My fake despair

is the shame I’m unable to move

myself to work.

Is the lack of sleep I’m getting in

four walls perched on a hill

that would mock rains.

And for a time.

While I shake dry, combed hair.

shamefully so do I.

My fake despair

doesn’t bother you.

And it shouldn’t.

I am disconnected.

I am an observer.

Useless worrier.

Anxious about my purse

Rather than the balance of survival.

My despair does not deserve the name.

It is born bone idle and fretting.

And my wasted will upsetting

those who have no chances.

My fake despair

should not exist.

But it does.

And I’m sorry.

But I’m aware of it

and that’s something.

My fake despair,

My enemy.

Concerned by the absence of trivial things.

I hope to write you off.

You call, nothing more.

Tell me nobody’s around.

I know how that feels.

Personal space,

accompanied only by the air.

That long ago, blew away

the last company held.

You tell me that it’s quiet.

Well I know the silence.

Unanswered lines of curiosity,

Of flippancy, designed for mirth.

The hearth here burns for one.

Yet even the Sun’s heat reaches the earth.

It could be called tranquillity.

The lack of one. The half of a pair.

It implies soothed ached though.

So none of it.

It’s not what we have here.

Digging nails with nails,

To pass the time.

Time, precious to be spent in kind

company.

So you call.

Tell me nobody’s around.

I know how that feels.

Personal space,

enveloped only by the air.

Here’s a boat that cannot float.

Here’s a queue that cannot vote.

Here’s a line you cannot quote.

Here’s a deal you cannot note …

and here’s a sacrificial goat,

here’s a cut, here’s a throat,

here’s a drawbridge, here’s a moat …

What’s your hurry? Here’s your coat.

On the subject of poetry, if you happen to be in North London tomorrow, the arts collective I’m part of – Lazy Gramophone – is holding an event called Lazy Sunday.

Full details can be found at the facebook group here, and it should be a lively and entertaining event, equally mixed with Sunday cool.

Readings by William Conway (from sections of his Tastes of Ink) as well as performances by the top gent (and excellent poet and musician), Joshua Idehen, The Sea Kings and Jem Cooke will feature.

I’ll be there milling about and chatting to peeps as well. Not as part of any performance, just to have a bit of a natter. Maybe see you then. And let’s hope that – for the good of the country – whatever is to happen, happens quickly in Westminster. 

They asked me not to break things, first.

After I deconstructed their careful blockade.

They asked me not to eat them.

And I wouldn’t.

They asked me to have mercy.

Not that they needed to.

Whispers of ‘that man’.

Rang in negative ears.

Him, the naysayer.

Him, the irrepressible.

They pointed at me.

They asked me not to change them.

But I had at least to even the odds.

Break the bonds and

untie Potential.

Invite Belief

back to the fold.

Have a word with Power

just make sure he was on both sides.

When I, Inspiration, struck.

Boredom cowered.

Distraction frowned.

And the playthings of

Idle were sent to their corner.

‘There’s a time and a place’

I said. And, ‘you’ve had your fair share’.

And they asked Inspiration to be gentle.

And he just winked a smile.

The Guardian website today (it was yesterday when I wrote this), covered the story of the Poet Laureate, Carol Anne Duffy, writing a poem about David Beckham. The poem follows:

Achilles, by Carol Ann Duffy

Myth’s river — where his mother dipped him, fished him, a slippery golden boy flowed on, his name on its lips.

Without him, it was prophesised, they would not take Troy.

Women hid him, concealed him in girls’ sarongs; days of sweetmeats, spices, silver songs…

But when Odysseus came, with an athlete’s build, a sword and a shield, he followed him to the battlefield, the crowd’s roar,

And it was sport, not war, his charmed foot on the ball…

But then his heel, his heel, his heel…

‘All well and good’, I thought, but it’s a bit unwieldy for me. All those parentheses and mismatched lines. What we need, I thought (and poets can disagree with the Poet Laureate, by the way) is a simple rhyme scheme with more straight forward meaning. So, in the comments of the Guardian post and (now) here, is my poem for David Beckham. I daren’t suggest it will achieve as much notoriety but well…in truth I prefer it:

Our Beckham, not a saint or god
But common man of common birth

Kicked balls on many sodden fields
With such skill none dared doubt his worth

But these thing happen, never cease.
Good fortune or a tragic blow

At home or on fields overseas
Can tackle harshly all heroes

And fringe or not, integral, bound
To squads of like-mind sporting types

His mind sincere, his focus found
On maybe realised dreams of pipes

He’ll not know now, nor strut his boots
On foreign lands where chancers play

A lucky few will score and shoot
Throughout to World Cup final day

But not our Becks, tackled with pain
(Achilles feels it through the years)

Instead he’ll roar support in games
And maybe shed the common tears.

A bit of preamble here: This was my entry for the National Poetry Competition 2009. Obviously I didn’t win anything, otherwise I wouldn’t be allowed to share this here. But the competitions loss is someone’s gain…or something else equally consolatory :) Anyway, here it is – I hope you find it enjoyable in some way. I quite enjoyed writing somethign a little bit different.

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