Poems and songs

THE POET AND THE PRISON OF WORDS

I've imprisoned my words

between two covers.

They lie subdued, drugged,

unable to escape.

They scream for the wild country

where cages are opened

and animals toss their fetlock

at the trampled grass.

I've imprisoned my words.

Just a few have escaped

to lie in random heaps

on the cutting-room floor.

A snatch of song, a metaphor

or two, a half-remembered phrase

and a huge carton of deletions.

I've imprisoned my words.

When I open the covers

the letters are skeletons,

white and sere, without sound

or sentence, without breath,

without the scratchings

on tombs. We've visited it all before.

I've imprisoned my life

between two yearnings.

Turning, twirling, free as a bird

to joust and spin and from that spinning

weave a rainbow web of seeding and dying.

Or, with conscious thought,

to trap my wayward words

into lifelong sentences.

THE WAR FROM OUR LIVING ROOM

(The documentary 'Dirty Wars' shows people guiding military drones from their living rooms)

Daphne and I were made for each other.

She had to live with her drunken mother.

I chucked out her boyfriend and became her lover

And we made love all night in the living room.

Daphne thought that my father was cool.

He never acted according to rule.

He'd let me play war games after school

And we'd play them all night in the living room.

Daphne stormed out on her drunken mother.

She vowed that we were made for each other,

So she joined in the games, and we beat one another

As we battled all night in the living room.

When Daphne got pregnant we had to be wed

Or her mother would kill me – that's what she said

(Though my father remarked I'd be better off dead)

As we argued all night in the living room.

Daphne and I never got on well.

Living with her was like going through hell.

Each caress was a blow, each endearment a yell

As we fought all night in the living room.

Daphne had children – said they were mine.

I couldn't stand them much of the time

But I gave them a hiding when they got out of line

As we laid down the law in the living room.

Daphne was desperate when she was caught

For not giving children the means of support.

She was taken to task and taken to court

And I packed up her bags in the living room.

But welfare told Daphne over the phone

If she wanted her children she must stay at home

And they found us a job – to look after a drone

And fight for the free from our living room.

Now Daphne and I play at war day and night.

We send out our drones to fight the good fight

And keep the world free for justice and right

And we do it all from our living room.

When the Earth Moves

When the earth moves
here in my little house
each book, each table, each picture
nods and bows.
LISTEN
There is murmuring among
hedges and along highways.
Even the stones clatter.
WAIT
Every animal stops for an instant,
alert,ears pricked, eyes darting.
Rabbits leave their burrows.
The tui are for that moment silent.
Hedgehogs shiver and tuck in their heads.
LISTEN
My heart is beating like a drum
out of time, out of step,
veins ready to burst like lava
effervescing in the eerie
stillness.

(Note: Find the pattern in this poem.)

N

Hiding the Elephant

The tusks will be sent to Dar-es-Salaam

disguised in cases of armaments.

The ivory will be sent to China

disguised as antique snuff-boxes.

The trunk will be cocooned in bubble-wrap

and sold as an escoriated oil pipe.

The ears will be cased in brass

and beaten as echoing cymbals.

The feet will be sold in England

disguised as umbrella stands.

The ribs will become tiger cages

disguised as a safari park.

The flayed skin will be trucked to Egypt

disguised as a pharoah's mummy.

The flesh will be eaten by scavengers

disguised as pilgrims.

The tongue will become refugee scraps

disguised as rich rump steak.

The liver will be ground to a powder

disguised as an aphrodisiac.

The boxed heart will be displayed by brigands

disguised as tourist guides.

The brain will be turned into rich loam

to fertilise the dry savannah.

The bones will be discovered by prehistoric scientists

in the new age of reason.

Saucy Greens

(This poem was written in response to the book 'Nothing Rhymes with Asparagus' 

by my dear friend Margaret Austin)

When you're invited to dine

at a banquet at nine

make sure you're suitably dressed

Be sure that the wine

has a bouquet divine

and your underwear has been pressed

It's very ungracious

to eat things farinaceous

when smiling as though you're impressing

while the lady beside you

affords you a side view

of the zips and the slips she's undressing.

You could eat a horse

but the vegetable course

is making the diners quite randy.

Some are trying to dance

with a leek up their pants

while others lick carrots like candy.

There's something flirtatious

about new potatoes

and every green bean

is a little obscene.

You could have a shower

with a crisp cauliflower.

You can go in and out

with a firm brussel sprout,

beat off on a beet,

you can tease with peas,

just have fun on an onion,

put a lettuce in fetters,

outsmart a tomato,

You can have a prick

from a celery stick

put sage in a cage,

make a mess in a dress with watercress.

It's well-known among all the parishes

that a good wedding feast

or an orgy at least

is the beginning of births, deaths and marriages

So our last pirouette

on your shrunken courgette

shouldn't ever despise or disparage us.

I know it's absurd

but we can't find a word

that makes a good rhyme

with asparagus.