Wednesday, 26 February 2020

tutt tutt

tutt tutt

the light singing
  in the shed 
    on the mud
of gone tides 
   flowing in words
in deed 
     this 
           is where they were born 
in the heart of night’s loneliness
when the flagons should be abed
and the smoke swirling in dreams
  and not the this endeavour 
Laugharne you have the last laugh
  shed of opinions
    roosting on the hill

Tuesday, 25 February 2020

life’s a pitch

life’s a pitch

he’s the man who draws the white lines
on the pitches every Friday
ready for the games on Saturday
always straight
always the right length
with the leftover lime tipped
and running down the red brick wall
then he goes away
and comes back the next Friday
all through the winter

taxi days

taxi days

days‬
‪and the way days and days‬
‪change our ways‬

‪if i pay my fare in words‬
‪are you for hire‬

‪and will you drop me there‬
‪at life’s desire‬  where

the dark downs like a cat
eye-lidden the fire begs
to be lit
but light can be denied for 
a time   for a short while

there is a music wormhole in the veil
and then we’re through and it closes
why are the tear ducts cemented
the tears build up to a pulp of roses 
at three hundred pounds per square inch 

thoughts unable to whip stop the stallion
galloping away until we are left 
with the flies and empty reigns 
in hands that smack of despair 

the needle has sewn the pastiche quilt
it’s time to sleep

Monday, 24 February 2020

tides

tides

poetry is like the sea
it comes and it goes
it come and it goes
yet we come to see
the giant wave crash
and drain away away 
leaving the sun sparkling 
in a pool 
a fish waiting
caught but still free
free but still caught
the thought that
came that went
went and came back
caught but not caught
free but not free
what words are these 
who made them bite this way 
to lick away sorry sorry
yet bite again and again
until the moon turns red 
the earth turns blue
and tears douse the fire
the fire dries the tears
again and   again 
and again   again

the end of the road

the end of the road

the pub at the end of the road,
the last one before the hill
where the light from the one stride,
between bar and bog, shone over the 
nothing fields of slag and ruin.
                             wintered tight 
the warm hubbub of knocked dominos 
chalked dart scores, both as pained
in battle as any army that lent their names
to the terraces that housed these night men
manacled to their lot, which was not a lot.
when the ice clanged and the snow blew
every one of them home to wife-beds turned 
to a wall of reticence;
beer snored the deep lands of the day
and morning seemed so far away.

The Rising Sun, Pentrechwyth (circa 1966)

Sunday, 23 February 2020

midden earth

midden earth

will we be found in the permafrost
after the melt waters have done their job
will we be a 46,000 year-old preservation
in some distant uplands bog
and will some civilisation say
see how they burnt away the peat
and the oil of their debilitation
down that one way street
so embalm the best bits of our shit
in the poetic medium midden
and take your takeoff seat

My Little Brother

My Little Brother

my first typewriter was called a
‘Little Brother’and I was ten
much better than a pen
I thought 
              that the poems looked real
typecast and not typecast
and putting the words down
clattered as if they mattered
to me they emptied my pockets 
to make room for more of the words
that were simmering on the back burner 
of the rain on the hobs of childhood
wait - stop
don’t smudge the ink with tears you silly old man