I had intended to read at the Y-Tuesday poetry event this evening (Tuesday 7 June), however, due to the event having been cancelled, I will be reading at the Poetry Café, 22 Betterton Street, Covent Garden, London. The Poetry Unplugged event runs from 7:30 until 10:30, with poets signing up to read between 6-7 pm. If you do come along please do say hello.
Kevin
“Poetry isn’t real” you said.
I shook my head
For what the poet feels
Is real.
The words in the poet’s brain,
His whole train
Of thought
Is caught
And given life upon the page.
His poems may forever dance
And bring romance
To the paper stage.
A poem can make one laugh or cry.
So why
Can you not try
To lift your eyes from the ground,
And gaze upon something profound?
Looking back, I remember the owl did hoot.
What is the route
To a girl’s heart?
Where to start?
The park
Was dark.
You and I talked as we walked
Back to the hall.
I recall
You remarked on the romance of the owl’s cry
But try
As I might
The night
Ended in tea
And me
Alone
At home.
The puppets on a string
Swing
This way and that
In accordance with the command of the fat
Puppateer.
Far and near
They dance.
Circumstance
Dictates he has control
Of the whole
Play.
The ringmaster may pay
To have his way
Tomorrow and today,
But, heres the thing
should the string
Break, will the puppets stay?
A serpent with a smooth tongue
Did feel
The heel
Of a girl’s shoe
As through
The grass
It slithered.
The girl quivered
But knew not she had been stung
By one who lives among
Rakes in suits
Who’s boots
Will trample a maiden’s heart.
She had not the art
To comprehend
The depths to which man will descend
Nor how he does attain his fell ends.
Yesterday evening I went out for a drink with an old friend. As always in these situations I had with me my guide dog Trigger. On my friend going to the bar to get some much needed liquid refreshment, a gentleman on the table adjacent to mine said words to the effect of,
“Can I feed your dog?”
“No thank you, he gets two meals a day and feeding him encourages begging”, I replied.
“But he’s hungry”, came the response.
“He’s always hungry, that is the nature of dogs”, I said starting to feel exasperated.
“He’s obviously hungry”, my new acquaintance persisted.
At this point my friend returned with the drinks and the conversation with the man on the adjacent table ceased and, shortly afterwards he and his companions left.
While the above incident certainly didn’t spoil my enjoyment of the evening, I was left with a feeling of exasperation as regards self-appointed experts who, in point of fact have absolutely zero knowledge on the subjects they pontificate on. I follow the advice of the Guide Dogs for the Blind Association (GDBA) in providing my dog, Trigger with 2 meals a day, together with dog treats on a controlled basis. Trigger is a lab/retriever cross and as anyone who owns or has owned this breed will know they do have a tendency to behave like walking dustbins. One can give a lab a generous helping of food and a minute later he will be looking for more, its just the nature of labs!
This morning Trigger had a severe attack of the runs which now (thankfully) seem to have cleared up. While I have no way of knowing it seems rather a coincidence that this should happen the morning after a fellow pub goer implied Trigger is underfed. I cant help wondering if something wholly inappropriate as regards dog food found it’s way into the stomach of my four legged friend. Be that as it may, I should not be subjected to the no doubt well meaning but wholly ill informed comments of self-appointed experts.
(For a helpful post on how to approach a guide dog please see, http://www.guidedogs.org.uk/microsites/sponsor-a-puppy/blogs/2015/april/ever-wondered-how-to-approach-a-guide-dog-and-their-owner#.V1LTIL5MTIU).
Kevin
Carpet by heels worn.
Man’s heart torn
Asunder
By blades that plunder
His nightly slumber.
To and fro
The dancers go.
Ever changing,
Exchanging
Well worn words.
Love my friend, is for the birds …
The Poetry Book Society (PBS), founded by poet T. S. Eliot is to close following the withdrawal of Arts Council funding. For the Guardian article please visit (https://www.theguardian.com/books/2016/jun/03/cuts-hit-poetry-book-society-to-close).
Scent on a pillow fades.
In woodland glades
The willow
Weeps
As dusk creeps
Over the land.
The sand
Where lover’s feet Trod
Is printless now.
Oh see how
The grassy sod
Forms a bed
Where the dead
Sleep
And those that loved once, no longer weep.
Are we just our geans
Means
To a meaningless conclusion,
A confusion of arms, legs and bed?
The head
Is often overruled
By the fool
Lust.
Into eternity we thrust
Desperately hoping to leave one of our kind
Behind
Ere our dalliance ends in dust.
