18/06/2018

#amwriting #poem #poetry list

List

Your letter comes laden with moral veils,
more welcome, in what you say in winking
than the words you choose. In fiddling song
a blackbird, somewhat in mood, flies between

the fence and the brushed concrete of the yard.
Not hard, you say, when speaking of love from
yesterday, and a vantage reticent
to see what we have. And weigh that we knot

in faddle, more heavily still. Do you
still wear your hair to the shoulder, I think,
your eyes greenish bright when smiling - I think -
then think no more of love, crumbling crumbs

between thumb and ring finger, scattering
them upon the nothingness of concrete.
When we meet, you excuse everything, your eyes
more willow in tone, as if caught in water.

#amwriting #poem #poetry #sketchbook critics auden

Why jump into bed with people who hate you.
I often think this, when I see some second rater,
who could be good, weeping into their hankie,
being consoled by third raters being nice. 
As they argue for praise over things that never sell.
Oh well, leave them to it, and never be honest
and if necessary drink somewhere else.
One should count you triumphs on the quality
of places from which you've been barred, or
on the bosomy nature of those lobbying to have
your work excluded from anthologies, for cutting
a little too close. Though, strangely
this objectionable content touches them more
than you, who lived it. Finding suitable homes
to make people homeless is the height
of charity these days.

#amwriting #poem #poetry #sketchbook shazam 2

Hang on, I
am writing a
poem. Not really

but if I
do this, you
will think I

am. Of course
some of you
will be thinking

why is this
ill-formed sentence stretching,
and can I

stop
reading.
Now.

#amwriting #poem #poetry #sketchbook shazam

Hang on, I
am writing a
poem. Not really

but if I
do this, you
will think I

am. Of course
some of you
will be thinking

why is this
ill-formed sentence stretching,
and can I

claim
on
my
insurance
for RSI.

#amwriting #poem #poetry With Knobs On

With Knobs On

How nice it must be to paint, to squiggle
a bit of colour in the corner and not
need to know it vetch or parsley, just green,
enough to provoke the eye to say, 'yes
that looks like that.' And move on. I hear you.
Not another poem about death or ideas.
Mawkish adolescent pointing at skies,
poking deities, wondering if fingers touch
with divine fire when illuminating
the purchase of this small necessity
or coincidental half remembered barn.
What punned rhymes we do weave when
a broad-brushed tree would do as well
to fit the theme, of cantering to stretch
the lines to match Auden's Limestone in length.
Lord give me strength, and let not the child die.
As we hear the lark sing against the bricks
where once a meadow grew, perhaps you do,
perhaps, almost cry, and consider why
I'm still not courting death. Nor clinging to
some hip new cant of tagging or coffee,
that gets the virgins wet. Some have cunts, and some
have caves, and I have fags and booze
and when I wake up in that disappointment
of failing to paint the scene I saw, I could bore
at the petite slight, or say fuck it. Count
the lines....
No Auden's longer.

16/06/2018

#amwriting #poem #poetry Fen - 13

Fen - 13

A mitten on a gate but less - dropped,
ploughed around the old pigsty in the middle
was the place where no one went. To see
the remains of the door, hung at the hinge,
propped in angle, dug in the floor. Rotten
concrete pebbled with age and the attentive lime
of passing birds. With nothing to see but
a few fading scrawled words, of almost love,
for which boar fucked which sow - and when.
Both, like the roof, long eaten - now.

#amwriting #poem #poetry #sketchbook pigsty

The old pigsty was where no one went.
It sat in the middle, ploughed around,
like a pill-box, or a barrow, or something
dropped, a mitten on a gate but less.
Occasionally some puppy or wayward dog
would run ahead, veer left, crash through
the overgrown, until called back in the looking.
Even a dog found the rotting concrete
course.

....

A mitten on a gate but less - dropped,
ploughed around the old pigsty in the middle
was the place where no one went. To see
the remains of the door, hung at the hinge,
propped in angle, dug in the floor. Rotten
concrete pebbled with age and the attentive lime
of passing birds. With nothing to see but
a few fading scrawled words, of almost love,
for which boar fucked which sow - and when.
Both, like the roof, long eaten - now.

....

#amwriting #poem #poetry #limericks #sketchbook banned

There was a young girl with a lisp
too frightened to ever be kissed
she was fine down below
and often gave it a go
but intimacy she would not risk.

....

Women are easily led
by the heart and sometimes the head
just blame their mother
for something or other
and they'll drag you straight into bed

....