B80: Coupla poems

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.