Snowfall in the suburbs:
commuter cars
wear Father Christmas beards.
Yes, it deserves an accompanying photo, but there has been so much talk recently about using cameras in public places that I was hesitant to take one. In central London yesterday there was little more than:
A silent scampering of snow
but half way through the afternoon, when I headed west on a train from Paddington, it was still apparent that there had been far more snow outside the capital.
One thing I try and do when I’m in London is get to the Poetry Unplugged open mike at the Poetry Café on a Tuesday night. It’s usually packed, often inspiring and always fun, not least because of the skill and wit of the host, Niall O’Sullivan. Each participant is allowed up to five minutes at the mike, so it’s possible to perform several short pieces or one longer one.
I was there this week and dithering about what to read as I haven’t been writing much recently – at least not finishing much in the way of poetry. Sitting and listening to the readers in the first half, I was reminded how the poems that are best for reading aloud to an audience are not always the ones you are proudest of, or that are likely to get published or win competitions.
Continue reading “right to read”
When I first started this blog it was intended to be mostly poetry, but I’ve allowed myself to be distracted by other language issues and general bits & pieces, and it’s a while since I posted a poem.
This, though, is my 200th blog post, so I think some poetry is called for. The problem with short poems is that it’s almost impossible to know when they’re finished. So, like the blog, this is a work in progress; a draft:
draught
The dragon in the fireplace snorts
contempt for kitchen mortals. He shifts
to find a comfy spot, catches his breath
and coughs, farting a firework spray
of sparks and embers. His scaley hide
cracks open as he settles back to rest
on his vermilion hoard.
The trees are ragged with Autumn. The wind nags
and worries scabby leaves. I see the skyline fray;
black scraps tear off to become
a join-the-dots of rooks that threads
across unbroken grey. Virginia creeper
pours an oxblood waterfall
down the garage wall and yellow tears drift
under the willow. No still small voice
commands me from the prunus.
The pine trees fluff green fur and mist
purls over the estuary.
Published in Envoi 142 some years ago, and clearly based on November in the UK, not in Spain. Today, though, is unexpectedly wet and autumnal, so it seems a good time to post it.
Continue reading “notes for a November poem”
When I iron the white cotton shirts, slide creases
from collar, cuff and tail, I weigh the heft and fullness
of a changing power.The dragon noses mother of pearl, and her hot breath
insinuates the twisted threads which swell
and straighten as she sighs.My mind spins graveyard nettles, and I
am the sister of swans, accused, condemned and bound
in silence, intent on my task.Each sleeve, a spread wing, offers hope.
Then he dons the white shirt, puts on
the power suit and quiet socks; he knots a careful tie
and slips his feet into immaculate brogues.I would be Leda to his Jove.
(This poem won the 2007 Barnet Open Poetry Competition, judged by Fleur Adcock. I see that it is online on the Barnet Arts website without any formatting, so I thought I’d post it here as it should appear.)
don't confuse the narrator 