poetry’s new year
poetry in 2023
get to the bloody point ~ will you
poetry in 2024
there’s no point anymore ~ is anyone
questioning the
recycling of the fin de siècle
for this year may be our last
write quick in the time left
read the beads the bloody runes
the season’s guts are spilled
Jennifer Diamond
i had her scooter
she had my bike
down station road we rode
the mischief of not telling
her mother that we were
well what were we too small to know
she’s dead now
some plumbing problem
water under the bridge
i wonder where her scooter is now
her mother had a terrible cough
on reading an obituary
so many go
went before i knew them
characters shadowed by their words
lit by a dying candle
glowing in their obituaries
but knowing them would have been something
else why would they say these things
how can i know now
what they knew then
i ask them to tell me
again says
please
dylan’s writing desk
and we sneak a look at his desk
the crumpled papers full of discarded words
and we see ours
thrown away
woodbines half drawn
ours the ash dropped
his train of thought of words linked
between the shining buffers
ours blown away
across the estuary we wonder
why not
of course not
sunlight upon a distant field
foot after foot fell on the wet side of a hill
where disappointment heavy as a cloud lifted
and over the greenest fields a rainbow held
two hills together as two thoughts either side
of a doubloon where the treasure chest of gold
was a welshman’s dream not coal
not my king
humpty dumpty
sat on a low wall
… he didn’t fall
all the kings horses
and all the kings men
… abolished him
palimpsests
the walls are papered with palimpsests
words that say/said past on the walls of the underpass
time’s fingers have/are fingered/ing the fingers
that laid the blings of time on blings
for here’s a thing that was a thing a me bob
It’s a job to tell what says the most
the words on a post or the post under the words
so leave your mark a cross X will do
just so we know the past was you
laying a poem
the golden treasury
all those old men and hens sitting
on china eggs to stimulate the broody
into laying their bounty
a straw poll of course
this or that
appeals to her or him
little hands holding them tight
rhythm and rhyme incubating
in their open hearts
mmm gold leaf
wide eyes
don’t ring us
maybe ~ just maybe
a metal detectorist will spit
and rub the genie of time
and my ring will shine and shout found
for the alchemist time has turned my bauble
into a treasure in a treasured chest
for happenstance walks this way but once
a narrow escape this time indeed
the king’s regalia
the proletariat’s new clothes
fill their eyes with gold
until they bow under the weight
let them eat baubles
until they spew anthems
build your fences higher
for they take no offence
and remember to smile
then the knife can slice deeper
for they have no blue blood
or brains
foundlings
how they pull the heart’s arms
to unwrap the rapture of the unwary
eyes that drink
and the ears and noses of the mornings
to find what fits the empty spaces
that lower the red flags of looking
attraction in an insouciance
that opens hearts
that holds cold hands
again
but of course
they have gone now of course
the dreams of a white christmas
now that the graphs have grown off the page
turning upon the gunshots and bombs
peace has gone now of course
for a generation has been cut adrift
the anchors have proven the impermanence
of the foundations of our acceptance
our world is fibrillating again
and the prescribed resuscitation is in conflict
with the perception of truth being a false concept
they have gone now of course
as they always do
they never return
of course
always says of course
of course it would
wouldn’t it
in the shadow of a black thought
the dampness
has never been as damp
as it is this christmas
perhaps tears from the holy land
have replaced the ‘glory that shone about’
grey dust clouds saturated
dripping in a bloody sunset
the nativity scene
for the first time seen
as the beginning of the road to calvary
there are more stigmata today
on the hands in every nation
that the promises of paradise
by the martyrdom for righteous causes
is nothing but an unforgivable spite
never has the silent night
been rended by the howls of the bereaved
of blue children tinselled with the baubles of
the smart bomb’s displaced responsibility
the dove of peace is a wing
above the sea of our transgression
if the world is saved from climate destruction
or a third world war or some pestilence
it will never again resurface above the sea
of our selfish DNA
god i am so angry i could kill these
thoughts about your transgressions
but i am afraid to cast the first stone
but i digress
it is time for warm mince pies and cream
and a nice coffee
looks like the rain has stopped
it is drying up again
for now at least
merry christmas
every body