A wash of blue sky creates illusion there’s no ceiling.
Rolling green meadows betray the confines of walls.
This is the room I’ll never get around to painting.
Instead I’ll look to find it through my windows.
This poem was prompted by a song list on Lastfm
Ramble on with each taste of the strange brew,
Let it convince you ‘I feel wonderful tonight’.
Ramble on and keep going you’re in a rude mood,
What if I’m a man, you wouldn’t stop me, not this time.
The loss of maternal protection
Make it all stop, send the internet down
Keep the dog from howling, pet the cuddly clown.
Silence the radio and arrange the lilys right,
Bring out the coffin don’t let the kiddies fight.
The porch holds the flowers, brings attention to this day
Neighbours pay respects in their own private way
The men wear their best and polish up their shoes
The women a splash of colour as she always beat the blues
His mum, my friend, her mum, your aunt
Our days off sick your birthday charm
Holidays away and nights we had at home
Your love a constant shelter: now I’m alone.
Give up the fight now, surrender everyone
Let your ambition slide and admit that your done
Pour away your hopes and flush your dreams away
For meaning can’t be found in the cold light of today.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good. By W H Auden
You take a while to warm up.
I try not to hold it against you, but sometimes I feel dejected.
But my mum, she sought you out, and her opinion always counts.
I need you too.
I’ve tried nights without you, but I don’t feel safe.
And when you warm up, I know you’ll comfort me well.
I’ll be enveloped in your softness.
And my friends will comment on how good you look.
And I’ll sleep soundly.
And you’ll be filled with love.
Poetry for a suburbanite
I dread the poem that forces me to drink in my suburban landscape.
The one that asks me to take inspiration from my neighbours’ flashing alarm system, its alien green lights glaring at me like a festive display. Gone garishly wrong.
The one that pushes me to open the window wide, to feel chills down my neck and spine, to listen out for traffic or the sound of the wind blowing. What makes that sound?
I dread the poem that asks me to get romantic about a street lamp.
But yes it does remind me of Narnia. And I never really noticed it is at the prettiest point in the quaint alley way. Why so orange?
The one that asks me to find shapes in the clouds, like the giant grey mountain – actually darker than the night sky itself. Seeing shapes in clouds actually never gets old.
I dread the poem that draws attention to the bleak train station building. Inexplicably tall, and boxy and bold. Although from a distance, you’d never know it’s a station. And when you walk in through the main entrance, you never notice it’s tall.
But I love the poem that reminds me to look up at the half moon. And ponder its brightness right before it dissolves.