The Sadness of Telegraph Poles

I read a modern poem on

the sadness of telegraph poles.

It moved me greatly, and I wept

   – insert a simile here, please.

Not enough people dwell upon

the sadness of telegraph poles,

for if they did, I feel that we

   – insert a metaphor here, now.

If you don’t like the concept of

the sadness of telegraph poles,

don’t blame the poem or the poet

   – insert deficient feelings here.

Get thee to a Library!

Commissioned by Poetry on Loan, Halesowen Library,

23rd April 2016

When I discover that my library books

Are due to be, or not to be, returned,

I summon up remembrance of trips past.

How long, I wonder, can it take to put

These books back in their rightful place? Five minutes?

Then I consider every tale that might

Be found within its calm and tranquil walls,

And readjust my schedule: half-an-hour

At least is what I think I’ll need inside

This wondrous horde of books which do beguile

The world; this library in fair Halesowen!

For seven days a week, I’ll find it opens

Upon the hours and times of my desire:

From nine till seven, mainly; ten till two

On Sundays; Saturdays, they close at five.

   I’m greeted by the smiling face of Tom,

A library assistant who is most

Forthcoming with his help – like all the staff!

The books are given back, and thus I can

Return in happy mood to scan the shelves

Once more, and quite forget the time, as I

Ensconce myself beside a much read bookcase.

A tower of several tomes accrues. Although

The library lets me take out twenty,

I stop at six. My watch persuades me that

I ought to make some tracks, and off I go.

   At other times, I take my kids to do

Their homework in the Children’s area,

Where I have seen their hungry minds at work

As they research their projects on computers,

Reserved each day from three till five. When they

Were younger, time was in abundance, mornings

Could last forever and the sanest thing

To do was take them to the library

For Rattle and Rhyme or Story and Rhyme;

And on the weekend, two full hours of Craft,

For there is more to this fine place than books,

You know! What’s new to learn? What’s new to find?

Three reading groups for adults, and a Book

Club too; a monthly local History Talk;

Assistance for the digitally confused

(Alas, ‘tis true, I’m in their ranks); a group

For all creative writers (true, I’m in

Their ranks as well); a room for hire; they even

Have a Japan Club! (Once a month, teenagers.)

   And in this age of fiscal frailties,

What’s there to have that’s free for us to use?

This library, of course! This monument

To wisdom and community; this place

Where we can share and grow and learn and live.

O, great Halesowen, that has such wonders in it!

Seasonally Affective Dishcloth

Retreat towards the safety of

   An English afternoon,

With croquet lawns, and pots of tea,

   And calendars marked June,

And lemonade and cricket bats,

And tennis lawns and frilly hats,

   And evening light which never fades too soon.

Speed Awareness Doggerel, Parts One and Two

Several years ago, I went on a speed awareness course.

*Just because it looks like you’re taking notes, it doesn’t mean that you are, 

or, 'Beware of poets "taking notes" '*

Part One: Course Leader Triolet

All patronizing, dull, verbose,

Diminutive and witless too,

But interesting? Not even close,

From Patronizing-Dull-Verbose,

Who wants to give us all a dose.

He thinks he’s funny; that’s not true.

All patronizing, dull verbose,

Diminutive and witless too.

(Being diminutive was his only saving grace)

Part Two: Woeful Doggerel to Stave off Boredom

We drivers, who have all been slightly naughty,

Like doing forty-six instead of forty,

Or failing to recall our cars were nifty,

By doing fifty-eight within a fifty,

Or seeing if our cars could speed aplenty,

By going twenty-nine instead of twenty,

Are gathered in a room to be subjected

To idiotic tedium, directed

Towards each careless automotive criminal,

Thus keeping any future speeding minimal. 

Ode on a Six-String

   Guitars are still the coolest thing,

   That you can do with wood and string.

The sound they make is earthy yet metallic,

The shape of them is feminine but phallic.

      They lend an air of cool,

      To geek or god or fool;

   Extensions of our human soul,

   Embodiment of rock ‘n’ roll;

Within each one is waiting to be found,

A vast, orchestral universe of sound.

   Guitars can cast a darker spell,

   To send their poets down to hell;

They steal the Devil's tunes and then return,

And on the way, guitars and poets burn.

      A sonic purple haze,

      To startle and amaze,

   Is what remains for us to hear;

   The poets never reappear,

Forever lost beneath the aural waves,

They take their unplayed music to their graves.

   Guitars: to you we raise our hats,

   You Les Pauls, Flying-Vs and Strats.

Though simply strummed by mediocre hands,

Or held aloft above the greatest bands,

      You make the world your own,

      With each celestial tone,

   And wear the instrumental crown,

   While lesser instruments bow down.

A sonic mesmeriser like no other,

And everyone who plays you is a brother.

A Lesson on Anglo-Saxon Poetry

We silent sit and see the screen

show magic images of the man: Beowulf.

As this tale is told, I tell the class

about the book of Beowulf: ancient poetry.

I try and lead towards learning; help them understand the lines:

a stich, a hemi-stich, a story told

with lilting alliteration in the lines’ lengths.

I pause to point out priceless Kennings:

a wondrous word-hoard; weapons of power.

A Fix

My fix, for fixing’s what I need,

   Is Earl Grey tea, both strong and black.

I don’t do nicotine or weed,

   Or LSD or H or crack,

   Cocaine or speed or ‘e’ or smack.

To get me started, nothing’s finer

Than Earl Grey tea (in fine bone china).

A Brief List, Which Should Be Slightly Longer, of Things Worth Living for

The sound of rain inside a tent,

   A cloudless English summer sky,

A promise kept, a letter sent,

   And knowing those we hate will die.

The memory of a childhood place,

   A lazy morning spent in bed,

A loyal dog, a friendly face,

   And laughing when our foes are dead.

The comfort of a favourite book,

   The friendships time can never quell,

A gentle breeze, a babbling brook,
   And visions of those flames in Hell.

Josef Visarionovič’s Final Dream

I’d started writing a poem about

Josef Stalin’s final dream,

having first come up with what I thought was

a half-decent punchline/ending.

I’d picked the metre,

then started on the first few lines,

after which, things pretty much ground to a halt.

I hadn’t had much sleep the night before,

the osteo-arthritis in my left knee

was interfering with the muse,

and my handwriting seemed to be having

a mini mental crisis all of its own.

Instead (although I’d tried and failed

this several times in the past)

I thought I’d try my hand at writing

a poem in the style of Billy Collins:

a personal, but not quite intimate, piece of

chatty, easygoing, narrative, free verse,

whose demotic turn of phrase

would be so lucid

that even a ‘lecturer’ in teacher training

might understand it.

And yes, I did finally get round to writing down

that half-decent punchline/ending, namely:

Josef Stalin dreamt that after his death

they renamed Leningrad Lemongrad in his honour.

(Click here for an explanation, of sorts)