Category: Poetry

I began writing poetry as a teenager and never stopped. I read poetry, my all-time favourites, are Marina Tsvetaeva from Russia and well, dozens of others.

You’ll be with the wind

I’ll take you to Marlow, to Bluebell wood,
but you won’t know of it until you wake up.

How does that sound my friend, to Bluebell Wood?
think of it now, does it chill your blood?

You’re going to Marlow, to Bluebell Wood,
that’s all I can do now, until you wake up.

You’ll love it in Marlow, where you first fell in love,
surely this pleases you, as no other thought could?

To be with the wind there and the memory should
last through the years in Bluebell Wood

I know you’ll be gone soon, for all the good
you’ll be with the wind there in Bluebell Wood.

I’m a fingerprint in the dust

I’m a fingerprint in the dust
A skin on the featureless heart
This time the turmoil of the heart
Engulfs me and blasts the dust away.

Me – very few have seen me!
My identity hasn’t conquered anybody.

The turmoil of my featureless heart
Erases all personality with its quaking
Binds and shackles me to its babyish agonies;
And dissolves my face in its fire.

The Death Of The Tramp In The Park

On The Death Of Patrick McVarish

Tramp cooked by the sun
Hot enough to fry an egg upon
Marinated in lager he died
Alone, with no-one by his side.

For six hours in the park
His burning skin turning dark
His organs boiling in their blood
A man that no-one understood

In the heatwave, he sat down
With the parched earth all around
To still the pain in his heart
Now pains are gone
and from the living, he departs

Unable to respond to his fears
Painfully he shed his tears
That evaporated from his eyes
Drifting from his face into the skies

The laughter at the inquest began
When described as the boil in a bag man
But a man came to this end
Dying in a park without a friend

Nov 7, 97

All These Things

There’s a three-piece suit
That collapses when you sit on it
There’s a Staffordshire bull terrier
That lies in front of a coal fire
The garden has a border with bundles of flowers
That never seem to fill the bare patches
There is a dusty old vacuum cleaner
That is used to sweep the carpets every morning
There is a battered old radio
That is tuned indefinitely to “talk radio”
There is an old shed in the back garden
Where the remains of a working man’s life are stored
– rusty hammers, boxes of nails,
– the smell of leather and wood
There are nice flowery curtains in the kitchen window
With a much treasured “bizzie-lizzie” in a pot
There are photographs of children on the wall
Along with a photo of a ginger tom-cat
There are two teak wall units
Passed on from a long lost relative who died
There’s a bed and a chest of drawers
That I brought over twenty years ago
There’s an old bucket by the back door
That’s filled with coal and a rusty shovel
There’s an old biscuit-tin
With musty old trade union cards and letters
There’s a little statue of a cobbler
That’s been painted silver all over
There are towels hanging along the stair banister
With an airing cupboard full of warm sheets
There is a handmade bathroom cabinet
Thickly painted in cream gloss paint
And all of these things were struggled and fought for
And all of these things are loved and hated
And all of these things are working class

The Forests Gate

Since she moved to the forest’s gate
I oftentimes have missed her
Hidden by the wind in the trees
By the branches that grow around her

Since she lives by the forest’s gate
Her skin has turned much browner
Her clothes are like the bark of trees
Her hair has been covered in leaves

From the forest’s edge, the animals come
From the trees the birds surround her
The grass grows wildly beneath her feet
The ivy seems to cover her

The wolves that live in the forest deep
Reach out their claws to take her
She disappears just like a sheep
I never more will see her

Sept 10, 96

Long life and good health

I didn’t know what to do
So I blogged it

Teachers are few, students are many
But artists are treated like dirt
Artists, are teacher and student
Artists are explorers where it hurts
Artists are often to be pitied
A few are honoured, and loved
All of them give some happiness
In our lives both hard and tough

I didn’t know what to do
So I saved it
I didn’t know what to do
So I engraved it
I didn’t know what to do
So I remade it
I didn’t know what to do
With my life, my love
With my freedom, my time

I didn’t know what to do
So I hid it
I didn’t know what to do
So I got rid of it
I didn’t know what to do
So I refitted it
I didn’t know what to do
With my life, my love
With my freedom, my time

Oct 2, 1995

A poem to all the followers over the past year or so, I wish you well through the present crisis.

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This is like a time of the impossible

This is like a time of the impossible
When hatred is exposed to the light
The photo is published in the news syndicate
So people can see how a creature of the night
Slavers over its prey in its dark den

This is a time of the impossible
When selfishness is exposed like woodworm
When the rotten wood is left untreated
And selfishness becomes a pain in the heart

Spring is in the air
The days are lengthening
There are the sounds and colours of nature
And the sun is warm and bright

Yet mankind is in a crisis
We pass on a virus to each other
We die by the handfuls everyday
And we use money like beads

If I live through this crisis
If I survive this plague
How can I learn to understand it?
How can I prepare for the worst?