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trevor homer

Updated: Sat, 6 Apr 2019 02:55 pm

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I have been writing since I can remember, but its only the last few years that I have considered myself a poet. This coincides with my performing poetry at various gigs, and the changing political climate which, I feel, demands we speak out on socio/political/arts issues. Wilfred Owen alluded to the fact that 'Love, Comradeship, Compassion - these are mans compensations - all the poet can do is to warn'. I agree. My seminal influence is Bob Dylan; though Whitman, Wilde, Eliot, Ginsberg, Kwesi-Johnson et al. are all in the mix.


THERE’S A SHOTGUN IN THE CELLAR It’s harder than you think to disappear, To lose yourself, then reappear, with no trace of why, Or what went before. You can get lulled into a false sense of security, Become blasé about the little things; Like never answering the phone when it rings. There was a shotgun in the cellar, wrapped in hessian sack, I took it out a while ago, intending to put it back. When we first came here, I had some grand idea of self-sufficiency, You know, living off the land. When you live out in the country, everything’s a risk. The weather can turn and set you back. Few people know of this old dirt track. There’s a shotgun in the cupboard, no one knows it’s there. It’s well concealed in a cubbyhole, underneath the stairs. The old shoe box has three cartridges in it, lubricating oil, And a special tool for cleaning the breach, High up on the top shelf, out of reach. You can’t be too careful with a child around. I have more time on my hands now, since my last little venture failed, But the summer has been glorious. This is a special place to be when the sun rises over the river, Early in the morning. But things can change without warning. It’s like that when you’re on the run; you never know when they’ll come. There’s a shotgun on the table, my wife and son are in bed. The neighbours said they heard a truck backfire 3 times, Or it could have been poachers, after rabbit and partridge. I can feel warm steel from the barrel as I load the last cartridge; The smell of gunpowder on my clothes. We left before daylight, nothing unusual in that. It’s not a 9 to 5 existence around here, People come and go at the strangest of times; Mending fences and digging holes. There’s a shotgun on the kitchen floor, how it got there, no one knows 2019

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Sun 31st Mar 2019 08:46

Wow - I love this poem! So well constructed, great story-telling and lots of menace. Thank you for sharing.

Kate G

Tue 26th Feb 2019 11:08

Thanks for your kind words on Spaces Between Trevor

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keith jeffries

Mon 25th Feb 2019 19:21

Trevor. Thank you for your kind words. We certainly share an interest in the same poets but Frost was new to me. I shall look him up and investigate further. I am a huge admirer of Ginsberg. Keith


Tue 12th Feb 2019 20:16

Welcome to WOL Trevor

I hate football with a passion... However your poem is masterful, I almost wish I liked football lol.

Looking forward to reading more of your musings.

Your sample THERE’S A SHOTGUN IN THE CELLAR is excellent.


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