#poem #poetry #amwriting #beehive #bradford beehivepoets digest compilation

Don't mind me...

 I'm just putting some poems together for my trip to the Beehive tonight....



the other day I noticed this woman -
chin cocked - hip handed - hair swept -
tits up and out - and this bloke
with a camera held like burning paper -

in the time it took me to walk from
                           oxfam to wh-smith
    they still hadn't taken the bloody photograph

but then there was no point
   she had her clothes on -
and posed as she was
there nothing about her to see -
   it would have been a vag shot
   in some poor internet collection
in the which the woman goes from three piece suit
                                                    to lens up her legs
- cos supposedly that's her best side

she might as well of drawn her eyebrows on in blue pencil
   and died her hair peroxide hay -
at least the picture would have had some interest -
    - working out if she was a tranny -

                                                but -

she was thrilled with result
threw her arms around him

- I felt sorry - 
    for all the fake orgasms
    and the holidays on the costa bravo
    and the drive to lakes with his hand on her knee

that she wouldn't even let him record her true self
                                       in a bloody phoneygraph


 exit poll

there's something rather pleasing
to watch the labour squeezing
and know people've cottoned on - at last

but there's something rather sad
which makes one feel quite bad
that there are those still clinging to the past

they perhaps have not abased themselves
with ATOS forms that demonise
or counted up the buttons and bus tickets

of blair's war upon the poor
of the which they cheered and ignored
until that beastly government was ejected

dog whistles blew in aga'd kitchens
to condemn continuation - to the tories disgrace -
of the policies the labour sheep pushed through at a pace

and now they bleat and whine and shout
that all is so unfair -  oh pity them who dare not think -
who think they think for us -


waiting for bombs

I keep checking if otley manor is aflame - again -
under attack from hordes of marauding scots
   yet the sunset appears just like any other

but then nichola the bruce will burn the scots
more - and perhaps before - she burns us -
for that is the history of scotland writ small -

still I'm sure there is a general monck
to rise from the civil war predicted
- all these covenants in stone don't help -
by the pamphleteers and firebranding 

though the T&A has not reported gun pits
   being dug on queensbury heights
   for slobodan fairfax's men to punish
the supposedly besieged of the mannigham strip

in fact - as I wandered to the scout hut
- how english is that - to make my mark -
I stopped along the way to notice
the white flowers on nettles -
the red berries of holly and brown leaves
of last years ivy - and though there were clouds -
they were not storm clouds - nor indicators
of rain - or even who might reign -
but the commonplace white skittering sort
that pass briefly and produce silver linings



the room lay up three flights of stairs
the telephone three flights down again
and those below never climbed
   when it rang
- which suited me just fine -

for in my simple life of luxury
- of foldout bed - I sipped my tea
from the finest china tea cup I have owned -

when the door closed behind me I was alone -
free to view from chimney height
   the backs of houses opposite
and the higher clouds that drifted
above horizons out of view -

and there was no you -
to interrupt this life of what could be boiled
on a single ring -
and there was no you to interrupt
the blissful silence of reading


english carnival

there's something splendidly naff about an english carnival
those smiling children in costumes plucked from the dressing up trunk
and the town crier ringing his bell - crying 'god save the queen'

boxes with holes cut for the head and for the arms
   on which are sketched big ben or books or playing cards

the brass band - marching to the beat of the big bass drum -
playing colonel bogey and dambusters always a little off key

cake stalls and the ubiquitous tombola
with yellow tickets for sweets and pink for adults
   the star prize always a bottle of whiskey

yes there is something marvelously naff about an english carnival
                                                          which makes them so special


 after an early supper

 grey night shrinking without sunset settles
in like a moth on paper - as rainclouds
swaying full gutted and black scut tittle
the moon in malicious jest - for night
knows best - knows the hidden corners
of our shadow - collects our shrouded
self in sleep and pours in those things
often misforgotten - often slight -
but grey as this shrinking into night

when we look again through the window
the clouds have dimmed and night pulls in
and that which was shrinking darkens
quicker than the spill of electric light
can fill - from the garden comes a child's
voice - of an injured cat limping
from a fight whose ear torn price
it has paid - and we close the curtain -
cover the still soapy dishes with a teatowel
and turn our backs - though some still pray


on the royal birth

I shan't buy a mug nor wave a flag
or run excited naked through the streets
my life won't change - rearrange -
in fact nothing about it will have the slightest effect
                                                                         on me

but I am glad that a child has been born
and I'll not succumb to the fascist wittering
of those dullards who hate the royals
and complain
oh how they complain
that this child will not want when others do

yes that's true

but neither will the thousands
dragged up in the gutter
be helped in the slightest by wantons
who mutter and carp and bleat
and express their sad lives in jealousy

and so congratulations to kate and princess will
and their son - what-his-name -
who will no doubt have his nose put out of joint
                                                            by a sister



the rain so light is
so light it hardly noticed be
tickles the ransom
   and the bluebell
to fill this world of wood
   budding leaf pale green
with all the powers of the earth

no birds sing today
clustering within themself
taking shelter where they may

and in this silence footsteps
   against this thickening
   wall of summer
coming drown from the hills
    in the drying draining streams
of unreflected luminescent sky
the water may be of itself
   clean and clear as tears we cry



we had a blind boy at primary school
   with creamed filmy eyes
   and I liked him a lot
though he never played chase
he always was led by the arm
   from place to place

when it was my turn to lead him
   I thought it an honour
   I'd hold his hand tightly
walk tall and erect
and I liked that blind boy
   with childish respect

then one day at dinner he needed to go
   the class-goat tricked him
   to shit on the ground
and we gathered round laughing
to point at the floor
   we never did see that poor blind boy
                                                no more



prints of my pictures available - here

The Blue Book

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