For Dan
Alexander counted the knives.
'One...'
He took a breath.
'One. One knife.'
The canvas of their tent
was a shadow play called Fifty Hungry Wolves.
The silhouettes carouselled slowly.
Alex and his broker exchanged awkward glances.
Travel Monopoly was looking less and less
like a possibility this evening,
and the dried apricots had been a total washout.
Friday, 25 November 2011
#8: I Own Ian
I lift a tarpaulin in the garage.
'Here he is.'
Ian squats on a small tea chest,
yellow wheelclamp biting into his ankle
like a huge plate fungus.
He wears the truculent expression
I have grown used to,
grown to love, I realise,
as Michael steps forward,
brushes a woodlouse out of Ian's hair.
'To be honest I haven't had much time
to use him,' I admit sheepishly.
'Jane keeps nagging me to sell him.
She wants to convert this into a nursery,
but, you know - boys will be boys!'
I throw my hands up and grin
in a gesture that I hope says
tut, boys eh!
leavened with ironic camaraderie.
Michael turns to me,
his palm still resting on Ian's head.
'Shall we take him out for a spin?'
'Here he is.'
Ian squats on a small tea chest,
yellow wheelclamp biting into his ankle
like a huge plate fungus.
He wears the truculent expression
I have grown used to,
grown to love, I realise,
as Michael steps forward,
brushes a woodlouse out of Ian's hair.
'To be honest I haven't had much time
to use him,' I admit sheepishly.
'Jane keeps nagging me to sell him.
She wants to convert this into a nursery,
but, you know - boys will be boys!'
I throw my hands up and grin
in a gesture that I hope says
tut, boys eh!
leavened with ironic camaraderie.
Michael turns to me,
his palm still resting on Ian's head.
'Shall we take him out for a spin?'
#7: The Onion Room
So we sit, sobbing in packs,
faces red and distended like shower caps
rescued from an oven.
The livid purple of her cheeks
matches her tongue, I notice
in my grief.
I lose my thread a bit
and have to work myself back
into mourning unselfconsciously.
Outside the room is a second layer
where researchers in green sweaters
drink energy drinks
with a listless abandon.
They score our display
against a tick-list of behaviours.
Outside their layer is a tier
where poets scribble on wallpaper rolls
in a fervent white heat of creation,
turning the dead hand of science
into radiant art.
The next layer is a studio audience,
applauding, gasping,
voting via buttons
on the arms of their chairs.
The next layer is me.
The next layer is you.
faces red and distended like shower caps
rescued from an oven.
The livid purple of her cheeks
matches her tongue, I notice
in my grief.
I lose my thread a bit
and have to work myself back
into mourning unselfconsciously.
Outside the room is a second layer
where researchers in green sweaters
drink energy drinks
with a listless abandon.
They score our display
against a tick-list of behaviours.
Outside their layer is a tier
where poets scribble on wallpaper rolls
in a fervent white heat of creation,
turning the dead hand of science
into radiant art.
The next layer is a studio audience,
applauding, gasping,
voting via buttons
on the arms of their chairs.
The next layer is me.
The next layer is you.
#6: Improvised Science
She is all conical flask and bubbling fluorescence.
He has a head like a Van Der Graff generator
and when children reach out with a questing palm
to touch it, first their golden hair rises,
becoming Einstein's,
then they are electrocuted -
a single, convulsive jolt.
She makes notes in her spiral bound book
and adjusts for extraneous variables -
wind speed, humidity,
boredom,
the car battery strapped round his waist
like a suicide jacket.
He has a head like a Van Der Graff generator
and when children reach out with a questing palm
to touch it, first their golden hair rises,
becoming Einstein's,
then they are electrocuted -
a single, convulsive jolt.
She makes notes in her spiral bound book
and adjusts for extraneous variables -
wind speed, humidity,
boredom,
the car battery strapped round his waist
like a suicide jacket.
