I like to perform me stuff in places where poetry is a bit alien to the punters. I used to write novels but find poetry more meaty. Have been a preacher, amateur actor, pastor, a deeply unfaithful enthusiastic lover of women and lone father of huge family. I'm not knowingly included in any anthologies. I've won no prizes. Entered no competitions.
This is a poem I wrote recently: "Tea With Anushka" I was invited, Or summoned really, To tea with Anushka Anushka haunts Antiquarian bookshops Liberating volumes of Art Philosophy Music and poetry From their dusty shelves To fill those Of her private ‘bibliotheque' Then she gets found out And the police are called And a discreet anonymous Van despatched The books depart And she has shelves to fill...again So she takes a cab to a new town Where she's not known Browsing shops of books and curios For replacement volumes Art Philosophy Music and poetry. I took a bottle of vodka, Stolichnaya. To her maisonette - her dacha A rusting sign “L'Hermitage” Hanging half off the wall Hints at Romanoff ancestry She wraps in shrouds of mystery. A perished rubber Marigold glove Shook my hand Soapy water splashed my cuff. Anushka muttered It was the cleaner's day off And she had to do it all herself And what did I think of her shiny bust Of Thomas Paine Resplendent On the sparkling new vitrine? And did I mind Popping to the corner Spar For Mr Kipling petit fours And tea bags And long life milk And Marigolds And put them on her tab? I sighed and said “No worries, I'll pay” And cleared her slate...again. We drank tea from china cups And with solid silver cutlery Spread Laughing Cow Cheese triangles on our bread And polished off the fancies Displayed on the repro lazy Susan A second glass of wine? Perhaps a cigarette? She offered me, Reverently Her next to next to last Sobranie Lit by a candle burning On a reproduction gilt torchère. Smoke haloed her greying golden hair Her face shone Radiant, Fleetingly Evoking a memory Of Rublov's Icon of the Trinity. And as an ominous van Prowling discreetly Nosed into the street The frozen tear drop lodged In her nylon ‘natural look' lashes Melted. I brushed the trickle from her cheek
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
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- 2016 (3)
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