Seven-poem Weekend

I often get lost going site to site through blogroll links.  I see photographers, artists, short story writers and poets all doing amazing things.  I travel the world’s circumference from the comfort of my front room getting a speed-date kind of glimpse of everything a person can produce.  I hate – although hate is too summery and flowery a word – Blogspot blogs (I used to have one so I hate them with authority) because when I find something I love I can’t work out how to post.  I spend twenty minutes logging in as various different alternative personalities Yahoo, Facebook, WordPress, Google, G-mail, I’ve got them all folks and each one I log in as doesn’t get me any closer to hitting the frustrating ‘POST’ button and it actually reacting like a button.  So I forget where I’ve been and I spend the following  few days dreaming about all the things I’ve read and seen.  Now it’s all lost, probably never to be found.
 
One such blog was 100 poem weekend which I really wanted to comment on and I couldn’t, so here is my comment – in the unrealistic hope you’ll track back and find it – Your poems are brilliant!  I don’t know how a person can come up with enough ideas to write a hundred poems in a weekend.  I tried it this weekend and wrote seven.  Yep, I didn’t just misspell seventy – just seven.  I got a fresh notebook and everything and I filled the first four pages. I don’t know how you did it, and got prompt tags from other people to use for inspiration.
 
I love 97:
We drive to places in the countryside our mouths
cannot pronounce. We spend hours climbing trees there.
You stamp on the earth to make sure it will remember us.
 and 91:
The maps were larger than our eyes.
Made our knees buckle. We wished
to see the world in wooden boats.
Carve our names into waves, and shout
the wind down from the clouds.
Talk with him, invite him home
and cook him eggs for breakfast
 
And I remembered how much I love poetry.  And any novel or short story I write will always be my Plan B.  I asked the crystal ball ‘will poetry make me rich?’ a long time ago and it said no.  It says fiction won’t make me rich either but it concedes it will leave me slightly better off than poetry.  
 
In June this year for example I earned  – from selling stories – double the fifty five pounds I’d earned publishing poems for the last ten years.  Anyway, poetry will remain my guilty pleasure.  I had another published on Sunday last actually in the US of A which I was really pleased to hear.
 
Well here’s three of the seven I achieved.
 
 
I’m Sorry  
 
I’m sorry I didn’t meet you that Monday
The Monday
The news repeated
Weather warnings
 
Across the road – coffee shop doorway
 
I’m sorry I didn’t meet you
That Monday.
 
Rain tapping your black umbrella
Like that wet Sunday funeral
Crows cawing.
 
I’m sorry I stood you up that wet Monday,
In your doorway – pale blue dress
Rain wet pumps.
 
I was watching, standing in the rain
Unable to move, drenched
 
And the wet city streets
And God’s silence
As he watched us, weeping.
 
On either side of Albert Square
You waiting, me watching.
 
I’m sorry I didn’t meet you that Monday
The news repeated
Weather warnings
 
 
 
Page 115
 
 
There are nearly two million
Books – in this library.
 
I guess the one I think
You’re reading next
 
And write on page 115, your May birth-date our secret code
I love you.
 
Then I leave it
On the shelf.
 
 
 
 
Raining Blood
 
 
On the way to Goose Green you sleep in a hole
Waking to blasting and guns
 
It was raining – you thought – as you heard the reports
Of artillery, jump jets and bombs
 
Adrenaline rinsed your brain comes around
And the Paras reinforce from the rear
 
You realise the moisture, the rain on your face
Is red – and not rain and not tears.
 
 

 

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