three for the price of one

Statue of Hamlet with Yorick's skull

I’ve been stuck indoors most of the week with a stinking cold, so haven’t had the chance to go looking for inspiration for things to write, and I haven’t taken any any serendipitous photos.

I don’t think I’ve ever written a poem about the common cold, and my head is too fuzzy to write one now, which means I’ve been racking my brains all day about what to post.

Then I remembered this photo of Hamlet. Although we all know he is actually about to break into speech – “Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio…” – he looks as uninspired as I have been feeling.

At one point, I thought that would have to do for today, but, on the off-chance I’d find some ideas, I went on clicking link after link.

I’m not quite sure what trail I followed to the point where I found out that tonight is a full moon, but, given that it is, it’s a perfect excuse to post some old poems. Two of them are re-posts, but I think this one is new to the blog:


The bland-faced moon skates tangentially across

a pool of indigo. She climbs the cambered sky

to run the gauntlet of the stars. Slowly, she unbuttons

and removes kid gloves, dropping them

without a second thought behind a dumpster

where they will be found next morning

by an old man exercising an Irish wolfhound.

Later that same night, she stoops to look through

your bedroom window. With nicotine-stained fingers

she pushes aside the net curtains of the clouds and vainly

strains to see her reflection in your eyes. The wind

shushes the trees, listening for a whisper of your voice.

Later still, the wolfhound stirs in his kennel as the sun

lumbers into readiness below the horizon.


a dazzle of street lights

Of course it’s unlikely we’ll actually see the moon tonight, but that doesn’t really matter:


On rainy nights the streets
are twice as bright. Light runs
in rivulets down pavements, streams
down gutters, swirling into storm drains, drips
from balconies and falls, dimpling

And anyway, there’s always a chance the rain will stop:


The silent fanfare of the moon
scatters the clouds. Sodium globes loom
in oleander dark. Two pairs of footsteps
dodge round orange pools
and pause
on the corner
where kisses grow.

So, three poems for the price of one, even if they are old ones. Hopefully tomorrow I’ll begin to feel a little more human and have something new to say.

Author: don't confuse the narrator

Exploring the boundary between writer and narrator through first person poetry, prose and opinion

2 thoughts on “three for the price of one”

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