Thursday, 26 February 2015

Absurdity and Anatidae


Sometimes, I have deeply emotional discussions with poets, sometimes I natter with Helen Ivory and this happens...

Painting waterfowl

If you’re sloppy with your brushes
by the lakeside rushes,
rein in that compulsion
to daub dabchicks with emulsion,
‘cos slapping Dulux onto ducks,
turns quacks into clucks,
teal into chickens,
makes wigeon into pigeons,
and the smew begin to coo,
for when you smear the hydrophilic
birds with wet acrylic
you’ll feel Attenborough’s rage
for each mandarin now beige
and though oiliness of feathers
keeps fowl safe in all weathers,
and though we know that mallards
are gang-bang sexual blaggards,
keep it on the canvas,
not on Anas platyrhynchos,
‘cos it doesn’t mean that you
can slap on Prussian Blue,
or slather geese in scarlet
like aquatic avian harlots
and the swans all plumaged white
don’t need wing and tail highlights,
so hold tight to your gouache,
egg tempura, inky wash
when you’re by the pond or river
and a grebe sends spinal shivers –
for a challenge with your easel,
why not try to paint a weasel?

Monday, 23 February 2015

Gone again, still not forgotten

Yesterday, a workshop entitled 'Poetry in Motion' (travelling, living, all kinds of movement) led to several new poems, some still being edited, tweaked and generally bent/guided into shape. Here's the shortest, most intensely personal of them, and is one of several recently about childhood experiences.

Upon the landing

Swing the cosh,
beat my broadened fish-eye blind
to stop it seeing wider landscapes,
choke my horizons
to a rasping cough,
blue-lipped and gasping
until I wheeze back towards
your tiny clockwork life.

Monday, 9 February 2015

Gone but not forgotten


Brevity and wistful autobiography. I may add more, I may not...

Under houses

The old stable,
climbing gap-toothed brickwork
and rusted iron, then leaping
from broken beams
onto heaps of abandoned straw -
laugh, sneeze, repeat;

the clay-bed brook that I drank from,
untroubled by its provenance,
later used to cool my fingertips, and tears
after bigger boys pushed my hand
into the embers of their fire;

the meadow on the hill,
swathes of long grass swaying
where I first rolled with a girl,
the best friend of the one I really wanted.

Friday, 30 January 2015

Setting a benchmark

A work-in-progress... I'm mostly happy with it, but not sure about the last line. Should it end at 'replace' I wonder?


Exclusion principle

Stranger,
who, so the small plaque says,
loved this spot,
you could not have sat here,
for the seat was placed in your memory,
greatly missed by some friend or relative.
Did they share your view
over scrubby downs
and patchy woodland where coppicemen,
smelters and charcoal-burners
once fed those
hungry for iron.

I choose not to sit,
but stay to watch a hornet
scrape pulp for her nest,
taking papier-mâché mouthfuls
of you
from oak slat and upright.

If I return in a ten-year,
will weather, fungus, woodworm,
or vandals at play,
have done their work,
leaving just a level patch of grass
where council employees
tossed your remains into a flatbed,
for it is policy to neither repair
nor replace
deaths marked by furniture.

Monday, 5 January 2015

The positivity of migration

UKIP and others who whine about migrants are tiresome - here's the first draft of a piece about my own, more positive, observations about Polish people ('Polacy') in Southampton

Polacy w Southampton

I

Big man, crew-cut blonde,
baby in a biceps cradle,
gentle gorilla-father;
a second child plants conkers
in a newly tilled municipal flower-bed.

II

Zesty girl on the school bus,
alpha of her Year 8 peers,
climbing rails like they are monkey-bars,
open-mouthed surprise when I ask
‘excuse me please’ –
proszę, przepraszam
in English-accent Polish.

III

One of so many languages
spoken here and mingling in mid-air –
by workmen crowded onto lunchtime public benches,
discussing football, cars, sandwich fillings,
by gaggles of much-preened teens
gossiping between texts,
by students, shop-assistants,
phone-box users sharing news,
by friends and poets,
by people of the city –
multicultural and working,
the opportunity for something new.