Sunday, 19 November 2017

Brexit Sestina

Brexit Sestina

The year of twenty-sixteen was the year we chose to leave,
the year the Referendum posed the question should we go.
To hell with Brussels and the rest or just decide to stay,
or count the blessings we were told we'd get when we were free.
The cash we'd keep was on the bus; it seemed to make some sense
to spend it on the NHS, but Boris couldn't count.

The benefits of membership, they said they didn't count,
because we fought for freedom and we had the right to leave.
But as we know, their facts were lies, we knew they made no sense.
To pull us out of Europe and to force us all to go
and leave the common market and stop trading tariff-free
meant nothing good would come of it if voting not to stay.

Despite the Tories thinking that we'd all just vote to stay,
the voters paid attention to deceivers and the count
then went against the polls, because the reins were given free
to teamsters on the wagons driving all of us to leave.
Despite the ballot's status and the lack of need to go,
the tight result was soon avowed a triumph in a sense.   

The country was quite clearly split and leaving made no sense,
because the Referendum rules meant that we could all stay,
but no the leavers threw a fit and we were forced to go;
to go against the interests of the people who don't count;
to go along with Grassroots Out and champions of Vote Leave;
to follow blindly Nige Mirage and be migration free.

The fascist doctrine of the right said Britain must be free,
so Greater Brexitania could be in one real sense
an island full of xenophobes and haters who would leave,
their jingoistic bigotry on show to those who'd stay;
to those remoaners as they called them, those who didn't count,
whose will was not for leaving like the ones who voted go.

And when she penned the letter that announced that we would go,
she lost control and panic struck, May thought that she'd be free,
if only folks would vote for her, but when the ballot count
was made, Theresa's Tories lost. Her gamble made no sense
and she was left to count the cost of paying up to stay:
a billion to the DUP to feed the will to leave.

So now what counts for talks take place as Britain plans to go
and jump the cliff and leave except, we're going not for free,
but for a fee that makes no sense. Far better off to stay.

Sunday, 12 November 2017

Lead poisoning

Lead poisoning

C'est la via, c'est la mort,
c'est la fin de la guerre, 
c'est le poème du sacre mercenaire.

I was to compose a 'death or glory' poem,
after Tennyson, when the first few lines
were shot clean through with leaden slugs.

Slingshot, engraved with wingéd bolts,
Take that! (in Greek) inscribed on obverse,
peppered the raw first draft on the page.

I'd written of 'Harry' and 'unleashed dogs',
tried Havoc! but clichés clashed and those,
a writer's volleyed words, fell short once more.

Spherical lead in cold-swagered rounds,
which the French, in their way, call boulettes,
tore a bloody great hole in the verse,

and Minié balls, a gift of France,
were fired in discharged fusillades,
in salvoes to the stanzas' flanks.

Rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat, chanted guns
as columns were strafed while standing fast
and rank upon rank, the syllables fell.

Outflanked at the last, I attempted retreat,
but enfilades of covering fire
failed to prevent ignominious defeat

and an orchestrated din of lethality,
made wretched by countless fatalities,
brought surrender-- the last vulgarity.

Sunday, 24 September 2017


Here's one for you...


“That was old O'Nelly's seat. He sat
there every week there was a home game on.”
Moulded red and numbered like it was his
coat hook, supporter's pew, he'd park his arse
two rows down and somewhat left, behind
the Clock-end goal. He had a member's card
for the Arsenal;
a man amid a thousand other fans.

He'd bob erect and mouth along, Stand up...
eschew the tribal chanting, Ooh to be...
Detached, but still a part, manoeuvred by
the Army of the clad-in-red-and-white,
it seemed that he belonged unless you saw.
I wondered what it felt like to be there,
like an Ishmael,
outcast between a myriad Gooners' howls?

Nondescript, anonymous O'Nelly
felt all their eyes pin-prick his every move,
his selfish consciousness a faulty seam
hand stitched from shy-cloth. No-one noticed that
old jacket, worn a little more each day,
gone very comfy, snug, with patched up sleeves,
hands in pockets,
routinely wearing out towards its end.

He cheered his level best when goals were scored,
in skywards-surging exclamation points,
but instinct driven leaps of faithful joy
were never shared with mates who'd thump and hug.
That turned up collar, buttoned cuff, was lined
and seamed, kept inside pockets to itself.
Seeming threadbare,
that garment past its best was out-of-date.

I stitched together thoughts on what he sought
when drinking down the Tollington at nights,
seen fractured through an amber ale, his pinned
lapels a buttonhole array. I swear,
out on the far off side of the touch line,
you're never on your own in crowds. And me?
I'm but Anon...

Friday, 21 July 2017


Not another Sonnet!

OK, so maybe this should've been one of my entries for last year's Paragram Prize - on the theme of Paradox - but as I'd already submitted it elsewhere, prior to the competition announcement, I didn't offer it up to Paragram.

As it happened, it didn't get accepted for publication, so now it's here for your delectation, in all it's paradoxical glory. And there's an epigram to go with it. I'm sure you'll appreciate the connection.


"You have to be crazy to be in love, but if you're crazy, you can't know love, and if you confess to knowing you're crazily in love, you must be too sane to really be in love.” Y'sarian, the Elder. 

O shall I say it was love at first sight;
how could such madness strike us both? O Bette!
My eyes beheld your face aglow with light.
I saw how you saw me when first we met.

Then in your eyes I was refracted tall
and you for whom I felt I took each breath
said without me, you could not live at all.
O could there be such heaven short of death!

I felt that archer's tug below my heart.
You said you felt it too. A perfect match
it's true. We both fell crazy from the start,
but there in madness lies the double catch:

when once confessed to love, you're of sound mind,
which state precludes true love, I think you'll find.

Friday, 14 July 2017

Sonnet 1dot8

Here's one you may have read  before...

It's a sonnet? Crivvens!

Ok, so Wullie Shakes wrote 154 of these 14-line epics and I've hardly penned a dozen, but time is on my side - and yon bard is deid lang syne.

Sonnet 1dot8

Shall I compare her to a summer's day;
how would such measure fare? I remonstrate:
all prose conveys its meaning come what may,
whilst poems, let's say, are fine attempts to state,

sometimes relate, with metaphor and themes,
our higher selves, we human beings' grace,
yet every foot that taps this rhythm seems
to question why we'd limit half the race

to gloried days, give mummer's praise, assign
by that a trope that's toiled – I fear that's lame.
Unfailing fair and full of life she rhymes,
outshines all suns that set in blushing shame.

As long as she adorns this world you'll see,
far more than summers' days is she to me.

Friday, 7 July 2017

The vertigo of a kiss

The vertigo of a kiss

...and then we would embrace
on sidewalks – borne on air –
and osculate, a bonding,
self-adhesive Pair,

unmindful of the lookers
on – who maybe sit –
jealous of our clinching,
countersinking Fit.

Neither can resist the Want.
It is the Pull – expressed –
by primordial magnetics,
gifted to the Blessed.

When she ebbs, the Maelstrom quickens,
racing up – to This –
When she flows, it's like the current
in the Vertigo of a Kiss.

Friday, 30 June 2017

At break of day

At break of day

It breaks through morning windows, light
which cannot fail to end the night,
illuminate the unmade bed,
bring gleams to life on pillowed head,
outline the form that breathing lies
quite still, devoured by lover's eyes
whose tender gaze at break of day
alights where jealous sunbeams play.