Come Closer and Listen

I reckon if someone calls a book, ‘Come Closer and Listen’ they ought to have something to say.

Something vital, urgent, new. Provocative.

I leaned real close and listened. I wanted to be shocked out of my stodginess.

Take something away, to share with my mates at the pub Friday night.

Something revelatory.

But there was nothing.

Admittedly the poems are well crafted, And there are a few good ones

and even one stand-out poem but that’s it in 60 + pages.

But really it’s the same old stuff as in the previous 10 books.

God help us, we;re all in danger of repeating ourselves and if I do I pray someone

calls me out.

But it’s like I said of the Seinfeld book.

You coulda done better, Charles. You coulda done better.

Since the Break-Up

I’ve been taking myself to the cinema again

watching brooding masterpieces like ‘The Dry,’

learning  to play Scrabble by myself but not too often

as I’m a bad loser; giving my self-esteem a face lift,

shed a few kilos, muscled up, become sharper;

I post more , comment more especially on posts

that comment on mine: the noble art of reciprocity;

but, most of all, I move more easily in the world.

have got to know myself more, and know in spite

of slurs like ‘nutcase’ and ‘creepy lizard’ I’m not

such a bad guy

Forget Eric and Ernie

Forget Eric and Ernie

Disregard Bing and Bob

There’s a new comedy duo

and they’re doing a great job

They’re funnier than Stan & Ollie

and even Bud & Lou

They’re Hobbo and his dog, Dauphy

wisdom with laughter too

Hobbo’s a retired bus driver

Dauphy a French lab

together they write droll poetry

and have a good chin wag

So do yourself a favour

as Adam Ant would say

and drop by their website

to see what they’re up to today

google 'Hobbo's poems'

Courage

Sometimes I put up a post and no one visits.

No  ‘likes’.

No ‘comments’.

There is a terrible silence.

I’m like the wallflower at the dance.

The cheese that stands alone.

.I shrink. I shrivel.

I want to run, hide.

I’m the cowardly lion.

I panic.

I take the post down. I ditch it.

You must have noticed..

But once in a while, like my ‘Desecration’ post on Big Blue Mouth,

I leave it.

I stand by it.

I stand up for it.

Damn it all! It’s good, I say

Sometimes I have courage. Sometimes I don’t.

Fridays circa 5p.m.

There’s nothing I like better doing

than sitting here in a quiet corner

of the pub

with my Mongolian beanie on

waiting for my mates to rock up

while I have a quiet read.

I know it smacks of vanity

when I pull out my iPhone

and scroll through my posts,

reading what I said, what others said,

how many likes I got.

I like what I wrote and how I say it:

the long, slouching sentences,

the laconic phrases

[Hey! I’m an Ausssie]

the odd syntax here and there

[ like the first line of this post ].

One should be as comfortable in one’s voice

as in the clothes one’s wearing.

I like the merry banter of patrons in the bar too,

the warm embrace of companionship

as I like to gather my poems around me

like boon companions

until my real friends, my flesh and blood friends,

turn up

Four Morning Poems

1

It is good to see the sun shining in the morning:

a friendly face peering through the window

2

I lean my magazine against a pyramid of book

and savour over my bowl of berries the latest words

from John Yau:

the mountain is watching you, she says

nudging me obliquely as the sun turns red

3

I like to hop up in the morning like the easter bunny

& see who has written to me overnight

& unwrap their little gift of words

4

I like to put up posts first thing, my messages in a bottle

roaming the vast oceans of the internet to see who

will pick up and read

 

 

 

Makeovers

I am re-badging my blog from a muted rural setting to a cheeky,

Irreverent bird,

a bird with balls, moxie,

Marching to his own beat, on his own path.

A Stand-up comic

a delver of the Absurd.

Not a morose follower of the herd.

No, this ostrich will not  bury his head in the sand.

This bird will bray,

be heard,

be unafraid.

He’s my mouthpiece. Listen to his words.

All My Poems Are Getting Married

 

For too long they have lead a solitary existence,

Moping in corners of the internet, blushing wallflowers

Stuttering if someone even comes to speak to them.

 

Now all this is changing.

 

I am introducing my poems to each other,

a matchmaker, if you like, partnering one poem

with another of similar makeup, all in

A single manuscript, a mass marriage of poems,

With the publisher’s blessing.

 

Together they will lie next to each other

for the ages. All will be invited. Now all

I have to do is pair up like poems,

Nervous Nellies unused to company

 

* apologies & thanks to Skyhooks

 

Cauldron of Creation

I don’t know whether you noticed but when I write a poem I slam it down on the page still white –hot from the cauldron of creation. Only when it cools do I see its cracks and imperfections. This may take minutes, more often hours, sometimes days. One poem took me nine years to write. There’s still a few I’m working on from twenty years back.

Those of you who see the still molten post will be surprised when you see the reworked version solidifying into its present state. Yes, you should edit. The trick is not to edit out the primal energy which birthed the poem.

to Stand Out

 

I was reading about Miss Jean Brodie

About her being in her prime

her ‘owning’ the stage

Of the classroom

With the forty girls sitting in rows

Looking and listening

 

& I thought

How much blogging is like this

How each of us

Performs on the platform of the page

Seeking to impress

to stand out

To make our ‘mark’ upon

The rows and rows of readers

 

& how one day

Perhaps

A fellow blogger

Will remember our performances

And memorialize us

As Muriel Spark did Miss Kay