Vintage: Poetry

Thursday, 17 January 2008

I'm not sure how old these poems are - I would have been no more than 20 at the time. They were written as part of a writing course. Digging into the past here!!

Poems and Pesto

There's green frog poo
In a bowl on the table,
And the garlic comes
Stinging my nose.

I hear poems in my ear
And the fire is near,
Crackling and warming
My toes.

I can't think nor can see,
For what is that poo
That sits in the bowl
And glows in the hue
Of the fire in the grate,
And the voices trailing
Words into the warmth
That laces the room.

It comes towards me,
The bowl,
On the wings of the
Hand that made it.
There is a smile
And a try some
And a large chunk of bread,
And I pause from my
To delve in the poo.

It hits my tongue and
It stings it some;
Then zangs in the place
Where my tastebuds fly.

It melts and becomes
Synonymous with flavour,
And the heat of
Good poetry
And people by the fire.

Japanese Haiku (5-7-5)

I can see you there
In the pinholes in the sky
Where Heaven shines through.

Look down at me now
And wave through the silver cord
At me here, waiting.


There's frost on the bite
Of the dog on the corner
When teeth impale skin.

There's a boot tucked in
Where a bumhole used to be
On the frosty dog.


I watch a young cat
Tear the throat from a lizard
And spit out feathers.

I pet the young puss
And take him to the tanner.
I wear a cat hat.

Concrete Poem

Christ Mass
Cri Mass!
Christ Ma...
Mass Christ
Christ! Mass!
Is Christmas.


They see me
From the rooftops
With my firy red hair
And hot temper.
They scurry
Like rats to hang out their
To flash me their bodies,
To scald and make brown,
But soon old too soon.
They crack eggs
In the pan
When they hear I'm
On my way,
And salute me in the
With a yawn,
Or a head-duck under the covers,
Cause they don't want to know.
But I sigh and still
Continue to make
My arrival
Most beautiful.

Nu plastik fan fare red...

On the legs that keep going
Are the Nu plastik
Red boots,
That catch in the light
And make white squiggles
In the creases.

There are eyes on the boots
From the bedroom door
Saying "Beautiful love!
I knew we'd do right!
Fan fare red!"

The red boots are
And sucking lollypop legs.
They twirl
And kick compliments
Straight out the door.
"They pinch!" from the tacks
Jammed in at the back,
Crudely and horrid,
Not a shoe-maker's shoe.

The peeping eyes twitch
Under the sweat of their brow,
like the Nu plastik red boots
Salivating over knee.
"Get out of my way!"
And they clonk on the tiles
By the front door,
Which opens it's mouth
And swallows the Nu red boots
Into the night.

The eyes think of the nightclubs
On-heat with wet dancing.
They think of the squelching
Pink sweat in those boots.
They think of the hunger of
Plastik that melts;
The Nu Plastic that devours
When you sweat.

The Street

It stretches and
The Night swallows it by the newstand;
There where the light
Dims just past the corner.
It is straight and wide,
And there are lights winking
On its curbs,
Steady in the mouth of the Night.
Ready and watchful
Is the light.

There are clops echoing on its curbs
From the soles of shoes,
And they pause
By the dim of the newstand.
No breath.
And they wait.

With a scream,
The mouth of the Night
Spits out its prey
And it lands with a skid
And a red star in its back,
Face down on the curb
'Neath the bowed head of the street light.

A clop;
A clop;
An echo from the soul,
The Night sucks
And drags its prey right past the newstand;
Leaving pretty red trails
Leading into the bowels
Where light cannot stay.

There is a smear 'neath the street light.
And a wind comes
And dries it brown to the cracks;
Where it grinds into blacks
That match the colour
Of the Night.

And the Night
Licks its mouth clean.

Some Poem Titles

Shirley Temple in Plastic
Disco in the Torchlight
We Got the Pool Put In
Spelling Sugar
First Kissing
Losing Elvis Presley
Putting my Child Out With the Washing
Meeting Him
There's a Novel in My Head
Taking Mother
To Become a Frog
Poems and Pesto

One Column

What is it you are doing
Floating in the steam
Of the coffee?
I can see the waver
Of whiskey,
Like heat.
And when will
The fence mend itself
What if the world were rid
Of coffee-stained
And bones
That won't care
For a fence?

Repetitive Consonent

Be Be Be
Be my Babeee
Blubber Baby Blubber
Come and baby me.

Blubber, blunder, chunder,
Scream in the thunder,
Bicker, bawl
And blow me under.
Be bold and brawdy
And suck your thumb,
Slide around in the blankets
And blow bubbles from
Your bum.

Be Be Be
Be my Babeee
Blubber Baby Blubber
Come and baby me.

Two Column

I'm tossing
Life to idleness,
And turning
Deafness to
The blind.
For who can
See sufference
Through the seething
Fires of anger,
Cracking eggs
In the pan
And pinning whites to the line,
Because man
Must be fed,
And whites must be white.

Phrase Repetition

I wait in a hole.
Is there reason
Or none?
I have waited with wings flapping listless
And spent;
To hover;
In a hole.
To hope.

To hope is to
Live in the dark in a hole.
No light to hint
That other than

A scurry of rat
in the cold waiting heart;
In the cold in a hole,
When noise is heard
Yet not hint enough.

I can wait and hear.
But the blackness is blinding
In a hole.

Ballad (aabb form)

There is a lover in the window with his hands upon the sill,
And a body bare and dreaming, hair spread and breathing still,
A heavy air sits in his chest and he finds it hard to breath,
He turns to her and sees her face, and knows it's time to leave.

Dactyls (beat 1 2 2, 1 2 2)

Wash the wash, make the make
Shine the trees, press the rake,
Go to work on the house,
Have a drink! Feed your spouse!
Breed the kids in a cage,
Haul them off with your rage;
Bring them in from the cold,
Make a scene, don't be told;
Hate the life willfully,
Bring it down skillfully;
Make the choice for the life,
Preciously, housebound wife;
Wash the wash, make the make,
Live asleep, dream awake.


To fart in the bed is hysterical,
But too hard and you'll blow out a ventricle,
So keep your bum slack,
Put a reed up your crack,
And make noises a little more sociable.

Six Stanza Poem

I can sing with notes upon my head
That float wordlessly from mouth,
And take the air quite by surprise
By their beauty and silence of sound.
For I cannot sing when the sound is heard,
Only the voice of illustrous beauty in my mind.


I got a song in my head and it just won't let me go,
It's got it's fingers in my head and it just won't let me go,
I can feel it up in there and I want to let it blow.

There's a voice in my blood and it's swimmin round my veins,
Yeah there's a voice and it wants to bust right out my veins,
It makes me feel so blue, that I'm crying when it rains.

So I take up my head and I holler till I sing,
Oh I open my head and it feels that I can sing,
An it comes from my blood and it means most every thing.

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