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Image  —  Posted: October 15, 2014 in typewriting micropoetry

Going down the old road

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.

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Eternally spoken

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.
Wind snaps
through olive trees,
sweeps over the terrace
sending paper napkins
butterflying over the edge.
It silences an Italian couple,
their salad fluttering
dangerously,
their words
carried out of Canalicchio
to spiral away.

Spaghetti Canalicchio

Posted: October 6, 2014 in default

First notice the plate.
White. There isn’t any
more of that here. Not

in the sky. Not in the land.
Virginal, though only
at its edges. Inside that

round rim, colours
swirl and gently
stain the porcelain.

Pasta lies linked in each
others’ outstretched
looping arms. Challenging

you with spoon, fork
and knife to select
the right cutlery and then

use them without
embarrassment and
attracting attention.

Chef has drawn
the delicate sauce
from oranges and

honey golds of farm
buildings splashing
Umbrian ridges

which roll away from
our terrace and into
the memory banks.

From that recipe
book serve up
the image to simmer

and recapture a
moment of calm
as and when needed

National Poetry Day

Posted: October 2, 2014 in default

Today was National Poetry Day …. and the mantra goes like this: you’re a poet, write something. No pressure then! Pff. I did eventually set something running and have a vague idea where I want to take it – but here’s a sneak preview of the rough start (no title yet) …

Moonlight is in a loop of its own making,
rotating through a sequence of phases.
Today it is in full flood, spilling
through woods and streets, eating up
shadows, a ravenous appetite
that cannot be satisfied ….

its raw and there will be more, at least I can put a tick against National Poetry day though

Freddie Mercury, aged 15

Posted: September 11, 2014 in urban poems

He missed those after school rituals,
fags behind the bike sheds, flirting
girls who had one more button undone
than regulations allowed. Not for him
following the crowd
into shops lifting what they could.

Down a disused siding sat an old signal box,
smashed windows, broken locks.
Taking dodgy wooden steps two-by-two
he raced up to his stage. Took off his blazer
hung it on one shoulder and gazed
beyond the terraces
at an audience only he could see.
One hand on hip,
he grabbed a lever,
yanked it towards his mouth,
mimed songs ringing in his ears.
Then throwing it forward and breaking free,
strutted through broken glass.
He stepped and spun on egg shells.
Twisted round and spun again.
Pouted before that final move.

Feet wide apart
head bowed to earth,
one hand reaching for the stars.