How to dig a hole

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.
Why?

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.
Yes.

You have now begun to dig yourself a hole.

Retro micropoem

Going down the old road

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.

Eternally spoken

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

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

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