Two Poems

Billy Elliot

When I was a boy
I hardly knew what was what
Unlike Billy Elliot
Dancing, spinning, spiralling
Through the heaven
Of the Victoria Palace Theatre
Bending the imaginations
Of the stalled audience

But are my tears
For a childhood lost
Or a life beginning?
And am I really any wiser?

For Paul

Your sadness
Overwhelmed us all
Drove us from the road
Upturned us in a ditch

Your new love?
You wrote songs for her
But she betrayed you, lied
Took all your loving
And sold it for a silver hammer -
Bitch!

Moveing

I dreamt I was moveing
That’s how Americans spell the word.
Well, in this dream they did.

This dream was not of blood
Nor of swimming in a crimson lake
Of paint
Which in a dream is a symbol
For death
Nor was the dream
Of a blood-dripping moon
A symbol
For sex

The dream was of a word
The word that is a symbol
Moveing, travelling
From here to America maybe
A misplaced person
And then, as often happens, the dream woke me

I am woken by the letter e!

I travel to the bathroom
Try to get back into the house of Nod
The roosters are crowing
Even though the sky is still black
And Jill turns on the light to read
And this odd poem is nagging me
To be written down

There! It’s done!
Now maybe I can go back to sleep
And dream about
A misplaced f

Word Break

Here in France
I am relaxing
And reading a poetry book

And look -
I don’t want to appear
A sanctimonious git but
I do believe that a poet
Should be able to spell the word
Ukulele

Et se laissant tomber
Dans une expression Française
Hors du bleu
Est-ce que c'est vraiment nécessaire?

Meanwhile
It’s nearly suppertime
And the smell of rabbit stew
On the stove
And scent of burning logs
And the lost beetle
Buzzing round the room
Looking for a new bolt hole
Pretty much
Says it all