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Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

I went to sleep in the stranger’s bed
And woke needing to pee.
Not knowing where the light was
Nor wanting to wake her.
Well,
Wanting to wake her…but.

Through the curtains
Could see the stars
Sow stars
Sow that light across this universe
This brief moment of time
Across the darkness
Light my way
Be my light
Don’t let me stumble.

But she wakes
And as she watches my return
Know now
This means more to me
Than the light
Of our one lonely star.

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‘Is anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest’s ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller’s head:
And he smote upon the door a second time;
Is there anybody there?’ he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
Well, that’s what you get for booking on line when you’re pissed.

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I’ve given up the shore for Hills

These Hills

At twilight the Lough glows yet red

Clutching the last of the Sun

I’ve given up The Shore for these hills

Hills yellow with furze

Coconut smelling

And birdsong trilling out

Below ribbons of streetlights

Show colour, a friendlier yellow

It’s the mounds that have it tho’

Dusky mounds of fecund blossom

Falling away making this

Spring’s snowline of bushes

Broad brushstrokes

 

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London 1802. Apologies to W. Wordsworth.
Milton! thou should’st be living at this hour:
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Ooh. I’m all worked up.
I need a shower.

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Shifting over in the bed.
Waking at
My usual time to wake
Minutes before the alarm sounds.
I laugh at the lonely
Silliness,
Of my being pleased
That I can turn on the other lamp with a toe
My left big toe.
It has taken these years
To shift from having
Had
A
‘My side of the bed’
But I navigate around
These various double beds
Painters long since slipped
Still a deep sleeper
But wandering now
From clinging to the
Ribbing at the side
Of a queen-sized mattress
In the company of
Her
Her of splendid isolation
To now
To all the kingdoms
And beyond
As there’s no one there to wake to.
If there were to be
It’d be a pretty pass
To wake a sleeping lover with a big toe in her gob
(Still?
….horses for courses…)
As I swing to turn on their lamp
I can imagine lights being put out for less.

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Hello,
Hermione Moist, the latest muse to pen an ode or two for GFB, outlines her appreciation of the great Welsh poet, drinker, shagger and slip-on wearer Dylan “The Rhyme Master” Thomas with a reworking of his classic 2012 poem Under Milk  Wood.
Udder Milk Wood (Apologies to Dylan Thomas)

It is Spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobble streets silent and the hunched, courters’-and- rabbits’ wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishing boat-bobbing sea. The houses are blind as moles (though moles see fine to-night in the snouting, velvet dingles) or blind as Captain Cat there in the muffled middle by the pump and the town clock, the shops in mourning, the Welfare Hall in widows’ weeds. And all the people of the lulled and dumbfound town are sleeping now.

Well, I don’t think we’ll be bothering with Wales this year.

What do you think Arthur dear?

Dunno love, never bin.

Is that Welfare Hall a Premier Inn?

It’s mentioned here in the novel

Apparently it’s a fucking hovel

And all  the pubs playing Tom Jones’ singles.

You’ll never get me near velvet dingles.

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My fingers are stiff and sore with the cold
There are no smells from the pines
The winter sun shining through
Carries thoughts of warmth
The resins not warmed enough to ooze
I’d have to carry this pack much further south for such heat now
My shoulders hurt.
My poor fingers
Better get on
Winter brrr…

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Bonnie Charlie’s noo awa
Safely o’er the friendly main;
He’rts will a’most break in twa
Should he no’ come back again.
Chorus
Will ye no’ come back again?
Will ye no’ come back again?
Better lo’ed ye canna be
Will ye no’ come back again?
No I bloody won’t, if I want plug holes full of pubic hair
I’ll holiday in France, ok it won’t be ginger but where I come from that’s not a big selling 
point.

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This week Hermione turns her proud pen to travel…….
Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen
We daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men
We folk, good folk
Trooping all together
Green jacket, red cap
And white owl’s feather!
Ginger dwarfs in skirts
Waving their swords
Not the best advert
For Scotland’s Tourist Board.

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The hills are the spine of the world

The clouds bumping together in their haste to find the valley’s spillway millrace.

Now only their spine’s mark

All that’s visible in the rain clouds advance.

Below the village pushes up the umbrellas

Maybe shivers

As those hills disappear away again.

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