Sunday, 31 March 2013

rain turns to sleet
we glimpse from the bus
topiary elephants

Saturday, 30 March 2013

my train cancelled—
icicles elongate
the pointy dags

Friday, 29 March 2013

wild daffodils
a spaniel splashes up
the side channel

Thursday, 28 March 2013

Having been shortlisted in the Poetry School / Pighog Press Pamphlet Competition a few weeks ago, I've now sent off my 24 pages-worth of poems for the final stage and will find out what happens in May. Fingers crossed and all that...
my bright idea...
the sun in the shingle
dragged back and forth

Wednesday, 27 March 2013

full moon
my mother recalls
the smogs of her youth

Tuesday, 26 March 2013

a willy wagtail
flies across the Hogsmill
with one bounce

Monday, 25 March 2013

within camellia petals:
that's the only place where
the snow has settled

Saturday, 23 March 2013

after each slap of sleet at the window her cheeky grin

Thursday, 21 March 2013

into the headwind:
the wisps from somebody's
spent cigarette

Wednesday, 20 March 2013

The Double

I am the door to your room, wedged open
by a bear-cub door-stop. My whistling veers
into the through-draught. On a small, round,
laminated table, there’s a pavement-grey
telephone. It takes me half a minute to dial
your number with my index finger, which is
slightly too large for, and consequently pinched
by, the single-digit holes on the dialling circle.
It takes a further while for the number to register.
At the point of connection, I’m over-prepared:
it’s my body cut into two which speaks, gabbling
at the double. I’m not even sure that it’s you
who’s answered – you who no doubt isn’t
used to receiving calls from your own home;
who probably wonders who the hell this is.

Tuesday, 19 March 2013

magpies nest-build—
the smell of school dinners
wafts with the breeze

Monday, 18 March 2013

in my eyeline
a green woodpecker
bounces onto the clump

Sunday, 17 March 2013

soaked to the skin...
the basso profondo of
the loudest crow

Saturday, 16 March 2013

without my glasses
I recognise my son
by his stride

Friday, 15 March 2013

the southerly wind
shakes the eucalyptus—
her old photos

Thursday, 14 March 2013

as he drags back
an empty wheelie bin
near whence it came,
the binman rants to no-one
with a fag on his lip

Wednesday, 13 March 2013

two colleagues flirt
in the open plan

Tuesday, 12 March 2013

telling everyone
in view to shut the fuck up
she adds,
Get the fuck out of my way —
I may be bald but I ain't blind

Monday, 11 March 2013

wind-sped flurries
a wagtail scampers out
from the lorry's path

Sunday, 10 March 2013

In Punnetts Town

Those moles’ve ruined my garden
—atrabilious Sussex burr:
Granddad beaming, incisorless:
chequered slippers and cardigan;
wire spectacles, freckled hair.
Piglets chunter beyond the fence.

Within the beehive bungalow:
jars of quince and bramble jelly;
tomatoes, radishes, beetroot;
wheatfield-scapes; vanquished piano;
a clangorous Blind O’Reilly;
the rank bouquet of bereavement.

Saturday, 9 March 2013

first bumblebee
the town gas holder
all but empty

Friday, 8 March 2013

on his phone,
my friend smiles hello
with his eyebrows

Thursday, 7 March 2013

night rain
the warmth of her kisses
on my spine
Very happily, for me at least, I have been shortlisted in the Poetry School / Pighog Press Pamphlet Competition. Onto the next stage now, of assembling 24 pages-worth of poems.

Wednesday, 6 March 2013

Days on End

In your bedroom’s canary wallpaper,
you see cranes and peacocks creeping
ever closer. Under the Worcester
Pearmain out the back, there’s a man
and his black Labrador, standing still,
and fish-heads scattered everywhere;
hundreds upon hundreds of them.
No wonder the cat’s going berserk.
Nevertheless, a barn-owl chimes
with the Strawberry moon on top of
terracotta flower-pots stacked inside
each other upside down. The cat
meows the house down, rubs his body
and upright tail round and round your legs
until you’re dizzy with it all, as if
you’ve drifted inside a kaleidoscope
for days on end.

Tuesday, 5 March 2013

spring sunlight
in the river's crook
a chorus of crows

Monday, 4 March 2013

surging wind...
the percentage of my run
when I'm off the ground

Sunday, 3 March 2013

The Lamentation of Celia Stubbs

to the tune of ‘Dives and Lazarus’

He came here from New Zealand on a mission to teach
special needs kids in east London,
a man of wit and feeling was my partner Blair Peach
and I loved him with abandon.

From Bethnal Green ’cross to Southall town
we fought the fuzz with fury;
but they came equipped with metal sticks
and they beat my love to jelly.

He stood up to the racists on Commercial Road
till his strength sent the bastards packing;
stopped the Tyndall fascists from spreading their word
’gainst Bengali folk on Brick Lane.

On St George’s Day morning, back in ’79,
the NF gathered in Southall.
Behind the rozzers arrayed in a riot-shield line,
they shouted shite from the Town Hall.

We were five thousand mighty (though the filth said fewer),
when we marched up Southall Broadway.
From all over the city, we advanced together,
for to reclaim Shakespeare’s birthday.

From Bethnal Green ’cross to Southall town
we fought the fuzz with fury;
but they came equipped with metal sticks
and they beat my love to jelly.

Among the ‘Kill the Bill’ chants and the banners of red,
no-one noticed the SPG
come flying out from their vans with their coshes of lead,
to bludgeon an anti-Nazi.

When they smashed Blair to the ground with a barrage of blows,
he was stamped on, kicked and spat on.
Though I screamed I made no sound as I clasped him close:
he’d been knocked out cold by batons.

The coroner was biased; he detested the Left,
stated Sikhs could not be trusted.
Some witnesses were silenced; to others he was deaf.
His report was done and dusted.

From Bethnal Green ’cross to Southall town
we fought the fuzz with fury;
but they came equipped with metal sticks
and they beat my love to jelly.

All the coppers had grown beards to disguise their guilt;
their witness statements were censored.
McNee, the Commissioner, said his men had played no part.
It was ‘death by misadventure’.

And as I dwell upon Blair and his terrible fate,
take heed, my brothers and sisters:
one day there will be fairness for my passionate mate
and a victory for justice.

So come all you good people who believe in the truth,
make a stand against oppression,
and wake up from your sleepwalk into premature death
by opposing State repression.

From Bethnal Green ’cross to Southall town
we fought the fuzz with fury;
but they came equipped with metal sticks
and they beat my love to jelly;
yes, they beat my man to jelly.

Saturday, 2 March 2013

a pigeon ducks under
the security gate
winter's end

Friday, 1 March 2013

St David's Day
a coot's wake spans the whole of
the Duke of Northumberland's River