Posts Tagged ‘Poem’

Koh Phi Phi

August 31, 2016

Stepping off the boat

the waves of sales

men crash over us

following the scent

of our currency.

The current flows

 

Into the land of lads and ladettes –

To large linoleum dance floors,

And listless signs proclaiming

“You know what goes well with beer?

 

Sex.”

And everyone has it dripping in the sweat

That circulates through the square;

The throbbing beat of nineties classics

And the traffic of hungover teens

 

Living the Thailand dream.

And I feel like Philip Larkin

Watching them

on the long slide.

To happiness. Endlessly.

 

He accepts his own impending mortality, however.

 

I’m 28.

And this is torture.

Ohrid – Sofia through the Macedonian countryside

July 25, 2016

The paper land is ripped to reveal the sky –

A hand-torn collage of crete-paper trees,

Orange sugar paper rock faces and

Harsh lines drawn through the green.

Houses cut from old travel brochures

Dot fuzzy felt valleys or peep out

From behind make-shift leaves.

 

Later, as mum cleared the mess and put away the glue,

She could have sworn she saw my little rickety bus

Travelling through.

The Ladies of the Office Wear Black

March 11, 2013

As a little background – my friend and colleague has had his leg in a cast and has been spending most of his time in our office with it up on a spare chair. Now that his leg is finally healing, we are all missing him being around and it was suggested I write a poem. So here it is.

The Ladies of the Office Wear Black

 

Is it wrong to weep so as he walks

Atop granite and corridor laminate?

To watch the office chair spin empty

Without falling over and grabbing  it?

 

The ladies of the office wear black.

They are mourning until he comes back.

 

Am I stupid to feel hurt every morning

That my desk is less cluttered and clean?

To actually put things in his pigeon hole or e-mail

Rather than handing it straight to him?

 

The ladies of the office wear black.

They are mourning until he comes back.

 

When I phone and it goes straight to voicemail

When the coffee I make goes un-drunk

When the form captains all come a-searching

When that groove in his chair comes un-sunk

 

They can ask at my desk (and they will)

“But where is Mugglestone? Where has he gone?”

And I must have the strength to reach out –

“He has wings now, boys – he has flown”

 

The ladies of the office wear black.

They are mourning until

That moment, that thrill –

When he falls over again and comes back.

Eyewitness

October 21, 2012

It was there in your eyes.

It flickered between the fractured

Backdrop of the fairground

and the faint reflection of rain

 

falling from the rim of your woollen hat and

Landing on your cheeks

Shining red

0000000000and blue

0000000000000000000and yellow

Under the Ferris wheel.

 

No, you couldn’t have seen it,

And yes, I guess that means it’s possible you forgot it

And no, I can’t place it exactly – that erratic moment of stillness

In the static, the pinpointed spectacle in your pupils

 

But it was there.

 

For a second, I wasn’t simply a spectator

of your face, your lips, your tongue,

I was there, steady, in the lens

As tidal rainbows rolled like waves through your eyes.

A Masterchef Love Story

October 8, 2012

I have written a little love poem as part of The Great British Bard Off which you can read there, but, because I’m nice like this, I’m posting it below too. I simply call it…

 

Gregg

 

He said I had lovely puddings:
That no baking powder was needed
To get a rise out of him.

He said my buns had great warmth:
That the dough needn’t be kneaded
For the sin to grow within

He said our flavours complemented each other:
That on the palate we pirouetted like peppercorns;
Pole dancing ‘pon the rolling pin.

He wanted to go to heaven on my spoon,
Felt that divinity was in my chocolate
That my soufflés were deities
That he had found his soul in my jus.

The temperature keeps increasing,
The kitchen is getting hotter –
I don’t want our sauce to split.

Mr Wallace, I realise:
Loving you couldn’t get any tougher than this.

 

To join the Bard Off and submit your own baking show/baking based poetry simply e-mail Amy or Charlotte at greatbritishbardoff@gmail.com!

Let’s Bake.

First View of the Pacific

August 16, 2012

White lines on the road

 

OOOOORepeat

OOOOOOOOOOWhite lines on the road

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOBlack.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOThe snoring of passengers

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOThe rustling of bags

 

OOOOOOOOOOThe vast window –

 

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOColour.

 

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOGreen

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO hop-scotching

OOOOOOOOOOOOO over rocks as

The teeth of the cliff edge open ahead:

 

The Pacific.

 

A sketched outline with the sky

Brush stroked softly between two blues

Horizontal clouds recline and stretch beneath the canopy.

The vista broken

 

By the rising and falling of land and wave.

 

 

A gradient sky lets

The sun

OOOOOOwash

OOOOOOOOOOitself on the water

 

The landscape turns to

OOOOOOmoonlike silhouettes

 

And layers of wave paint the sand.