1. A Potion to Perk up your Cat
Two co-ordinates of brimstone
A pinch of bum fluff
Bromide of batswallop (one tspoon)
Some magnocartesian of balsam
A liberal sprinkling of nightjar pickles
A shake of powdered feather quills
A smidgeon of linctus of Sodom
A grinding of barn owls' toenails
A soupçon of badger poo essence
2.The Honeymooners
Blackpool was my parents' choice for honeymoon
After a long engagement, strictly observed
My mother's moral compass…N for No
A photo shows them striding out together
Father, forceful and handsome
Mother's perm tucked into her rain mate
A recently deflowered flower
The Tower looms over them,
That monster of Freudian shadows
My brother was conceived here,
A stick of human rock stamped ‘Made in Blackpool'
2. Three Swans Drinking
Three swans drink from a puddle
Unperturbed by crocodiles of tourists
The swans are wearing grey galoshes
Black eye-masks dovetail into their orange beaks
Starred with yellow leaves the puddle's a window
Onto the jet glaze of the tarmac road
Swan-bills snap-lap the water, left to right
Their necks contorting like a tuba's plumbing
Their midnight eyes each hold a spark of fire
3. Mr Charon's Cargo
The hammers of the heart
Continue to thump out the old one-two
Although veins thicken, cells dissolve
Silk stockings, chiffon days
Give way to granny shoes and thermal vests
Ravens croak in the honeysuckle
Bulletins warn of cracks and unsafe architecture
I have become a patch up job
The sour mouth of Winter spits into the wind
Something familiar, warty, whiskery
Is mumbling in the queue
Is biting into a doll
Is unpicking its stitches and stuffing
Mr Charon, the pier is need
Of a clean sweep
4.Hans Christian Anderson
Hans Christian Anderson was born in a slum
With his eyes half-shut he walked
He was thin as a reed with a concave chest
Like a monkey-man he hopped.
Dickens modelled Uriah Heap
On Anderson (always whingin)
An poor old Hans paid sex workers
To talk to him, a virgin
He'd a fear of open spaces
And of being buried alive
He stuffed his chest with newspapers
And wrote stories to survive
5.Isaac Newton
Sir Isaac Newton was said to have an obsessive love of red
Crimson settee
Crimson cushions
Crimson drapes
Crimson curtains
Crimson chairs
Crimson bed
Crimson walls
Seeing red?
6.Delicacies
Aristotle dined upon camel meat
Fried pregnant cicadas he loved to eat
Pliny the Elder, historian
Ate hare-balls laced with the blood of men
Howard Hughes sucked chocolate bars
As he pointed his toenails up to the stars
But models must supper on air slipped in
With a lettuce leaf, to keep them thin
7.Aberdeen 2014
No crocodiles lumber along our river banks
Nobody here walks barefoot, head erect
Bearing a basket of yams beneath dark skies
The sea is a train that always runs on time
In winter, its carriages are cooler
Extinct wolves cannot blow the houses down
Not even the urban fox has got that puff
Forget lush palms, the smell of frangipani
Lampposts bloom like snowdrops through the haar
Exotic saris are buried by mountains coats
Gold sandals set aside for faux-fur boots
Goliath of shipping, oil tankers, glut the harbour
Blond, blue-eyed Euro-citizens chatter in Slav
Ours is a Spartan town, ancient in seats of learning
Its virtue is endurance across time
8.When I am travelling on a train
When I am travelling on a train
Then lists of words come skipping
Like minxes, sphinxes, lynx and jynx
And others, gaily tripping
A daisy chain of verbiage
Words rumble out with ease
Like buttermilk and billygoat
The poetry disease!
9.The Poetry Lesson
‘5 minutes to chat to a friend'
I told them. ‘The theme today is reflection.
On someone with whom you've had a close connection.'
A black eyed boy with Byronic hair
Told of a runaway wheelchair. We had to laugh!
Another, spoke of Husky pups in Alaska.
Teenage banter flew like harvest chaff
So it went on at a tangent until
A tentative hand rose up,
Apologetically. ‘It's a bit deep really
When my friend was two, her father left
She's never seen him since.
She pretends he's there, all the time
Even a made-up father's better than none.'
The thin sun struggled to warm the chilly room
‘Is that what you mean, Miss, by the word reflection? '
I had opened a running sore with a single word
How deep and aching the cut of such rejection.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem