Category: Poem

Poetry Blog: ‘Before…’

This is a poem about an old couple that I know. 

Before...

Despite your immobility and the hand that you've been dealt
there are still small pleasures to be had.
So while the future may seem bleak and at times futile,
that past reminds you that there was once another life.

So you gaze longingly at the picture from a bygone era,
black and white, faded where it had been folded into a pocket 
and curled on one corner,
you laughing uproariously into the camera,
hands held, heads beginning their thrust skyward
and the lost seaside glamour of a loosened tie and unbuttoned shirt,
sleeves rolled, the best dress, curled hair 
and a handbag dangling from your forearm.
I can hear you cackle, imagine him singing in a club singer voice, 
something he wouldn't sing without a drink.
All before the smudge of violence,
the stain of a temper that lurked on the horizon, hidden away
but always there, ready to remind you that nobody's perfect.
All before the drinking and the smoking, the lack of money and the sickly child that saw you give up your sliver of independence.

Still, the moment is captured, the laughter tangible,
the sense of fun and happiness branded on your face,
and the hope and optimism that you thought could never be defeated, all shouting back at you, a reminder of a life lived
and the simple fact that we must exist for these snatched moments 
of ordinary triumph that still make our day decades on from the event.

So, this poem is about an old couple looking back on a nice memory from when they first met. A photograph is discovered and it prompts some memories of what they got up to when they were younger. The poem is about making the most of the kind of times when you have no ties, no responsibilities and can afford to just let go. It’s about the fact that life doesn’t always go the way you imagined, but that there’s always stuff to hold on to and cherish.

As kids, we don’t really stop to think that our parents or any other older adults we might know, had a life before we came along. Even as adults, it’s an uncomfortable thought. But just like being young and carefree ourselves with all of the risk taking and stupid decisions, they would have done all of this too. Having seen the photograph in the poem, I can imagine the younger side of the old couple, but I also know the older side too. It’s a weird contrast and shows just how much people change and are forced top change, in a way.

This was what I wanted to come out with the poem; the fact that we’re all young once and that however much fun we might be having or whatever plans we put in place, things change.

Anyway, as ever, I hope you enjoyed the poem.

Poetry Blog: Icebreaker

We had a week’s worth of snow days for our first week of the half term, which meant that despite setting work and trying to get stuff done around the house, I actually had a bit of time on my hands. Struck by inspiration today, I sat and wrote a poem. It’s not in any way serious, although the actual physical acts described did actually happen. Part way through writing something serious I just decided it was too good an opportunity for something silly and so changed the way it was going. I hope you like it.

Icebreaker

After two days trapped in limbo by first, several whole inches of snow
and now an actual coating of not only quite thick but also horribly slippy ice,
action is called for.
And when people call for action you'd like to think it's you they have in mind...

You've already lugged the deadweight of a kid's beach bucket full of grit for miles across this frozen corner of West Yorkshire.
Your back, damp with manly sweat, is already hurty.
Now, you stand in what is either a power pose or your audition for Drag Race, shovel in hand even though the snow has made it's metal handle really cold and you've forgotten your gloves.
The only bloke in the street brave enough to tackle the ice. Behind their curtains they watch you, rapt, you think.
Frankly, if you're forced to say so yourself, you're a hero.  
They will call you Icebreaker. Maybe.

Seizing your tool and raising it high, 
you plunge it at the ice.
It rebounds with force but your teeth remain intact.
Oh, for an axe.
Not to be deterred, you plunge once more and a whole whisp of snow
leaps into the air...then lands back on the very ground you were working on.
Nevertheless, your momentarily spirits soar. 
You thrust once more, again, again and again, ignoring the cold and mindful, ever mindful of the imaginary fact that the whole street are watching and probably, later on, will take to their doorsteps to clap their appreciation of their hero key worker, only stopping when the last of the snow is gone.

Ten minutes later, wheezing and clutching your back,
you limp back to the house, muttering and licking the bleeding knuckle
that you nicked on your own spade,
having cleared an entire two square feet of treacherous snow and ice.
In your mind you are a gladiator who fears no foe.
In the hallway mirror you look like Albert Steptoe.

So, there you go. Luckily, I’m well practiced at laughing at myself, what with being a bit of a kn**head and all. In my defence it was very cold and the ice was very thick. I went out later and did more as well. And before anyone questions my logic, there’s a bit of a grit shortage so I was keen to use a little bit and then dig the rest of the ice out, saving some grit for later.

I have to say, it was a poem that I really enjoyed writing. I haven’t written or finished one in ages, but this one is more or less a first draft. I wrote it down in my note back with a few arrows pointing to late additions when I changed my mind about its seriousness.

I hope you enjoyed it. Maybe it’ll raise a smile the next time your clearing some ice and snow. If you’re as heroic as me, that is!

Poetry Blog: Pier

This is a poem that, as we near the end of another British summer, just seems appropriate. It’s hopefully one that lots of people can relate to, especially us Brits.

I wrote this after we had headed to Llandudno for a short break in summer last year. We spent time walking along the promenade as well as up into the hills that can be found just a short distance from the sea. We’d spent time relaxing, eating cake and drinking coffee in lovely cafes and of course, we’d spent time in the amusements! This is where the poem came from because the amusements in Llandudno can be found on the pier.

Pier

Your eyes dart everywhere,
as you walk, you're bombarded from above 
by a terror that could leave a lasting scar
or worse still, a stain, a smell, 
a memory that could ruin coastal towns forevermore
and yet still, you can't quite concentrate on the airborne menace.

Rough boards trodden on for hundreds of years
promise pleasure while hinting at danger
with every glimpse of the waves far beneath.
Children wander aimlessly, 
all grabbing hands and voices that match the decibels of those gulls.  

Groups of adults attempt to keep them in check,
while flocks of teens loiter with barely disguised intent.
Ice creams and candy floss are wolfed down
for fear of attack from above and the hordes
of ever more bold screeching thieves.

Duck inside an arcade and the senses
are overwhelmed by the kaleidoscope colour
of copycat prizes combined with the sounds of machines
competing busily for attention,
while people push past, eager for a moment of mindless fun.

Copper coins, salvaged from a long cherished jar,
are thrust with military precision into a slot
in the hope of the displacement 
that will win tokens to be exchanged for tat,
yet still, it is an Olympic podium style thrill 
that's felt as those coins finally crash.

Hours later, as you blink again into the sun  
and set foot on more solid ground,
pockets are lighter, nerves shredded,
arms ache and knees creak as you trudge, 
wearily away, excitement over, another seaside day almost at an end.

On a previous trip to the one described above I’d actually been divebombed and flown into by a seagull. It sort of clonked me on the head! They’re a menace at most seaside towns these days. However, I’ve never had my food stolen by one or indeed suffered the indignity of being hit by their flying poo!

I’m not really a fan of the amusement arcades, despite being so when I was younger. However, my family love them and so every trip to a coastal town means spending hours in multiple arcades, never really feeling the tension and excitement that they do at the jeopardy of the machines.

Regardless, I was struck by just how much was actually going on when we made this trip and found myself making notes in some downtime, which later would become this poem. I hope you enjoyed it!

Poetry Blog: ‘A Day at the Lake’

This is a poem about one of our first family holidays, when there was just the three of us. It’s one of those memories that I think will always stick with me and one that I can summon really easily.

The poem is about a tiny bit of a break we had in the Lake District when my daughter was just a toddler. It covers those protective feelings that you have as a parent. A swan nipped my daughter’s finger when she was giving bread to the ducks and it threatened to spoil the day. Later, when she’d calmed down, we moved round the lake a bit, took our shoes and socks off and had a bit of a paddle, or a plodge as we call it where I’m from.

Anyway, have a read.

A Day at the Lake

Earlier that day a rogue swan had nipped at your finger
after you'd steeled yourself and trusted mum enough
to offer it some bread.
You sobbed into her warm, protective arms,
soothed just a little by her calming words,
while nearby I seethed with rage,
fists clenched, tensed, 
until common sense reminded me that
you can't punch swans.
They belong to the queen, you know.

Later, plodging in the lake on a different shore
and at a suitable distance from your attacker and his cronies,
your little hands gripped mine and told me
that you didn't much like the numbing cold of the water
on your legs and didn't want to feel the spite of pebbles
digging into your bare feet.
But you clung on, held your own, as you always would.

Later still, as we made our way back,
you ran off across a thigh high meadow
that laughed along with you,
your awkward limbs flailing for speed and distance,
enjoying this rare but heady mix of freedom and terror
and a loosening of the reigns for once,
because, swan now a distant memory, surely lightning could not strike twice
in such a beautiful spot as this.

With the determination that you've clung to for life,
you ran and ran, giggling loudly at your sudden independence,
ignoring the cries of 'not too far'
until it was decided that there was too much rope
and I caught you, scooped you up,
pretending to drop you for another thrill,
then hauled you up, onto my shoulders
as some kind of halfway house between wrapping you in cotton wool
and letting you know that sometimes, it's good to test the limits.

I joke about it in the poem, but I was beyond angry at that swan! And I really had to stop myself from behaving terribly. I guess it was another one of those days when you discover the lengths that you’re prepared to go to as a protective father!

Whenever I think about that day, I can clearly picture my daughter running away from us across the meadow as we headed back to the car. White shorts dungarees, a pink t-shirt and a rainbow belt around her dungarees with her hair in pigtails. She’s always been a little headstrong and I think we saw early signs of it that day, although it remains a really happy memory and it was particularly funny at the time. Like any newish parents though, we were over-protective and so, while we laughed we probably both wanted to just take off across the field and catch her, just to make sure that no more harm came to her! And eventually, we did!

I hope you enjoyed the poem.

Poetry Blog: Blackbirds

This is a poem I wrote about a scene I watched from my kitchen window while doing the dishes. It was on a recent Spring evening, just as the sun was beginning to dip behind the trees. It had been a sunny day and crucially, I’d just cut the grass earlier that day.

I looked up to see a couple of blackbirds, which on closer inspection I could see were a male and a female. So, channeling my inner Cilla Black (one for older readers there and an old TV matchmaker if you don’t know) I immediately placed them together. Man and wife, if you like. A mam and dad, probably, foraging for food for their newborn Spring chicks. The birds love it when the grass has been cut; I’m not entirely sure why.

The fact that they were at opposite ends of the garden and that their movements were both graceful and jerky, yet obviously on the same wavelength reminded me of dancers in a ballroom. It was something I remembered days later when I had the time to start drafting the poem. Here it is.

Blackbirds

The lights dim and a sultry dance begins
in the garden ballroom,
tentative at first, but gaining pace and rhythm as the minutes pass.
Trees sway and rustle in the evening breeze,
an audience inspired to move,
adding occasional ripples of polite applause
as our pairing settle to a tantalising flirtation, 
at first far apart, yet soon together tripping the light fantastic,
their dark figures striking a pose,
drawing ever closer with each beat of the dying sun
and as the light sighs its last
this dance will reach collapse
and these two distant partners,
now nestled close, will return to the humdrum beat
of their something else, their everyday
a life away from this brief, glamorous scene
until time and hunger dictates they should do it all again.

The idea with the poem was to use an extended metaphor of a ballroom and a pair of dancers to describe what was essentially two blackbirds out getting food. It was the way they moved, almost in tandem, that inspired the idea of the ‘sultry dance’ in the ‘garden ballroom’ and then it became a challenge to add as many dance references as I could so that a poem was formed.

It’s the second time I’ve written about blackbirds as I like to watch them in the garden. They can be quite territorial and there have been several occasions when one has flown way too close, squawking at me as if to warn me off. I don’t think they understand the idea of home ownership! Anyway, maybe somehow they’ll sense that I’m writing about them and make me the honorary president of their fanclub!

I quite like this poem. I’d have liked to spend more time drafting, but given time constraints – I’m a busy boy at the minute – I’m quite pleased with how it turned out. Maybe it’s one I’ll return to in time. I hope you like it too though!

Poetry Blog: ‘Willow’

It’s the Easter holidays and as I’ve got some time on my hands I decided to sit down and try and write something for the blog. Other commitments have been getting in the way of late and so my blog has been very much neglected.

So, with not a lot in mind to write about, I thought I’d trawl through some notebooks and accompanying scraps of paper in order to see what poetry I have knocking about. It turns out that there are quite a few that have either been started or simply finished and then just left and so, after quite a bit of reading I decided to add this one to the blog. It brings back a lot of memories and I really like it.

Willow

As the spots of rain get heavier 
and begin to change the colour of the roads
and pavements around,
you scramble for the familiar shelter
of the giant old weeping willow.

Everyone is out, the house locked up,
but you chose friends, football and 
the top of the hill Wembley of a pub car park
over the visit to family,
and now that team mates have chosen bricks and mortar for cover,
solitude in nature is forced upon you.

A mass of leaves and sagging branches provide ample sanctuary,
so you position yourself so not to be seen
from either road or the neighbour's house,
shift your knees up to your chest and enjoy this place
where there is no shouting, no conflict and
no storm of any kind.

The willow tree in question here is the one that we had in the garden of my childhood home. Everyone else regarded it as a nuisance because of its sheer size and mass of leaves that would be shed in autumn and litter the surrounding area, but I loved it.

I’d play in it as a small child, inventing games and characters and swinging on those branches. As I got older it became somewhere to hide and just be on my own, away from what I remember now, rightly or wrongly, as a lot of shouting and anger in our house. Sometimes, as in the poem, it was just a convenient shelter of a different kind as the rain just didn’t seem to get through it. As I got older, I’d often stay at home when my parents went across to see family, but would rarely remember to take a key. These things got forgotten when there was a game of football about to start! And so, I’d end up just sitting under the tree to escape the elements.

In later years, after we had moved out, the tree was cut down. I still kind of miss it to this day.

Poetry Blog: World Sleep Day

It was World Sleep Day last week and when I realised this I had a couple of thoughts. Firstly, I wondered how I’d never heard of this before. I mean, I’m a big fan of sleep and so having missed out on a formal day dedicated to it, I was kind of surprised.

My second thought was that I could write about it. Maybe an article about tips for getting to sleep – something that I’ve suffered with in the past – or even something scientific, like maybe 10 fascinating facts about sleep.

However, I ran out of time – too busy sleeping…just kidding – and therefore decided that I’d try and write a poem about sleep instead. There wouldn’t be much time to work on it or draft and re-draft, but I’d give it a go. As it turns out, this was a tricky one to write from the moment I introduced some rhyme and thus, I missed my deadline. Regardless, here you are; my poem about sleep and it just so happens that it’s a few days after World Sleep Day!

Sleep

Some nights like the proverbial baby,
I close my eyes & slip away into that friendly coma
to help me have a better tomorrow, maybe,
but other times, sleep is broken, cruelly unstable
and I'm isolated and counting lonely hours 
at the kitchen table
reading while willing submission to come to the fore,
but feeling just like the tyrant
that I'll surely sleep no more.
The nights where sleep is deep and fuller
exhaustion carries me into a world of dreams,
set sail on an ocean of movement and colour,
making life seem different from the moment I wake
while on other nights I drift off as I plot my route
on an imagined or remembered walk or run,
knowing this distraction will soon bear fruit
as I drift away, out for the count, to sample life's chief nourisher once more.

As I mentioned previously, getting rhyme involved slowed the whole writing process down here. That said, without it I think I’d have had a poem that was plodding, at best. As it is, I think the rhyme helps. I usually see it as a hindrance as it narrows down the words that I could include and often spoils lines and although there are a couple of rhymes that might be just a tiny bit forced, I think in all, it works.

When I was thinking about sleep one of the first ideas that came to me was the theme of sleep being so prevalent in Macbeth. Books and plays are often my first port of call as an English teacher. So I made sure that there were a couple of Shakespearean references in there and combined them with my own experiences of sleep, which is something that I’ve struggled with a lot in the past. Hopefully, it works and you enjoy the poem.

Poetry Blog – ‘The old tyrant’

This is a relatively new poem, written about one of my grandfathers. I barely knew him, but a while ago I got one of those DNA kits as a Christmas present and as a result started to research my family tree. At the end of it all, not only was I disappointed to have no sign of any Viking ancestry, but I felt I knew my grandfather even less.

It’s always been something that held an interest to me. Both my mam and dad come from big families and so, growing up, we were surrounded by aunties, uncles and cousins whenever there was some kind of ‘family’ occasion. However, for any number of reasons I never felt that I really knew them that well. Being quite a shy kid probably didn’t help.

We lived in a different part of Newcastle to the rest of the family and so didn’t see them on a day to day basis and then as I got older I was busy with friends and different interests. Going away to university didn’t help my cause either; if anything, it made me stick out like a sore thumb! When I finally moved away from the North East entirely, I pretty much drifted away from all but immediate family.

The relationship with my grandparents on both sides was difficult, to say the least. With this grandad, he died when I was very young and there always seemed to be a reluctance on my parents part for them to take us to see our grandparents. If I’m honest, it doesn’t look like they were at all interested in us and I literally can’t remember ever meeting my grandma. However, I do have one extremely vague recollection of my grandad which is where the poem comes from.

'The old tyrant'

If I close my eyes, I still see him
from exactly the same vantage point, every time.
A dot of a man, his appearance betraying every terrifying snippet 
I'd ever heard.
Brown shoes, dark trousers, midnight blue raincoat
and a black trilby hat, shadowing his features,
making those eyes even darker, so that it felt like he looked straight through me
as he crept closer, a shining silver coin grasped in bony fingers.
The childcatcher had come, bearing gifts.
Then, with a pat on the head, he was gone.

Everything else is mystery, legend,
even your name uncertain.
"The old tyrant", my mam would say with just a hint of a smile,
"a villain", but maybe an entertainer, singing and dancing
on the West End stage, if that was to be believed,
the cold, hard presence passing your distance
through the generations,
many leads to your life, but never a final destination,
many strings to your bow,
but barely a finger print of recognition left behind,
the untraceable ghost, continuing to haunt
despite the fact that none ever really knew you at all.

When I was very young my parents ran a business. As part of the business we had a shop and a market stall, I think. My dad would be away buying crockery – plates, cups, bowls etc – in Stoke-on-Trent for the business (that’s what we sold…everyone needs stuff to eat off, right?) and my mam would be running the shops. As I was a poorly child (yes, heart nonsense even at that age!) I’d often find myself in the shop.

One day, when both parents were there, my grandad paid us a visit. I was perched on a stool in a corner of the shop, like some gaunt, pale kind of mascot and he came in, spoke to my parents a little bit as far as I can remember, and then made his way across to me.

As the poem says, he just came over, pressed a coin into my little hand and then left. That was the only interaction that I recall. No talking, no affection. He might have smiled, but I can’t remember.

Growing up, I picked up nothing but negativity around him, which comes out in the poem. Apparently, he wasn’t the greatest dad – although times were very different back then – and was very tough on his children, one of them my dad. When it came to seeing his grandchildren, he just didn’t seem to be interested. Well, not in this one anyway! So, I’d hear the types of descriptions that come up in the poem, labelled at him time and again.

When I came to research my family tree, he was just as big a mystery as ever. I’d been told that he was ‘a dancer and singer’ on stage in London by my dad when I was a kid, but there wasn’t much evidence of that. In fact, what he actually did remained a mystery and I uncovered bits of evidence that he had possibly led a bit of a double life a times. I won’t go into it because it’s obviously quite personal, but also because it left me no closer to knowing a great deal about the man!

So there we go; my grandad, man of mystery and little affection or it might seem, any kind of feeling whatsoever!

I hope you enjoyed the poem.

Poetry Blog: Leaves on the grass

A poem about Autumn, this one. It’s the kind of thing I’d usually write and then forget about, only to discover it sometime later and add it on here…in Spring. Not this time though! This time, I’m unusually on the ball!

‘Leaves on the grass’ was written after a particularly strenuous weekend of clearing leaves from our back garden. I felt rather pleased with myself for doing it, if I’m honest, as it’s the kind of job that is usually left to wait by me. Then, I end up having to do it in the freezing cold of late November or early December when the ground is wet and I end up filthy and soaked. This year though, it was a spur of the moment decision on a particularly sunny weekend when I felt a bit more energetic than usual. And so, old clothes on and gardening gloves firmly in place, I dragged our brown bin onto the lawn and got cracking.

