rambling rhyme

yet another poem about inspiration and writing style. I particularly enjoyed playing with rhythms and sounds in this one. it´s definitely one for reading aloud.

I usually write rhymes

About things I can see

I rhyme about lakes and

about mountains and trees

But sometimes I rhyme rhymes

about things that are not

so immediately obvious

and easy to spot

I scribble sometimes some rhymes

about love or about fear

some lines

don´t rhyme each time

and sometimes the end is too near


This rhyme is simple and easy

to hear

I´ve written a rhyme where the

rhythm is clear

I rattle, rock and roll and I ramble away

and the lines will all rhyme and my words won´t betray

me `cause it´s just silly play

I´ll move and I´ll sway

I´ll eat love and pray

and we can chill out at the end of the day

Tantrum – November 2016

I hoisted my bawling burden on my shoulder
Like a sack of sausages.

His little feet beat in futile frustration against my chest,

Like the hammers on an unstrung piano.

Gradually his sobs subsided

to the occasional snuffle and I could once again allow my ears to open,

as though I were a camel resurfacing after a sandstorm.

Stream of consciousness dream poem

I dreamt I was a photojournalist in a time of rising tension. The weather went from sun in park to hail. People scratched themselves with swastikas and wore secret russian signs, and yet it was a liberal government who were hanging us out to dry.
Closing down the camera shops and Russian owned cafés with a promise of more space in which to live. Yet these storefront were bricked up and our cameras could not get fixed, while whispers told us Merkel would halp us to survive.
Where did those whispers come from, I asked myself later, was that evictor one of Merkel’s men for true? And should I use my elite connection to buy more camera equipment, or tattoo my face and seduce fascists like my colleagues decide to do.

And as I woke and write these lines I see the parallels, we work in a world where nothings as it seems, and everybody is scared, lashing out in different ways, and few have the courage to dare to act to avoid more of these bad dreams

Stem the Blue Tide – Work in Progress

If I were still a Christian, this is the time I’d pray
Clasp my hands like Metternich
Waste my words day by day

If I were a televangelist, I’d be roaring praise the Lord
Stamping my feet and shaking
With the adoration of the horde

Indeed were I a firm believer in a philosophy of Fate
Stoically bearing pain,
I’d be uninterested in hate

I was never a good Christian nor a stoic or a sage,
And yet now I must decide
how to live within this age

Should I, like King Canute of old, sit enthroned upon the shore
while waves of blue do undermine
and leave the kingdom insecure

City Dawn

I sit back and wonder at the rising of the sun

The morning dew still falling, the grasses glisten

The city’s waking up, I can tell, the buses have started to run

And the early dog walkers clatter past

Coaxing and cursing in equal measure

While I sit writing at my leisure

For me the day starts as any other

My occupations and engagements far away

I might have coffee with my brother

Or read a book by the canal, of the sky’s not too grey

Live poetry reading

I just came home from a literary event which I helped to organise, and I got some lovely feedback (from audience, not speakers, thankfully). I’m a relative newbie at reading my own poems in particular, despite having recited some Heaney and Yeats at an event last July, and I found it difficult to decide how best to approach speaking.

I had this question going through my head when I was asked to read at a poetry event in Alboraya, a village just outside Valencia in June. I had a poem that felt urgent and I think that the crowd almost felt scared by my overblown theatricality during delivery. Afterwards I reasoned that maybe I had gone too far too fast.

So my question is, how do you like your poetry delivered? With gusto? With boiling rage? With raw emotion and urgency? With quiet passion? Slowly and deliberately enunciated? Or with humour and self-deprecation?

Answers on a postcard please. Expect a new(ish) poem soon.