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.
 
 
 
 

Smoked

I wish I was a curl of smoke,

Ascending to the autumn sky.

I wouldn’t have to speak to folk,

If I was but a curl of smoke,

(The product of a shifty toke,

Substantial as a weary sigh).

One day I’ll be a curl of smoke,

Ascending to a star-filled sky.

What Moves?

The surface of the lake is not so still.

A sailboat and its pilot catch the wind.

They glide across the surface with no effort.

 

The question of what moves the boat arises.

The wind says, ‘It is I who does this work.’

The sail replies, ‘Without me, you are worthless.’

 

In truth, it is the mind which moves the boat,

an answer which should need no explanation.

If sit here feeling Zen, but somewhat smug.

 

‘But what is it that moves the mind?’ says Myles.

The poem takes an unexpected turn.

If you have sons, be grateful when they’re wise.

 

  

Me

There I was, happily

SHOUTING obscenities

at the benighted television,

in between mouthfuls of popcorn

and fistfuls of thoughtlessness,

when the television

retaliated by SHOUTING

at the benighted viewer.

We cannot calm our thoughts

with diesel generators,

I though, all faux profound,

when the sofa ordered me

to stop fidgeting like a squirrel.

‘Why squirrel?’ I asked

as the curtains exploded with a raucous,

‘This is my favourite bit!’

which only showed a lunatic on the screen –

a man with an Adam’s apple

bigger than my fist,

which, according to

comparethefist.com,

everyone’s favourite fist comparison website,

is small by fist standards,

but mahoosive for an Adam’s apple

(according to comparetheAdamsapple.com).

In the midst of all this,

I half expected

the fireplace, hearth rug,

and lighting dimmer switch

to join in.

But, I thought,

now you’re just being,

you’re just being too…

you.

Letting

Let misery be your guide.

Let happiness be only something

which happens to other people.

Let suffering be welcomed

like a wayward son

who finally got his shit together

and now wears a suit.

Let mental anguish thrive

in ways even your mother would approve of.

Herald unfairness, injustice,

and a run of bad luck so improbable

and implausible

that it reads like a bad plot-hole

in a Hollywood film;

herald all that with trumpets,

fife, and drum machines.

You can’t put any of these

things back in their box.

Maybe have your wallet stolen.

Let insincerity flourish and thrive

like an unnecessary pop star.

Let people push in front of you

to the head of the queue.

Let the pull of nihilism

steer you towards despair.

Let headaches be the norm,

except for weekends, when you can’t

even get out of bed.

Only when you’ve done all that

can you appreciate peace of mind.

Uninspired

Today, I woke up in the south of France,

and struggled with the writing of at least

five poems, each new effort meeting failure

just like the previous one. None of it clicked.

Idea. Lines. Abandonment. Repeat.

 

It’s better to have tried and failed, I think,

than never to have tried at all. There is

a saying – Inspiration has to find

you working. What it doesn’t add is that

it sometimes doesn’t find you, even if

 

you get the bunting out, illuminate

your working space with neon tubes which read,

‘I am now working, working, working… find me!’

while saying, ‘Wow! I’m working really hard.

Hooray for work and inspiration. Hint, hint.’

 

Today scored low on the achievement scale.

decided that frustration was his new

best mate, and made too many cups of tea.

He read a lot of other people’s poems

and contemplated nothing worth the writing.

 

And on that line, this poem should have ended:

a bleak, depressing, nihilistic thought;

but inspiration came. It wasn’t much

(to wit – this poem), but it did arrive,

all bleary-eyed and sleepy though it was.

 

 

 

Timeless

   For James Green

There’s no such thing as time, if we believe

the mystics, for time is just

the measurement of objects relative

to space. A day is only such from our

perspective, here on little planet Earth.

There is no time, they say, there’s only now

and only ever has been now.

 

And that was what was on my mind before

I fell asleep last night, a night which may

be seen as little more than an illusion,

depending on your mystical perspective.

 

Mystics be damned! I like the measurement

of time. It’s useful if you have a train

to catch, or a wife whose birthday needs

remembering. I wonder how I would

arrange to meet my old friend Jon if time

could not be measured. Here I am in France,

not far from where he lives. ‘When shall we visit?’

he’d asked. A simple ‘Be here now’ would not have worked.

