Posted: November 19, 2014 in urban poems
A straw hat tilts over his eyes
and sun weaves
through the square’s umbrellas
to bounce off his white shirt.
In this gentle flare we sip our lattes
and Americanos as he seamlessly
slides through a practiced repertoire
on an upright piano that has lived
in a different age.
she dances barefoot
outside the Café Cordina
while the hum of our voices
rises and mixes with music,
pigeons, Maltese flags stretching
in a gentle wind.
Looking down on us all
from the wall
of the Casel Del Comun Tesoro
a plaque tells us that
Coleridge worked here for a year
where I am working now
where a thousand poets and writers
have worked in between
Posted: November 6, 2014 in nature poems, urban poems
Northern grit glints from his eyes;
they are those of the hawk he gazes at.
All that bolshie bluff evaporates
in a moment.
He confronts a single-minded raptor which
at this point
But the boy with wonder-
consumed vision is lost.
His brash world of
and rough brotherly cuffs,
pissing off teachers,
flicker into a backdrop.
He has engaged the front line of nature.
Tamed and yet untamed.
This is the result of a poetry forum prompt about films, and a still from probably my favourite film
Posted: October 23, 2014 in default
Selecting a patch of ground is critical;
you certainly don’t want to be turning stones.
Do you really love me?
And don’t use a shovel, it is a loud-
mouthed tool fit only for the building site.
Of course I do.
A spade is the boy for the job. Stout wooden
shaft. Broad shoulders to take the weight of your boot.
Spear the ground, tense and push. The blade
should slice pleasingly through the earth.
Because I do.
Gently lever it back, this is all about
fulcrums you know, then lift.
What is it you love about me?
At this point you should have a heap
of soil on your spade blade. Now a decision.
Well you’re thoughtful about people.
Where to toss the spoil. Pick
your place and chuck it there.
Is that all? I’m thoughtful.
This is tricky now. Having to decide
where to make the next strike.
You always make me a cup of tea first thing.
The choice is made. Blade placed alongside
the first break in the ground.
I make you tea, that’s why you love me.
Push down, lever back, lift
and add the soil to your heap.
You have now begun to dig yourself a hole.
Posted: October 15, 2014 in typewriting micropoetry
Posted: October 14, 2014 in writing
As someone who used typewriters before computers came clattering over the horizon, I’ve been interested in going all retro with some of my writing. This week I finally dropped on an ebay gem which I managed to snaffle for a great price. It’s a 1935 Underwood portable – these were made in New York – and it is in pretty good working condition, just needs a new ribbon which thankfully are easy to come by. I may even post up poems that I’ve written on it from time to time.
Posted: October 9, 2014 in default
at http://dversepoets.com/this-is-us/ today Björn wants us to write true avant-garde in the spirit of Gertrude Stein…focusing mainly on sound and simple objects and doing our own verbal cubism
Under a vast valley sky
booming rebounds beyond
the Western ridge
and bruised clouds
are carrying in a storm.
through olive trees,
sweeps over the terrace
sending paper napkins
butterflying over the edge.
It silences an Italian couple,
their salad fluttering
carried out of Canalicchio
to spiral away.