Right ... i can't think of anything to write apart from stuff to do with Bob Dylan which i think i've done more than enough of, so I'll put up some poems I've written in the last year.
Here's one, called
A silhouette
One working-day magpie haunts miraculous spaces where
you can’t buy running water; in the sheen of a March sky
he’s a piece of a puzzle no one has solved yet.
It’s a stiffed competition for the left-behind barflies
down there shilling for big beer – a shape on a window
left by commuter droplets from understaffed tube trains.
He’s a logo you can’t place or a portent of grey death
of a blood clotting meekly as it flows through your blue
veins.
Circles of bullies dance the pink glow of girl bands
to a crushed teenage ideal hiding under a table
from a green-bubble magpie who’s come bouncing to save it,
with a preening indifference, from a latter-day fable.
Everyone’s laughing from the front of their faces
at tyres scraping getaway ballads on racetracks
repurposed as nature reserves then repurposed
again as arenas for burning through haystacks.
We followed the magpie to look both ways from the
motorway bridge, for the faces of murderers
blanking and smiling, on camera, still unseen
and speedless, clutching their crucifix, nerveless
with transience, this is the river which flows on
through blemished seasons and torrents of hurt,
this is a vigil where eyes shut in spite,
an empty treetop, a greyness, a cloud of words.
And here's a silly one I rather like, but I reckon you really had to be there, called ...
Youth cricket in West London in the 1990s
At 7.32pm,
the second innings starts -
a play and miss, hard, nervous wrists,
a welcome late leg glance.
For now, the late May sun’s still holding
creeping murk at bay,
but treetop ghosts cast doubt upon
the twenty overs left to play.
Perhaps it was the glare,
perhaps the dirty torn sightscreen
that meant a straight one found a gate
there really shouldn’t have been.
The opener’s dad is sighing
to his sagging cigarette;
a wasted summer evening
too idyllic to regret.
The number three, the captain,
who’s a cocky Surrey Colt
winces at a crack like it’s
the San Andreas Fault.
He takes a little time to find his
timing, judge the pace,
then guides a cut just back of square
like WG Grace.
The runs come fast, there’s little
that the fielding side can do
until the captain strikes a lofted
drive so straight and true
it sails over the sightscreen,
is lost amongst the weeds.
The coach leaps up to grab
the opportunity he needs.
He joins the search, and mutters
to his team, under his breath,
“Just slow them down, boys;
it will be like Hades at the death”.
Each second of delay lengthens
the shadows on the ground -
eventually, the miscreant ball
(at least, a ball) is found.
The tactics work, the captain hoiks
a good length ball to long on.
The catch is held, the match is changed,
the coach has got it spot on.
The chase slows down, the wickets fall,
the rate climbs ever higher.
In light like this, the little seamer
morphs into Makhaya.
By now, the darkness closing,
it’s past 8.45.
Batters know the chance has passed
to keep the match alive.
They’re only playing for pride now
through squinting, searching eyes,
showing more bravado than
is requisite or wise.
Finally, the stumps are drawn
and tired handshakes shared,
pads removed & scoresheets checked,
coaches’ notes compared.
Chauffeurs, groundsmen, cheerleaders
all gather to decide
that umpires could have been less harsh
when calling leg-side wides.
Spikes removed and kits in boots,
they’ll save the shower for home.
A cavalcade of Ford Escorts
depart the wooded pleasuredome.
The traces of the play remain,
each patterned sight and sound -
the rematch is in three weeks
at the opposition’s ground.
