Wild Bill Balding
Biography of Wild Bill Balding
Of Welsh descent, Bill Thomas is currently a teacher of Religious Studies, History & Astronomy at Tewkesbury School in Gloucestershire, UK. As well as writing & performing poetry, in his spare time he takes pictures of postboxes & plays Subbuteo (flick-to-kick table soccer) . He is married, with two stepchildren & a permanent puzzled expression while trying to look for things that were there just a moment ago.
Wild Bill Balding's Works:
Bill's hymns appear on Stainer & Bell's 'HymnQuest' CD-ROM (available from S&B) & occasionally in their journal 'Worship Live'. His poems have appeared in several journals, but The Book is yet to happen. He is a member of Ledbury's Homend Poets, & performs regularly at events in the South-West & South Wales. Some of these poems appear on www.woodenheadarts.com, Chris Hall's website of artists & poets from South Wales & the Marches, which is well worth a look.
Wild Bill Balding Poems
hormonal soup pulsing, congealing; chrysalis carapace throbbing, cracking;
To A Teenage Stepson
When you are older with a place of your own I will come and visit at awkward moments, and lean on the doorbell until you answer. I shall piss over your toilet seat, the carpet,
Good Dog, Bad Dog
Why is it when I'm doing what dogs do, what dogs are designed to do, then I'm a Bad Dog?
Shitty Kitty City
There's a lobby by my study where my visitors may enter which, since we got the kittens, has a dirtbox at the centre. They're still too young to go outside, that's why I ask for pity: they've turned my quiet oasis into Shitty Kitty City.
Damn The Fence!
My spirit paces like a captive bear, set limits by a fence of tempered steel, that with its shadows marks its deadening seal on concrete ground that passes for my lair.
The Crows, He Said,
would roost each night in the middle one of the three tall trees at my garden's end, every night the flock of crows, every night the middle tree,
Strange at school how all our dads had got VCs in the war, charging machine guns,
I want you, but can I trust you? The things you say excite me, but I’ve heard them said before: sweet words dry up too soon,
Walter Sickert: Mornington Crescent Nude...
She reclines, half-silhouetted against the bright North London morning. Sheets, once crisp, now crumpled, lie in submission at her feet
The groundbass of the roaring roadway is overlaid by the rhythmic rustle of leaves, topped by a syncopated pigeon, the growl of a farmer sawing,
God Is A Verb
God is a verb, not a noun: 'I am who I am, I will be who I will be.'
Angled unnaturally in the chair, wild hair on the wings of his scalp, the Headmaster stares at the camera as if to threaten it for daring
Hue & Cry
Prussian, powder, ultramarine, cerulean and idanthrene, manganese, monestial, turquoise, navy, duck egg, royal,
Prisoner and escort glide into the rooftop station, as train wheels screech with sympathy against the check-rails.
The Mars Bar
(A friend's uncle once asked why there weren't any poems about Mars Bars. This is why.)
Nails glinting in the glow of candlelight,
she grips the bar and gently pulls apart
the waxy coal-black petals that surround
the glossy round intoxicating end.
Her fingers' friction pulls the wrapper down:
the rigid rough-cast bar appears erect;
the chocolate delight now in her hand