Monday, 17 October 2011

Poetry and Procrastination and Parenthesis

Somehow, I still manage to delude myself that I am a 1000 words a day kind of writer.  It just so happens that on all bar, say, two days in the last 5 years something has come up that is so important that I have not quite managed to hit that target (or turn on my computer).  Well, all that's about to change.  For I intend, tomorrow (obviously we don't want to rush these things), to open my laptop and (after the swiftest of glances at Facebook and Reddit and maybe a quick game of chess and another quick glance at Facebook and then a look to see if the uber-prolific the ubiquitous lol has dashed off another perfectly crafted post) attempt to write 1000 words in a single day like all those proper writers seem to manage effortlessly before breakfast.

In the meantime, here's another titleless poem I made up.  This one is even more divorced from true events than usual - although I did once drunkenly flip a coin in a train station but that was to decide whether to go to Portsmouth or France.  Fortunately, I wound up in Portsmouth (a sentiment you don't often hear) as I had to get back for work the next day.

The graveyard wall
The oak tree stump
The iron bench
The sofa in your basement flat
Each place we sat
And mourned the minds
That have no time
To sit and watch the shadows pass
Across the floor
From 12 midday til 4am
We mourned for them
The busy folk
Our working friends
Who had no time
To sit and watch the shadows pass
While smoke-rings burst
Like memories
And form again
From 12 midday til 4am

Your double bed
The Futon in
Your basement flat
The chesiled beach beyond West Bay
Each place we lay
And pitied those
Who are awake 
To hear the Sunday churchbells ring
The faithful pray
We slumber on in half embrace
And pity those
Religious folk
Our pious friends
Who must awake
To hear the Sunday churchbells ring
While we still dream
Our godless dreams
And half-asleep
I kiss your neck you grip my hand

We left your flat 
And sheltered from
The rain beneath
The number eighteen bus stop hood
Each place we stood
We angered those
Who made the choice
To sacrifice those carefree days
For recompense
In promises of golden coin
We angered them
The money-rich
Our wealthy friends
Who made the choice
To sacrifice those carefree days
And how we thought
They envied us
Our midday starts
And godless dreams before the night

Before the night
The landlord sent
The letter to 
Evict you from your basement flat
Where once we sat
And laughed at those
Who charged us rent
To sit and watch the shadows pass
Across the floor
From 12 midday til 4am
We laughed at them
The plutocrats
The money men
And paid no rent
To sit and watch the smoke-rings burst
Like memories
The bailiffs came
But we had gone
To sit upon our graveyard wall

For one last time
Our oak tree stump
Our iron bench
You kissed my neck I gripped your hand
And walked you to
The station where
You flipped a coin
To choose between your home and me
And your home won


  1. lovely poem... I think your poetry is the best of your forms.

  2. I'm the same kind of writer24 October 2011 at 06:04

    Works for me. Glad you're still writing. Keep churning it out. You have to kiss a lot of frogs... xx Steve