A Poem a Day in April 2011

Today is April the Fifth. Rising to Carrie's challenge, I've surprised myself by writing six poems so far this month - not all good poems (Meredith pointed out that the deal was just for a poem a day, with nothing said about them being any good) but all doing something at least slightly interesting.

Here they are:

1.

Modelling nostalgia

(never take my advice – that’s my advice)

I‘ll say one thing

about the old police cars

(I mean the ones - you know -

before the ones

you can still get

the parts for) –

they used to go

I got a brass tap.

I did. I sent for – you know –

an ordinary iron fan one

like everybody has,

and that’s what they sent.

It’s to go in the ground,

so it’s perfect.

2.

Just because

A lattice of eggs

because I took out alternate ones

so the fifteen box

would not fall over

An explanation is not a reason

3.

First proper Alfa wash & treat

Swill grit out of bucket

(last month I used

the houseplant sprayer: today

I need more wetter quicker)

Splosh bucket of water all over

Swill grit out of bucket

Tesco’s best wash 'n' wax with

the old black-edged sponge

Swill grit out of bucket

Rinse before you drink your tea.

Don’t leather dry

Swill grit out of bucket

Mix up the treatment.

Splish all over with

the big new sponge

that came with it

Swill grit out of bucket

Rinse. Leather dry.

Admire. Drink your tea.

Swill grit out of bucket

4.

The cement. And a mirror

Morning is the best time: is the worst time.

Mornings are quiet: are noisy.

Mornings are lonely, but you can’t get away from your wife.

In the morning you can think, but you can’t think of anything.

In the morning it’s sunny & bright,

overcast & pouring with rain

The bedroom is full of space and air; it’s crowded

with dolls & soft toys & statuettes of fairies,

a strange angel with a dragon and a crystal ball;

pictures and two drums. 

When you shut the window

I miss the sound of tyres in the wet.

5.

So many times I could recall from other lives in other places

I remember that other life

in the house in the jewish district

that was carpeted with dusty stripes

where the bakery opened on Sunday mornings

for poppy-seed rolls and cream cheese

And another life where I think I stalked
Birmingham city streets all night

on a blood-red night
with my daughter in my arms

6.

A nother notebook

(nicked from Natalie)

You might want to start

a small separate notebook

where you note your writing practice:

how you didn’t produce a poem today

[or how you didn’t produce

a good poem this week]