I have actually written a poem of a sort, but this internet connection is in a travel agent, and even by the low standards of ambience typical of internet cafes, it’s just not terribly thrilling.
And possibly more to the point, all I’d had to eat all day is a cheese pie. I came in here to fill time before going to get some food, but I might just have to go and eat. So toodles.
Down in the benthic darkness
among the ghosts and mud
hagfish gnaw at the bones of a whale
as death rains from above.
—
I think I’ve recycled not just the first line from yesterday’s poem, but the last line from some previous poem a while ago. But it’ll have to do.
Down in the benthic darkness
where curious creatures dwell
is a species of hermit crab so big
it uses a boat for a shell.
The hatchlings start in a bathtub or fridge
and when that gets too snug,
first they move to a dinghy or sloop
and then to a sampan or tug.
Nobody knows how big they can grow
but don’t be surprised if one day
the wreck of Titanic lifts on its toes
and silently scuttles away.
I know it’s not actually Thursday any more, but this is yesterday’s poem for napowrimo so I guess it can be my poem for Poetry Thursday as well :)
How nice it is
to be in a location
where sunglasses
are not an affectation.
I’m in a Greek bar, watching football;
Giggs, Rooney and Ronaldo on the break
so fast and effortless
it almost seems like cheating.
Then at half time,
among the trailers for upcoming matches
in the Bundesliga and the NBA,
a slow-mo montage of Diego Maradona.
Mainly the fat Maradona;
waving to an screaming crowd,
singing with some chisel-cheekboned pop star,
waddling out onto a football pitch
in a tent-like no. 10 shirt,
his mouth and eyes reduced to creases in his face.
Does this mean he’s dead?
Or dying?
Perhaps they just think that it can’t be long now,
and want to advertise the wallowing
in grief, nostalgia
and self-righteous pity
as an upcoming attraction
for the fans.
Poems for the last two days; I haven’t written today’s yet.
Gatwick, 5am
Were Dante writing the Commedia today
he’d surely model one infernal circle
on 5am at Gatwick airport.
Well, maybe not. Even piped music,
sulry staff, strip lighting
and the vacant stares
of travellers only awake enough
to slowly masticate
a sandwich
are not as bad as being made
to swim in boiling pitch.
In fact, he’d probably admire
the palatial scale of it,
the cleanliness and stretches of sheet glass,
the light, the WH Smith stacked high
with printed books,
the clocks on sale
small enough to wear as jewellery.
To think the inconveniences of modern life-
the pharma-spam, the traffic,
the people using mobiles on the train-
are uniquely dreadful
is as egotistical as thinking
you are the pinnacle of human culture,
the culmination of a thousand years
or progress.
We may not have Dante or Botticelli;
we don’t have the Black Death either.
—-
Started out kind of jokey, ended up worryingly portentous. Oh well, that napowrimo for you.
#16 is a haiku-type thing:
Preparing for take-off;
skylarks.