con, locked the motor, stashed said basket neath his seat Which I have to say… puzzled me tis… true, “Here Con, what’s in the Moses Basket?” As an inquisitive sort… I remember asking In case the 'what' was dodgy… seemed the thing to do? “The first crop of Jersey Royal’s, arrived last night and are they pricey Kev? Too bleating right At a nicker a pound… them Royals are the biz I’ve bought them, just for our family Like me old fella did before me Working on these streets… when we were… kids. Me brothers and sisters will take two pound each Don't try and charge ‘em’, or just for your bleating cheek You'll end up with… a bleating good kick in the rear”. Blimey! They was… pricey… even I knew that Pound note for a Ib of spuds… thinking back Must be pretty special? I remember… buzzing twixt my ears. Con… being a gent, gave me a Ib for nisht… on knocking off A fresh fragrant bunch of mint, to chuck beside them in the pot Even told me how to cook ‘em’… coz I didn’t have a Scooby Tried them indoors with mint and melted butter Recently I’ve tried chopped coriander, Honey and lemon dressing, squeeze of lime on… as you do. I’m reminded of growing up, sepia days from way back yore On that first crop of Royals arriving here… from their shore Yet what really springs to mind is… Summers on the way Ain’t nowhere…nowhere like London town… outdoors An absolutely blinding Summer, in the mind-set sun restores Gets a slip of a kid.. out of his pit.. half akip.. to greet the day. Peace in… Eastern Europe and in… The Middle East.

They Say That Breaking Up Is… Hard To Do. By Kevin Raymond.

"Kev… presh… I'm really sorry, we're… breaking up", Was like... was like… the flippant final fatal thrust Of a potato peeler… plunging through my heart I’m on a crumpled bed… staring at our photos Shot in exotic places… couples go to… on the pose Starry eyed… when they can't bear… to be apart. Should a tinny device… convey such awful news Provoking a Saturday morning bout o’ blues? I thought as… I flung the tiny handset at the wall Lying on the rug… in little shattered pieces Portrayed how hard… I'd been hit by this... Crackly… sombre… simple… Love defining call. Dragged myself up… off the bed Orrible thoughts… racing round my head What would I tell me mam... this after… round at hers? "Sure what harm bhoy… plenty more fish… in the sea For a gorgeous dote of mine, like ye That fecking floozie ditching ye… has got some nerve". Turned to drink in deep despair Opened our photo laden Frigidaire To find myself… a cold consoling beer Bit off the top… with snarling teeth My reflection… in our blank living room T.V Disclosed a... where the kcuf… do I go to… from here? How come… I never noticed… Didn't the Dom-Pom… Marks n Sparks… Red Roses Every Valentines Day… mean a bleating thing at all? Said her mates… envied her… my feminine side, "Kev's such a kind… considerate… caring guy Never one… to bore the derrière off of us with... football". Our land-line ringing… made me jump Fortified by drink… with the raging hump I snatch at it… screaming…"Go away, I've died, I'm dead", "Ahh... poor Kev… are you there presh, hello it's me, Good job… I found a BT call box down the street, Poxy mobile phones… are we okay indoors for milk n bread?". Peace in… Eastern Europe and in… The Middle East.

Came Across… by Kevin Raymond.

The Big Boss, leaving a spit n sawdust bar, Poured him in to a chauffeur driven jam-jar, Turning water into wine, what done for him… one would think? Belted out a few cracking sounding hymns Suffice to say... absolutely blinding voice on him, Somewhat understated though… like his tolerance for the drink. Helped an acolyte lay him on his back. Nigh on fast a kip… like that (fingers snap). Slurrmurring in sleep, as I slammed car door, “Ere Kev, (hic) keep our few light ales to yourself, Or... say I was feeling (hic) Tom n Dick as Hell... God only knows (hic), what me mam will say, I’m sure?”. Watched his roller race off down the street. Pair a spew splashed sandalled feet. Sticking out… of an open winder in the back Poor sop, only wearing a tainted cheese-cloth smock. Wonder what… all the sheep in his righteous flock Will have to say… him going off on one like that? Anyways… I’m outside rolling up a fag. This cracking on a bit toothless hag, Staggers t'ward me, clearly a little worse for wear... “That tipsy hippy, (hic) decked out in the sheet, In The Roller, (hic) just went haring down the street. Is that off his thruppenny’s, he’s been barred in there”. So… I go’s back inside this public bar. Intent on… enjoying a quiet sociable jar, Of an evening... after works done as you do? “Oi mate, that Jesus fella… he a pal of yours?”, “Nah man, nah, never set eyes on the bloke before”, I thrice reply… conscious of an epic sense… o’ biblical déjà-vu. Peace... in Eastern Europe, and in… The Middle East.

Aft... A Bracing Walk, Midst London Air... by Kevin Raymond.

Resting my weary derriere Pon an unforgiving metal chair Pondering a tranquil Serpentine A subtle buzzing in my ear Informs me… my listening gear Needs a battery, and now is changing time. Tuning a new battery in To improve my earwigging Admiring the tranquillity of my favourite London lake Party to a chinwag, fella probably shouldn’t hear That concise and crystal clear I almost choke on café au lait and chocolate cake… “So, how are you and… Tom Getting on these days… Yvonne Last time we met… you were about to end it”, “Yes… though Tom’s a terrible cold fish My one big problem with the darling is… His earning money now… faster than I can spend it”. As these two plummy sorts… disappeared from view They obviously never had a Scooby… Whom tuned in to them… shooting the breeze Is this little materialistic story true? Dear reader… I’ll leave that up to you What's clear as a bell to me… NHS hearing aids... are The Bees. Peace… in Eastern Europe and in… The Middle East.

It Was Just One of Those Things. By Kevin Raymond.

Portland diner…. due to close… sat scratching my nose Staring at a brutally honest… pock marked ancient mirror Ashtray full o’ butts… congealing coffee cups Unwanted guests… what watched… while I devoured dinner. Waitress checks her nails... again, eyes me with distain Convinced that scruffy loser… me, ain’t gonna tip her "Would you like more coffee sir?", akin to a vitriolic slur "Why not?", I answer curtly… posturing in the mirror. Spark another smoke, stuff my lighter in my coat Raise a grubby finger for the bill Waitress brings it, to me on a plate… I let her go then wait Check my money clip… walk t'ward the till. "Was everything alright for you tonight?", methodical… polite, "That'll be twenty-six dollars fifty… including tax?", Hand her thirty-five, wizened face exudes surprise, "Indeed it was miss… keep the change", I answer back. "Fancy a quick drink after I close?... there's a bar nearby I know Has an interesting country and western band… this time o’ night", "Okay, sounds pretty cool, not into country music as a rule Maybe what I'm about to hear tonight… might be my type?". Wait for her to close, spark another smoke, stuff my lighter in my coat Arms linked… we cross the slippery sliding street… to have a friendly drink Twenty six dollars fifty for dinner… including tax, I remember thinking back Though I let her keep the change, she didn't even… offer me a mint. Peace… in Eastern Europe and in… The Middle East.

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