Words on a line

One way or another I’ve been writing for a living for more than 40 years – first as a cub newspaper reporter on the Reading Chronicle; then as a journalist and broadcaster for the BBC; and now as a budding poet taught for the past two very intense years by the poetry coach Pele Cox, a former poet in residence at the Tate and the Royal Academy.

But you can’t call yourself a proper poet until you’ve stood up and read your work in front of an audience. So I thought it was about time I did just that! And on Saturday August 5th in the intimate little space that is the Secret Garden behind Castle Bookshop in Ludlow you’ll be able to judge whether it was a sensible decision.

With readings from a small selection of my poems, anecdotes about the process of ‘becoming a poet’ and with the help of literary giants such as Dylan Thomas and Michael Donaghy, I’ll be exploring the literal landscape of the Shropshire countryside together with the emotional landscapes of memory and loss.

Tickets are available direct from the bookshop.

Coronation

Union flags and bunting.
The Kings Head.
A telly on the wall
And a row of mugs
Raising glasses.

Bottoms up, no shilling (coronation bitter £4 a pint)
But press ganged by the Daily Mail
All the same. Toasting two crowns.
Heads of state wearing uneasy smiles. And ermine gowns 
That would look better on stoats.

Buttoned up to their necks in it
Plastic caped crowds dripping long to rain over us 
The gloss taken off by a guilt-edged prince. 
No sweat, he’s hidden behind his sister
Feather hats off to the seating plan. 

Placards in the back of an old van. 
A sick Transit (gloria mundi).*
Serried ranks of #NotMyKing unsaluted. 
And ties that bind
Us to a past locked on tradition. 

Traitors mate. Sedition. 
Pageantry. It’s what we do. Britain at it’s best. 

Captured for posterity on countless mobile phones 
by the I-was-theres swearing oaths
Of obsequence. 
While the megaphones are silenced
By the defenders of the faith in blue
Uniform thoughts
Blue blood

And all of this because 
An accident of birth. 

Zadok the Priest.
Welcome to the King’s Head, Judas. Your shout! 
But you can’t handle another round and shuffle out. 

Dragooned.

Outside now. Uncrowned. Bare skinned for the flypast. 
A robin wearing military red. Two medal-ribboned goldfinches.
A wagtail conducting this anthem in an outdoor abbey
Not just for today but everyday. 
A pigeon clapping wings
And somewhere in the distance a peacock on his throne. 

________________________________

*Sic transit gloria mundi is Latin for thus passes the glory of this world.

I was interested to read An Unexpected Guest, a poem by the poet laureate Simon Armitage to mark the coronation of His Majesty King Charles III. This is my poetic response in the spirit of the anti-laureate (a role I think should be established)!

After the plough

Ring rolling in a Bedfordshire field. 
Breaking up the heavy clods
And leverets. Blind to the danger. 

I stopped at first. Got down from the tractor
To shoo and scatter. 
At first. Too many of the sods 

Harrowing. The clatter
Flint on iron drowning out the sound. 
What now in the bottom corner

On the heaviest ground?
Fur gloves with missing hands 
And broken fingers. Pointing.

Too few the gods
Seed on the land
Grown houses. 

Two smiles

Tying up loose ends, you said
All crow’s feet and beak. A confiding bird
Perched by your desk pecking
At the keyboard when I walked in.

That smile still startles I swear it’s you
Spin sad to find myself window shopping for one not two.

The harvest of a lifetime. Paper bales laced up tight
Treasury tags. Twin bars bright
Conjoined. Green twine. The ties that bind.

It’s all here, you said. Hand atop the sheaf
Palm down, an oath. No testament, your will:

Accounts.
Policies.
Pensions.
And a note for your mum so she’ll know what to do.

Thank heavens for paperclips and staples, you said.
Coming round. Post stroke words.
The cubicle reflating. Breath held now out
Laughing as you confuse a comb for half a crown.

Ends frayed but held.
Your brain rewired. Wild hair combed.
Forward to post decimalisation.

Ten more years. I wondered how many times you subbed your copy.
Newspaperman to newspaperman
Before I wrote your obituary perched at your desk
In your study. Your hand writing.

The letter to mum. For Sheila: to be opened when I’m gone.
And two smiles becoming one.

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First screened on the Big Live Breakfast Burrito – the only way to start your business Thursdays over on LinkedIn Live from 0745 UK time when series two begins later this year…

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Plus the former (In)Justice Secretary, Dominic Raab, is toast – literally!

And soon-to-be-gone Scottish First Minister, Nicola Sturgeon, seeks new movie roles alongside Jeremy Corbyn.

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What Buffy the Vampire said to shamed ex-Labour MP Jared O’Mara. And speaking of drug abuse, what licking little squares of paper does for stamp design. Off with his head!

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First screened on The Big Live Breakfast Burrito – the only way to start your business Thursdays over on LinkedIn Live from 0745 UK time most weeks.

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British motor manufacturers launch four post Brexit models to boost UK car production.

And Michael Gove records a cover version of the Rod Stewart classic Da Ya Think I’m Sexy?

All this and more on the Internet’s slowest growing satirical show. First screened on the Big Live Breakfast Burrito – the only way to start your business Thursdays over on LinkedIn Live from 0745 UK time most weeks.

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First screened on the Big Live Breakfast Burrito – the only way to start your business Thursdays over on LinkedIn Live from 0745 UK time most weeks.

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