National Poetry Day 2013

Ern Malley by Nolan
Ern Malley by Nolan
To celebrate National Poetry Day, I’m publishing some poems here. Poetry is not something I do a lot, but it is something I enjoy a lot.

One of the three poems I’ve added here was made in 1999 when I first thought of relocating to Australia with my then wife and daughter. One of the poems was finished in 2011 after I had returned to the UK.

The final poem was started in the 1990s and I have worked on it ever since. I always receive any criticism with great interest, so please feel free to have an opinion on my work here.

I’ve decided to illustrate my poems today with Sydney Nolan’s portrait of Australian poet and cultural icon Ern Malley.

Security Alert
2011 – June

Hello Darling,
you should get it now.
Thanks for the paper.

Hello Darling,
get back to my office for more details.
Free Book – Incorporate in Nevada.

You will have more confident look with a fancy watch.
Sunrooms. The beautiful, affordable home addition.

Hello Darling,
you should get it now,
they do not mistake.

Hello Darling,
Your account,
Make your male friend your biggest advantage.

Russian dating site,
Receive a Bachelors degree.
Thank you for choosing us!

Hello Darling,
you should get it now,
they do not mistake.

When It is Hot
When it gets hot, I will remember the mornings
Crunching October, precisely frosted
Skating the puddles without a worry.
I will cope by wanting to leave a glint

I will walk to the beach to look back
And swim, fatty like, on top of the surf
My muscles will learn to make a moment
I will listen to the radio like older men

When it gets hot, I will reinvent my history
Blending character recently adrift
Cast to an island, exotic and like home
That heats a bowl of leaves

Like Benbo’s Code
“Are you there, my friend? Are you around the place, sitting?”
Benbo growls, all caustic, all off his face.
Hungry and willing.
A wasted guy, a desperate cause.
Catch him. Keep him. Despite his obvious flaws.
“Are you there? Is there a signal? Do you love me?
Is there a signal?”
The names are the same, remain so, despite the tight distance.
77,900km and what names?
The singular, his name for her, his name for him, his name by them.
His name by her.
“Do you love me? Like I love you? Is there a signal?”
A goalkeeper by trade, lower leagues, a division above the workers.
Remember them? Is there a signal?
Benbo growls, all caustic and fit for grace.
Off his face, barred away, like a summer sinner nun bricked up.
Attached like a stamp to his envelope of hope, the signal.
The phone is bleeding internally.
His friend was going to play cards.
But the HTTP 404’d and now she’s got nothing left to do.
“Fuck it, this code is dull as Benbo in his self-sorrow
“I’ll deal with it all tomorrow.”
She looks at the QWERTY and thinks of Benbo’s predictability.
Needy and urgent, like a poem.
Now, lying on the house wheel, B…Benbo stakes his need.
He’s win! Galore!
Love’s stinking pathos forgotten.
This signal, his weed.
But real Benbo floats inside, the calculus of his cancer sticks deep,
Red and white inside his pocket as the cash stacks and attacks.
Revolting revelator.
I love you. Take a leap.
Fuzzy fuck-fuck music resolves his stagger home.
He leans, with is winnings, against a lit lampost.
“This is mine!” he screams, lost.
“This is mine!”, a ghost.
“I’ll get to it tomorrow, maybe, after walking with breakfast inside.”
She’s going to be at his side,
As the catheters slide.
The cardboard, their beds on the beach,
Will never be retrieved.
“It’s mine. Where’s the signal?
“This remote, remote control switching galorious twitching.
“I’ll deal with it tomorrow,”
She brushes her teeth and chooses a book,
Descending the stairs, she saves Benbo by a look
At the picture she kept of the cardboard, framed, like the signal.

Please leave a comment. Many thanks.

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