Category Archives: 1, poem, poetry,

OTHER SIDE OF THE PAGE

OTHER SIDE OF THE PAGE

This be
the poem

where according to your
reasoned suggestions

I deleted every word
considered superfluous

every image
that did not fit

so please let me
know if it
reads better, conforms
to your high standards
(you
   could scribble your response
somewhere in
the margin

    or on the other
side of the page).

BABEL

BABEL

everybody talking
nobody hearing
nobody listening

not the poets
even the poets
especially
    not the poets

for where
   are the old guys, what
happened those brigades
who came to
Spain, who streamed
in to Catalonia?

those old universalists,
absurd internationalists,
comic characters in
every historical
                       drama

so beautiful their
pipe dream of comradeship,
a lovely insanity
that could not hold
yet
   might have
saved us

not that I am here to knock
the appeal of all those
Caesars and Francos
rewriting the law
from the vaunted
point of advantage
of their
    glorious, golden,
divinely ordained thrones

telling it
      like it is, like it
has to be

polishing a set of shared words
until
    their speech being
all light
and fire

burn like suns
bright beyond question

AH, MANCHESTER UNITED

AH, MANCHESTER UNITED

Ah, Manchester United
just like during the blitz
we took a direct hit

bomb not loaded
with TNT, Vorsprung mit
Technik Waffen
loaded with
Stateside shit

two in a row
actually

we
muscled up
against City
with all
out false nines
and fake
fullbacks

and forgot
how to play

then our little
archangel in process
           (looks

more
like an imp)
entire foundation
for our future

now wants greener
pastures in hot
languid
Spain (could
settle for
Catalonia, the whole
world wants him
already
   knows his name)

but talking of names,
this name
     once illustrious,
is
   beginning to
fade

thing is
      this is said to be
an illustrious name
this is supposed to be
ultimate
football Mecca, given
the moniker
Theatre of Dreams

but gravity
cruel, greedy, only
in it for
the money gravity
got its
finger
       in the half-
time pie, light-
bending coils about
this club,
     strangling
its players, chopping blocking
its teams

begging
    a best fit for
purpose answer to
this question:

why do so many
coming here
      to play
lose
their way?

be like footnotes 
         to the script
die like
extras
    in an epic, actors on stage
in a tragedy play?

United are back
United
are back

the ghosts of so many managers
desperate to
     hear that again.

TO BE FAIR

TO BE FAIR

to be fair to Andy
he was sitting
there
   overawed
parked his sharpness, his
acumen at the door

sank down
in that theatre of dreams
chair of
   ultimate plushness
Omar’s supreme sanctuary
such a
fantasy football
Arabian Nights feel

and
    the man knows
words, he
can weave a web
of wizardry

Andy
   taken in, me
taken in
     every United fan and
pundit sent
reeling, instantly taken in

so we
    should not be
too hard on ourselves, these
were the tales
      we wanted to hear, were
desperate to believe

happy
    to be taken on
that giddy spin, hit
new heights,
               such

an unbelievable magic
carpet ride

sad
    to

wake up on that bone cold
terrace in
that draughty stand

a million miles from
our long lost palace

to be fair
        to Andy
feel
he, we won’t
get fooled again

never going to party
like it’s 1999

PANCAKE

PANCAKE

goddess-created, Oh
batter my heart
thou most
delectable of pancakes

drenched in syrup, she
of the honey fingers
has laboured
in her kitchen to
create you, true
paragon of foods

and there you
are rolled, stuffed
with incredible sweetness

sheer magic
        a masterpiece

each
   and every mouthful

a magic
carpet ride
               across deserts
across oceans

my heart suddenly open
to the dream
of
confection drawn
    as perfect circle

taste on my lips,
of infinite space

POEM OF SORTS

POEM OF SORTS

I was writing a poem
erasing words, scratching
through lines
as I wrote

couldn’t be sure
whether this were
a poem of
love
or hate

a poem of rebirth, renewal,
or death and extinction.

The more I erased
cut to shreds, slashed
through the page

the more intensely they came
image after image;
allusion after allusion

and so
the envelope I mailed you
was empty of
contents

you can imagine the
madness of
inspiration
unending labour,
pain of
creation

that produced this masterpiece
through version
upon version

delivered as it was in its final, unquestionable most perfect of states.

PINEAPPLE

PINEAPPLE

was commissioned,
instructed

to write a short story
about a pineapple
that can talk

so not knowing
where to start
I asked pineapple
to write
the story for me

and so
pineapple promised
to write
me my
story

knowing that this
was  request
I simply
could not, would not
wish to refuse

and so
pineapple came up
with
      its story
making it short
but
   sweet and
(obviously) unsliced

FOCUS

FOCUS

I am everything
the sea had to do
to create
a single molecule of me
or, even better,
a grain of sand

I am the pressure your brain
brought to bear
to create this
diamond of a combination
targeting that square
in one
supreme swoop

this board the test and
measure of our evolution

and then
      what we have here
those neurons firing, the
quantum field
shifting
   accordingly having its say

a titanic battle
to get this out
onto the page

and yet
    it looks so ordinary, reads
run-of-the-mill

been
done before but better,
passe, cliche.