The resultant poem came after when I felt thoroughly work out by my exertions. Here you go.

Leaves on the grass.

First, it's leaves on the grass,
suddenly noticeable,
a dozen at most
but added to daily
and then, months after shedding blossom,
small brown, red, green eye shapes
decorate the edges of the tarmac on the driveway,
escaping in the coming days onto the car, the road 
and when you look again
the falling Autumn rain
seems to gradually erase all colour,
like a life slowly sliding away,
too weak to fight, too old to care anymore,
too afraid of losing all dignity 
to heave on anything too bright,
visible again by scrolling through images on a phone,
a reminder of a distant rousing prime,
gone, but not quite forgotten,
stirred occasionally by the thrilling glee
of a fresh bright morning
when the fountain of youth seems to flow
without fear and we stride out 
and marvel at the amber and gold
before it leaves us again
and we brace ourselves, steeled
for the cold and the dark of what comes next.

There is a more thoughtful side to the poem. It’s not just about Autumn in that I’ve tried to add something about ageing and life in there too. I think a nod to Gillian Clarke’s poem ‘October’ must be given here as I’ve tried to look at similar themes, if only briefly.

I tried to capture the sense of getting older here – perhaps after feeling so bloody tired once I’d finished doing the leaves – as well as the feelings I regularly have about being so tired out by things that wouldn’t have normally had such a great effect on me. So, there’s a brief few lines about getting older (Autumn being late in the year) and catching sight of your younger self in photographs. This was after my wife sent me a photo of me at my son’s nursery sports day, some time ago. It shocked me to see just how young I looked and made me think about maybe feeling slightly self conscious (or just even more self conscious) I’ve become after a health scare.

Hopefully, the poem ends on a cheerful, hopeful note. There are lines about going out for a walk in the bright, bracing cold of an Autumn day and enjoying the vivid colours of the season and I think that’s me being about as optimistic as I ever get.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the poem. Feel free to leave some feedback as I always enjoy reading people’s comments.

Poetry Blog: Halloween

So, I’ve given myself a simple brief for this one. I’d wanted to sit down and give this poem some thought, but for a number of reasons I’ve found myself more than a bit pushed for time. Thus, I decided to write a Halloween poem within a time limit. So, I gave myself an hour to have it written.

I cheated a little bit because I’d started thinking about it a couple of days ago and this morning I wrote a few things down; just ideas, rather than fully formed lines.

Anyway, below is the finished and imaginatively titled poem.

Halloween

The smell of premature bonfires and fireworks drifts across town,
but nothing can distract you from the sounds,
those early shrieks and delighted screams
that despite daylight, still cling on stubbornly to 
sound the alarm of this special night.

You hear them before you see them,
their delight announcing their arrival,
those miniature ghosts, zombies and monsters,
with every so often a rogue Disney Princess,
knocking at a door to tempt someone to part with treats
based upon their cuteness alone.

As night falls, more sinister sights and sounds sidle along,
changing the atmosphere and making even the most cynical eye
dart everywhere...just in case.
The ghosts, monsters and zombies more convincing now,
casting doubt in the minds of anyone approaching from a distance.

Houses, now haunted, promise a bounty of sugar
for those who are brave enough to venture up the path,
creeping past the plastic graves, skeletons and cackling witches,
but the rewards are plenty when you reach the pumpkins
and before too long pockets and bags are under strain
as greedy teens take on just one last door.

Later, as quickly as they filled up,
the streets are deserted and the dead of night swallows up
that short lived sense of fun and adventure.
Tucked away indoors, stomachs are full and parents cling to the hope
that weary legs will soon win out over the sugar rush.

I hope this one captures that sense of Halloween, especially given the time limits! I tried to add as many things as I could remember from trick or treating now that my children are too hold to bother with it anymore. I’m a bit out of practice though!

As ever, feel free to leave a comment! Happy Halloween!