NOW THE PARTY IS OVER

Now the party is over
Life goes on,
Winding down
The rioting crowd
Disengage and drift along
To an early hours
Break of fast
In nearby restaurants,
And though some of them
are bleeding,
Their deeds tonight
Will form the words of song:
Whispered hoarsely,
Sometimes coarsely,
From the Irish Waves
To North Sea,
Now the party is over
Life goes on.

Now the party is over
Life Goes on,
In the face of
Public protest
Eco-Warriors go too far,
And gather round in
Leaving town
To load their bikes
On top of cars,
Unwashed and bright,
A breed of fighter
White and Middle Class,
Their anarchic stand
Well mapped and planned
A brand of protest song,
But,
Now the party is over
Life goes on,


Another old poem from the decade long poetry drought. Roughly assembled from scribbled notes in the pages of old notebooks.

SNOWING AT THE BUS STOP

It's snowing at the bus stop,
The street lights have sputtered out,
The bus was late two hours ago,
But now its out of bounds,
Tumbling down to shroud the town,
The snow has smothered every sound.

It's snowing at the bus stop,
I'm cold and all alone,
No car, no bus, taxi or train,
Looks like I am walking home again,
Over field and through the lane,
Past farmyard gate and frozen lake.

It's snowing at the bus stop,
I wish I'd worn a thicker coat,
Or had six or seven layers on board,
And a scarf about my throat,
My blocks of feet clad white like stone,
Heavy and numb but they'll get me home.

It's snowing at the bus stop,
The stars are shuttered out,
I stamp my feet to shed the snow,
Sing out loud and shout,
Curse the sky and curse the snow,
That's made a Moscow march of my route home.

It's snowing at the bus stop,
This white out night is a pain,
The bus was late...
Three hours ago,
And I'm walking home,
I'm walking home,
I'm walking home again.

THE BEARDED LADY

With steel in her lips,
a coke fire in her eyes,
she negotiates a pay rise,
with her cunning disguise.

Twelve Poems Of Christmas

Over the past two weeks I set out to post a poem to Twitter every day... and failed! I did however manage twelve so although not necessarily festive in theme here they are, my twelve poems of Christmas 2009:

1. Song For A World Departed
2. Five Uncles
3. The Union Flag
4. Tsunami Dreams
5. Bone Dance
6. Dislocation Song
7. The Trip
8. Incantation
9. The Ex Wife
10. Your Generation
11. Confusion
12. The Land Where I Grew Up

Some oldies mixed in with some recent poems and three written in the course of the two week duration of the project (nos. 2,3 &12 in case you wondered!).

CONFUSION

A recollection of an incident playing with my toddler daughter seven or eight years back. She became astonishingly dizzy extremely quickly. It took so long for her eyes to stop moving. She was terrified and so was I. We now understand that this was an early indication that she is dyspraxic.


CONFUSION

One playful day, a spinning game.
Singing loud I spin you round.
I stop the song but take too long
to realise: something is wrong.
I hold your fright in terror's arms. Tight.
This was not the plan. Bewildered.
I meant a game not harm.
Fun undone. Your pupils ricochet.
Flicker quicker than instinct.
Quicker than conscious control.
Confused and crying as the world takes
too long to stop. Too long to right.
Too long to stand. To still. To be
where it belongs.Too long. Too long.
But long enough for parental surety
to founder. To crumble. As I fumble
to understand how a simple game,
not excessively spun, could have left
you so easily, so utterly undone.

INCANTATION

Scale skin feel
glisten in slime
with a yellow slit eye
a slobber drip tongue
he scrapes down the alley
on stubble and bone

Stomach scratch fervour
blood stench sublime
with a garish lime squeal
a cry gibbered lie
he crawls through the streets
on crushed paper sinners

Claw hairless angel
stain sordid eye
with a snarl bitten pupil
a rank spittle dye
he sucks on the city's
dead wire brain

The oldest poem that has survived my propensity to feed things to the fire. Dates from (I am guessing) sometime in 1986! Twenty three years on it still feels unfinished...

THE TRIP

From today, to life,
I will add a new taste
and from this day on
I will no longer waste,
our time on the tying
of a single shoe lace.
A project. A plan.
A ruse for the street,
as I continually
trip
and fall
at your feet.