Eight Lines on a Page

 

It was quite the relief, arriving at a short poem – a mere

two quatrains long. So much silence on the page,

but just enough noise to take notice.

And then, of course, another unrealistic poet idea.

 

Why not write an entire collection’s worth

of poems with two quatrains only?

Why not? Oh, dear. I thought we were done with these obsessions.

Not to worry, though; it’ll probably never happen.

Page

 

What? Have you no words?

the blank page asks.

There must be millions of them

lining the bookshelves of this room.

It’s a positive shrine to words!

Why don’t you just get one of them?

I explain to blank page

that this is not how poetry works.

You must surely realise that your

prosodic explanations

flew straight over my head.

I am, after all, just a blank page.

But I don’t bother with a reply,

as I see that blank page

has now been replaced by

slightly defaced/scribbled upon page.

Oh, very observant!

Slightly defaced/scribbled upon/sarcastic page.

Giant Inflatable Cat

If you work hard all your life,

so the saying goes,

through school, career, and whatnot,

then, towards the end of it all,

you may find that you have enough

disposable income

to afford

a Giant Inflatable Cat.

This is the Ultimate Carrot

which dangles in front of each new

desperate generation:

the potential acquisition of

a Giant Inflatable Cat.

 

Originally introduced as a social experiment

which got ‘slightly out of hand’,

it sought to determine if people could respond positively

to setting themselves truly pointless life goals,

to wit – the ultimate pointless life goal

(arguably)

being the eventual acquisition of

a Giant Inflatable Cat.

Of course, other, lesser material goals,

can also be realised on the way,

as a spur, an encouragement.

That outboard motor for your harpsichord.

The modern house,

constructed out of anti-soundproof materials,

and misplaced hope.

The holidays in Spain.

Your next-door neighbour’s life.

But no

Giant Inflatable Cat.

No mortgage, no loan, no matter how

disreputable,

can be used to secure yourself

the funds for a

Giant Inflatable Cat.

You have to have cash

and evidence of retirement.

The greatest sadness in life

is when a fellow traveller

is knocked down too soon

by Death’s inescapable scythe,

for now they would never have the chance to own a

Giant Inflatable Cat.

 

They were a plague, these

Giant Inflatable Cats.

Appearing on crisp packets,

advertising hoardings, private journals,

funerals, ice-cream vans, skyscrapers, the Royal Insignia –

   everywhere!

And inserted into every online space

imaginable.

Yes, even there.

Quite what you do with your

Giant Inflatable Cat

once you get it,

is completely unknown.

Although admit it –

some of you kinda now want

a Giant Inflatable Cat.

Not a Poem about What's in My Garden

 

I could write a poem about what’s in my garden,

but, while it’s a perfectly nice garden –

   think small, walled courtyard,

   with climbing Malvern roses on one wall,

   the heads of the poet’s wife roses

   popping out to say hello

   from behind the recently cleaned

   old, wooden bench,

   itself a couple of feet away

   from the washing line whirligig

   and sun-lounger,

   both canopied by a navy-blue sail,

   diagonally opposite the round glass table

   and its matching plastic rattan chairs,

   behind which is the green gate

   for entrance and exit –

well, it’s really not worth describing

in a poem,

is it?

Stupid Questions

This week, I am into asking stupid questions.

What is the sum total of all humanity?

Is it right for a poor person to eat a millionaire’s shortcake?

Where can I get one of those?

 

Depends. What do you mean by ‘those’?

Your answer, ‘One of those as opposed to one of these’

had me pitying those tragically misguided souls

who claim, ‘Oh, there’s no such thing

as a stupid question!’

 

They really need to up the ante

with regard to the scope of their imagination,

such as it is, don’t they? Or is that

another stupid question?

 

And what of question the verb?

I question the existence of any chairs.

And don’t come all quantum physics with me,

because we both know that

our understanding of such matters can be measured

in Planck lengths.

 

Do you think that this poem should have ended

at line thirteen?

Now, that seems like

a valid question.

(The answer’s no, though, obviously;

isn’t it?)

 

Perfectly Useless

Everything, ultimately, ends up in
The Wastepaper Basket of History.
 
The vanishing of paperweights
from newly air-conditioned offices, for example.
 
No antediluvian fans in the vicinity
and obsolescence beckoned
for the heavy little bastards.
 
But you can’t put them in
The Wastepaper Basket of etc., anymore,
because history is now paperless –
 
although nobody knows,
as memos are no longer a thing.
 
Just like paperweights
and wastepaper baskets.
 
See that basket?
It’s a wastepaperless basket now.
 
Check it out to see if it’s full
of paperweights instead.
 
Check to see if it’s now a
paperweightwaste basket.
 
Or just another contrived attempt to coin
the perfectly useless neologism.