Irene C S ClarkHogg

Irene C S ClarkHogg Poems

I have a little mouse called Arthur
Who gnaws away inside my bones
He is armed with sharp incisors
And metal claws on all his toes.

His love was a raindrop
In the lonely desert sand.
The place that once was me,
Setting me free,

A woman gave part of her soul
That the being she created could be whole
Then having physical and spiritual form
As the sun arose a child was born.

I was born on the banks of the old river Tyne,
Where it wends its way east to the sea.
Past the pit heaps and coal tugs; the clang of the shipyards
Created fond memories for me.


Iron pipes that pierce the skyline.

“Forsooth maid, ” spake he,
“Hear now my true words.”
This varlet of a bygone age,
This sage, with heathen tongue.

A Glossa in honour of William Blake.

The Tiger

Colin Curry came acourting
Comely Countess Caroline
Craving cuddles, cool caresses
Choosing creepers,

As a child I dreamed of a fairy wood
Where I could visit, as each child should;
To learn of elves and castles of light,
Where witches brewed spells and flew in the night.

Bon Appetite

The world is my oyster, how shall I consume it,

Johnny was a vampire,
One of the ancient breed.
Some said, ‘They are born of woman,
But spawned by Satan’s seed.’

I will go out in a blaze of glory.
One day I will die, as now I live.
I do not know all the answers
But this promise I can give.

Africa Awakes.

Early morning: a mist enshrouded scene.

Mary Margaret Montigrew
Was looking rather fat
But over-indulgence in chocolate cake
Was not the reason for that

Come, Dance.

Come, dance with me beneath the moon,

This is in answer to Dee's challenge

I live near a small village
In a large cave beside a stream

The rainbow is a type of prism,
Or so all the scientists say,
A splitting of light in raindrops
After the storm we had today.

Oh, how I miss all my children
I do miss the small ones
And the very tall ones
And the in between ones.


Lead grey skies enfold like shrouds
To clothe the rain lashed mountain peaks
Birds huddle down with open beaks
Protesting to encroaching clouds.

I don’t want to be an Easter bunny
I think Easter is all rot
‘Cos those humans try to catch me
And put me in a pot.

Irene C S ClarkHogg Biography

I live in the North East of England with my husband, who is also a poet, three cats and two dogs. I have been a writer of poetry and prose for many years and enjoy experimenting with a variety of poetry forms.)

The Best Poem Of Irene C S ClarkHogg

A Degenerate Mouse Called Arthur

I have a little mouse called Arthur
Who gnaws away inside my bones
He is armed with sharp incisors
And metal claws on all his toes.

Today was warm, so Arthur rested
Silly me, I thought he slept
Then, just as I felt complacent
From his hidey-hole he crept.

He's gone to stir up his relations
They're scattered all about my frame
Every year his clan increases
I know them, every-one, by name.

Arthur lives high in my neckbone
He scrambles up and down my spine
Neville nests in my right shoulder
On the other perches Constantine.

My hands and feet are full of mouselets
In my elbows reside Nan and Nell
My knees are getting overcrowded
There's a nesting shortage, I can tell;

'Cos sometimes Arthur's awfully angry
Then daft ideas get in his head
He bites through my electric cables
And makes my arms and legs go dead.

But, I haven't got much time for doctors
Dispensing pills and quaint advice
Conjuring up obscure diseases
When I know it's just my mice.

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