Poetry

For my sins I’m currently the Poet Laureate for St Ives. I was appointed following the submission of the following poem in a competition.

Gone

*This was written for Tom’s mum, Amelia. Tom died on 28^th November 2014 at the age of thirteen from an extremely rare form of cancer.*

Although you’re gone,

I still see you.

I can hear your laughter as I descend the stairs,

glimpse your smile as a stranger turns towards me

and you still come to me

in my dreams,

more achingly alive than anything in the waking world.

I still feel the shiver of your touch

when your sister holds my hand,

still smell you as I bend down

to lift the clothes from the laundry basket.

And yet,

you’re not here.

And whilst I roam the earth like a ghost, growing

paler and fading

you,

embalmed in the honeyed amber of death,

stay forever young

and have become immortal.

For Carol 1954 – 2017

This was written for Carol’s sister, Jackie. Carol was diagnosed with a brain tumour and died shortly afterwards. Jackie paid tribute to her on Facebook and I was so impressed with what she’d written I decided to turn it into a poem.

I miss everything

Your smile, your voice, our sister fights

The cold dark nights without you

I miss you stealing my clothes

And me then finding those

On the floor in your bedroom

I miss everything

Us watching Father of the Bride

Until the bit where we both always cried

I loved that scene

You’d tell me

As you went to make tea

When I really wanted coffee

I miss everything

Your playing the big sister card and being all hard

Still treating me like a twelve-year-old

While my own child hugged my knees

You carried the cracked vase of our family safely in your arms

Told us love would withstand

Whatever life threw at us

And that even though you would no longer be with us

The glue would hold

Sex

*This poem pays tribute to Boy George, who famously declared on the Terry Wogan show that he’d much rather have a cup of tea then sex. Depends on who it’s with I suppose.*

I like sex.
As long as it’s with the right person
And they have a good sense of humour,
Although not while we’re doing it…
That would never do.
Nor would the sound of children
Whispering outside the door –
“I think Mummy’s dying!
Shall we call a priest?”

I like sex,
Although it needs some friction.
Two bodies,
Oiled by lust.
I love the feel
Of skin on skin.
The slipperiness
Of our love.

I like sex.
But I also like tea,
And sometimes I think,
If I had to choose,
I would rather have tea.

I like sex.

Coffins

Coffins are like ships

Borne by a river of hands

Sliding down into port

Anchored at last in the earth

Worms dance attendance on us

Anxious to relief us

Of our heavy coats of flesh

Reducing us down

To a bacterial mess

Unless of course

You plump for a hamper

Like going to a picnic

Your friends clustering round

Sipping dry sherry

Admiring the roses in their beds

As birds in the trees

Drop shit upon their heads

I’m going out to the strains

Of The Great Escape

Sequing perhaps into

Don’t Stop Me Now

I‘m having such a good time

I’m having a ball

Freddie would definitely want a say

So, who am I to deny him?

I’ll slide into the oven

The way

Steve McQueen slid into

That barbed wire

On his motorbike