 

Thinking of time, I calculated that,

in just two years, we will have known each other

for forty years, which isn’t bad as friendships go.

Next month, I meet with Pasc, another old friend.

Continuing my time-related thoughts,

I realised our friendship was now forty-one.

And then, a glorious epiphany –

this month I’ve known James Green for fifty years!

I wondered what it was that he was doing with

his non-existent time while I was starting

to feel a bit old. Maybe he’s unconsciously

tapping a rhythm on the nearest surface,

a habit every drummer seems to have.

Perhaps he’s tutoring some reluctant child,

I thought, or getting ready for a walk

with Bex, or talking to his cat, or writing

a song… which brought me back to Pasc and Jon.

 

Pascal, as he then was, had been recruited

to play the bass in my first band.

At our first gig, he’d had to play unplugged

because we’d left his lead behind and didn’t have

the time to get back to the house and pick it up;

a better way of making friends I do not know.

And Jon and I had spent our sixth-form years

strumming guitars and talking music

and searching, always searching, for a bloody plectrum.

 

We could have been a four-piece band, I think,

and picture us rehearsing never-written songs:

Pasc with his unplugged bass, Jon looking in van

for that elusive pick, me singing

my dreadful adolescent lyrics,

and, always in the background somewhere, James

keeping the non-existent time on his drums.

Tomatopear

The tomato who wanted to grow up a pear,

   Said, ‘I’ve got the right shape but my colour is red.

Oh, daddy, why can’t I be green? It’s not fair!

   And with that he stormed off with his red face to bed,

   Where he dreamt what it would be to be green instead.

But it didn’t much matter at all, for you see…

…We ate that poor pear-shaped tomato for tea.

Among the Trees

   for Jon Bowen

 

We’ve just sat down to eat a salad/French bread

with bits and pieces, vaguely rustic lunch when

I make some bland remark about how lovely

it is to be surrounded by so many trees.

 

‘Trees are the answer,’ Jon remarks, and I

agree, but have no time to register my

agreement as he comes out with a measured,

‘it doesn’t matter what the question is,’

before I have a chance to counter with

another bland and uninsightful statement,

like, ‘Absolutely,’ or, ‘Quite so,’ or even, ‘Yes.’

 

Instead of making my unnecessary verbal noises,

I get out of my chair and head towards

the bedroom, where I write his gem of wisdom

inside my notebook, knowing first-

class inspiration for a poem when I see it.

 

And in the middle of the writing of the poem,

a tiny grasshopper lands on the table,

next to my hand. I notice that a leg

of his his caught up in a fragment of

a spider’s web. I let him grasp my pencil.

I place him on a piece of wood, remove

the little filament of sticky thread,

and write. And when I look again, he’s gone.

 

Like Jon, who’d gone back to his vineyards after

our post-lunch conversation, which, as always,

revolved around guitars and music; laughter,

as always, punctuating all we’d said.

The best advice I could have given to my younger self

would have been a simple, Choose your friends wisely,

Fergus.’ At nearly forty years of distance,

I almost hear him say, ‘I did.’

 

Amphibrachic Ode to an Agave Plant

   for Paul

 

I ate my pyjamas in springtime,

   Last week, I drank ink from a printer,

But pity the man who confesses,

   ‘I lost my agave last winter!’

 

I chopped all my wood with a teaspoon,

   And now I have many a splinter,

But sorrow’s for he who’s caught saying,

   ‘I lost my agave last winter!’

 

This life is bizarre and absurd, like

   A play by that fraud Alan Pinter,

His best lines make mush, much less sense than,

   ‘I lost my agave last winter.’

 

This poem is hardly long-distance,

   Composed by a poemy sprinter,

   But what is its last line? You guessed!

   ‘I lost my agave last winter!’

 

Cocaine Bear, the Poem

‘I fancied something highbrow,’ read the message,

underneath the screenshot of a title –

‘Cocaine Bear’ – and

 

‘God, it’s shite. Was it ever going to be

anything but?’

 

I replied asking if the film remained

true to the original Shakespeare, wag

that I am.

