PREVIOUSLY POSTED POEMS
Poem from the Archive
The Importance of Exams
‘Life or Death’
words cracked the air.
paper slapped on my desk
acrid breath in my face.
red scars on the page
where my verbal reasoning failed
to establish the exact time
the trajectories would intersect
if the bus travelled at forty-three percent
of the speed of the train
assuming all the lights were green
and there is only a seven-minute delay
caused by leaves on the line.
‘Life or Death’
words wheezed over the heads
of the chattering mass
of O’level maths stream B
who could be good enough
if only they would pull up
their Grammar school socks
and learn the lesson before it’s too late
to calculate the gross return
on sixteen years of investment.
Chattering girls wait for grades,
the last bastions of bravado,
before a few lines on a slip of paper
put them in their place.
First published by Reach magazine, Vol 273, June 2021
Poem from the Archive
For I will consider the dog, Robbie, who has lived among us for a year and one half.
(After Christopher Smart)
For he was abandoned in a place of plastic and disinfectant, and so was greatly in need of rescue.
For his venerable bones and joints were much
troubled by the heavy weight he did carry and his undercarriage near scraped the muddy ground.
For he was understood to be but a small dog yet stretches across a sofa designed for the seating of three men.
For he bounces his bottom down the staircase in a manner most becoming to his Royal Corgi bloodline.
For he has the heart and face of a spaniel and will love you forever for the fair and reasonable price of one dog treat.
For he devours his dinner with much haste, lest it be stolen from under his very nose.
For he seeks out even broccoli and cucumber, such is the fearsome nature of his perpetual
hunger.
For he knows well that a ball or a stick is not food and therefore needs not his chasing.
For he understands that cats are the one true enemy and his old bones do re-discover youthful speed in defence of his estate and territories.
For he settles in his bed, paws neatly crossed, as is the habit of a true gentleman.
For he does disdain cold floors of cheap laminate, favouring the soft comfort of deep-pile carpet, as befits a dog of such distinction.
For he has the wisdom of the ancients and worries not that young pups jump, yap and pester.
For he has long since learned that energy must be conserved and therefore dozes for long hours before, and after, the Great Walk.
For he is much admired for his capacity to gain friends and lose weight and has therefore been
awarded the title of A VERY GOOD BOY.
For he has proved, beyond all measure, that an old dog can, indeed, learn new tricks
Robbie, adopted by my daughter, Emma, from Dog’s Trust, Sept 2021.
Service Engineer’s Visit
He turns up when the computer tells him,
never used a hoist in his life. Fully qualified.
Looks about fourteen.
Holds up a sling for inspection,
eager to find fault, to be first
to notice a frayed edge, a tear,
a split seam.
Thinks affairs at Derby County
have got out of hand,
more a rugby man himself.
No idea about the service needs
of four identical slings.
No, nothing on the screen.
Likes how we’ve done the Christmas lights.
Zooming in on Haircuts
Tight curls loosen, lose control,
flatten out,
succumb to frizz,
hyper-straight struggles to maintain rigidity
in the face of hell-bent kinks,
ebony-dyed show off tram-line roots as if relieved
to let illusion slip,
perfectly-shaped bob, we were so jealous of, is free
to curl, wave, flick,
silvers out-colour youth with home rinse
electric blues, purples, garish pinks,
layered and blended imagine
seamless transitions from the snipping
clips of ameteur scissors but find themselves
trimmed into haircut lucky dip
where a single hair’s breadth separates
cat-cool cut
from tail of rat
and the sudden, all-consuming urge
to wear a hat.
First published as part of a ‘Poetry & Covid Project’ funded by UK Arts & Humanities Research Council, University of Plymouth & Nottingham Trent University. March 2021.
The Colour Of Stationery
Aunt Maisie penned all correspondence
on stiff, cream, black-edged paper
as if in permanent mourning
for the stationery shop owned by her father.
Fibre-tip and highlighter fill shelves
which once held fine gold nib,
and Quink and grey-blue Basildon Bond
for never-ending thank-yous.
Later, Paperchase sold paper
by the pound in a dozen clashing colours.
In competition with my sister, I chose
outrageous shades on which to write.
The winner, we agreed, was stripes
in custard yellow and psychedelic green.
Then there were Forces-issue ‘blueys’
to a brother doing his duty.
A weekly dose of trivia from home
flown around the world. Bored
out of his brain, he sent black-humour
and pencil sketches of penguins, by return.
Now letters, if they come at all,
come glaring white, A4, justified.
First published by Reach magazine,
Vol 261 June 2020
Twitcher
Not for him
the hit and miss approach.
He knew their habits
(mating & breeding), the precise length
of a tail feather, the exact weight
of a healthy chick at three days old.
He followed the ‘Tweets’,
plotted migration routes
on a spread sheet,
every sighting cross-checked,
independently verified.
He’d spotted ninety-six percent
of all UK birds (visitor & resident)
in his sixty-seven years on earth –
an expert: respected, content,
for the most part,
until last week.
A photo pinged to his phone,
a wild capercaillie, no less,
from his sister, who couldn’t tell the difference
between a house and hedge sparrow.
Just thought he’d like to know
as he’d spent so many fruitless Cairngorm hours
waiting.
It was the sheer bloody randomness
that got to him,
and the feeling that God, if he was there at all,
was laughing.
At least, that’s what his note said.
First published in ‘Spinning Threads’,
2022 Anthology of Nottingham Writer Highway.
FROM BEYOND CARING
A Baby Brother’s Genetic Test
A masterclass for Cold War spies,
innocent looking cells
stay tight-lipped in a petri dish
yielding only the trivial:
blond hair, blue eyes, five foot six.
Under the glare of the lamp,
DNA surrenders the codes
stashed inside the double helix.
White coats interrogate link after link,
searching for a break.
A plain brown envelope,
a single line on a pink slip:
‘No deletion or abnormality found.’
Typed. Unsigned. No-one brave enough
to put their name to this.