#5: Chekhov's Pun
It hangs on the wall like the ominous leer
of Billy Big Bass, like the dead head of a deer,
some ostentatiously antlered caribou
that, shotgun held low like a gift, you
stalked through a snow-crusted Finnish wood
for three days, your Gortex hood
freezing about your ears in stiff clefts
like a conch shell; a shift left
into a clearing, you took your shot
and though it seemed like triumph, now you've got
it mounted on a plaque with name, year,
when you step back, take stock - it looks like reindeer.
of Billy Big Bass, like the dead head of a deer,
some ostentatiously antlered caribou
that, shotgun held low like a gift, you
stalked through a snow-crusted Finnish wood
for three days, your Gortex hood
freezing about your ears in stiff clefts
like a conch shell; a shift left
into a clearing, you took your shot
and though it seemed like triumph, now you've got
it mounted on a plaque with name, year,
when you step back, take stock - it looks like reindeer.
#4: Considering The Oil Rig
It burned like a flambéd table on an ice rink,
the ocean still and cobalt
and deep with flame.
Smoke churned into and against itself;
orange eyes winked from beneath
their thick grey coat.
The sun shone on, oblivious,
ruining the effect, really.
One gull crowbarred himself into the catastrophe,
doing orbits of the crane arm as it whinnied and collapsed,
squawking,
riding thermals.
the ocean still and cobalt
and deep with flame.
Smoke churned into and against itself;
orange eyes winked from beneath
their thick grey coat.
The sun shone on, oblivious,
ruining the effect, really.
One gull crowbarred himself into the catastrophe,
doing orbits of the crane arm as it whinnied and collapsed,
squawking,
riding thermals.
#3: Poem To Be Shouted From A Moving Car
Pedestrian! Yes, I'm talking to you,
man in the fedora
with the Primark carrier bag
and smooth, pendulous nose
of an eighteenth century scrivener.
And my initial address was intended
both as a noun
and as an adjective!
Why aren't you fizzing with revolt?
Where are your sabres?
You should have two drawn at all times!
They are ideal for lopping the heads
off roses during an argument,
to give your counterpoint an especial flourish,
or - hey, wait! Wait! Come back!
man in the fedora
with the Primark carrier bag
and smooth, pendulous nose
of an eighteenth century scrivener.
And my initial address was intended
both as a noun
and as an adjective!
Why aren't you fizzing with revolt?
Where are your sabres?
You should have two drawn at all times!
They are ideal for lopping the heads
off roses during an argument,
to give your counterpoint an especial flourish,
or - hey, wait! Wait! Come back!
#2: Christmas Eve
In 2184,
a strange, rumpled figure forces himself
down the last remaining chimney
a gunnysack of novelties
bulging obscenely against his red back.
His beard has flecks of egg in it;
the corner of his mouth surges
with a cataract of white foam.
He hums a sour sort of requiem
while inserting himself.
Below, a family sit round the crackling fire
in jumpers, or
whatever passes for jumpers these days.
Space jumpers, probably.
A crash, a whumph
of cinders
then the hearth burns more brightly
than ever.
a strange, rumpled figure forces himself
down the last remaining chimney
a gunnysack of novelties
bulging obscenely against his red back.
His beard has flecks of egg in it;
the corner of his mouth surges
with a cataract of white foam.
He hums a sour sort of requiem
while inserting himself.
Below, a family sit round the crackling fire
in jumpers, or
whatever passes for jumpers these days.
Space jumpers, probably.
A crash, a whumph
of cinders
then the hearth burns more brightly
than ever.
#1: Boozy Jacuzzi
Trout wriggle and push behind the soft elbow of her knees,
making soft, repetitive kissing mouths
in the hot blinding bubbles.
They bob to the surface like corpses
then tilt and power gamely under again.
Angela claps each time,
setting her highball of vermouth
down on the bath rim,
their eyes gleaming like moonstones,
her rings gleaming like fish eyes.
making soft, repetitive kissing mouths
in the hot blinding bubbles.
They bob to the surface like corpses
then tilt and power gamely under again.
Angela claps each time,
setting her highball of vermouth
down on the bath rim,
their eyes gleaming like moonstones,
her rings gleaming like fish eyes.
Monday, 14 November 2011
101 Poems In A Day - Fundraising
Hey, so if you want to sponsor me for 101 Poems In A Day, my fundraising page is here: 101 Poems In A Day. I'm hoping to use my (frankly quite juvenile) project to raise a bit of money for Mind. I think they're a great organisation and that it's a good cause. You can go donate on the page for up to a month after the project. Please do pitch in - if only to stop me feeling humiliated and ridiculous when I raise 50p.
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