 

What next, though, for the makers of ‘Cocaine Bear’?

‘Heroin Bull’ or ‘Marijuana Tiger’?

‘Amphetamine Hippopotamus’

or ‘Magic Mushroom Wolf (Live Action Version)’?

Or maybe ‘Anabolic Steroid Shark’?

 

So many questions! Anyway, I hear

the sequel, ‘Cocaine Bear Does Rehab’,

is right up there with ‘Hamlet’ in its violent drama.

 

Why aren’t the recovering cocaine-addict community,

outraged at the insensitivity

at being taunted by the word Cocaine

on buses, billboards and the like?

Their woe-is-me complaints would fit the zeitgeist nicely.

 

I suppose when you’ve snorted your septum

into oblivion and fucked up your life,

you probably don’t worry about shit like that.

Advice to This Poem

Avoid unnecessary repetition.

Stick to the metre. Be consistent with

the line length.

Make sure that the mere is kept at all times.

Avoid unnecessary repetition. If rhyming, keep it simple (no one likes

to struggle with a Hudibrastic mouthful)

and be effective. Steer clear of invective

(you ma be angry, people like to laugh, though).

Avoid Unnecessary repetition,

if that’s a thing. It is? Oh, right. In which case,

avoid unnecessary repetition

(some people think you can’t say that enough,

the fools). Please bear in mind the audience.

Be kind to them, as some may well be poets,

and may live lonely, loveless, lachrymose lives.

Avoid all attempts at alliteration.

The most important thing you should remember

is never end this poem with

‘avoid unnecessary repetition.’

 

Julian

I sit in this once empty chair and turn

my thoughts to how you’ve been since last we spoke.

You had the 'flu and thus postponed my visit.

So sad it turned into a cancellation;

it would have been a blast to say farewell.

 

But such is life. You get on with the task

of living: work or play; awake or dreaming;

earning or spending; running, walking… stopping.

It all just stops. When we were boys, we never knew

a clock could run so fast. But such is life.

 

It’s always later than we think, the stoic

would say, and he’d be right. How late it was

although we did not know, and so our friendship

had no farewell blast. There was no talk

of all our misdemeanours past. No joking

 

about the time we started Matron’s car.

No reminiscences about the time

I stayed at your house and you pestered your dad

to let me try some aqua grappa (which he did).

Now laughing now, but only endless silence.

 

And yet I see you clearly in my mind.

That face from boyhood’s many years ago.

That rascal’s grin. That loaded laugh.

That attitude which broke so many rules.

So vivid in my mind. So bright. So… Julian.

 

It’s such a cliché, ‘Gone, but not forgotten.’

It holds some truth, though, for today you are remembered,

with fondness, sadness, joy and love.

Returning to the silent here and now,

I wonder at the turning of the clock.

Movement

The mystery will dance with words,

but cannot be defined by them.

It is their rhythm and their meaning.

It is their sound and their appearance.

It is their shape and their construction.

It is their presence and their absence.

Enjoy the dance of mystery,

for words are part of its expression.

An Early Morning Calm

My life is one of quiet contemplation.

Resisting the magnetic pull of noise,

I sit. No radio. No internet.

No papers or TV. No suit or tie.

No world of work. I look out of the window.

 

The sky today is uniformly white

and light, relentless rain is falling earthwards.

The play of silence in my mind gives way

to simple thought: an early morning calm.

The world of words has woken, and I listen.

The Futile Grab

No meaning here, no meaning here at all.

Observing life in real time: illusion.

Take Flight

Most days I stumble, stumble, stumble, crashing

into these… unthought thoughts. They manifest

themselves like heartbeats, breaths, or baffling dreams,

and like those things, they simply are.

They turn up in my mind’s departure lounge,

hoping to catch a flight of fancy (also

known as a poem). Most of them will

journey no further, having come from only God

knows where, to nowhere else: the nowhere of

ideas; placed and then displaced.

As far as I’m aware, they vanish with

as little will as they arise. Today,

there was a nothing thought; a thought

so nondescript it barely was, and yet

it flew on one of Fancy’s happy flights

and landed safely on this poet’s page.