New Year Oh Six

In the grey sky above Vlissengen
A bird floats by
Chased by her own shadow
And the first flakes of snow

On the radio the top two thousand
Ploughs gamely on
And the New Year waits impatiently
On the corner of a scuddy snowy street

The wind is horizontal
Stinging snow and a rock and roll wind
Blows Jill’s brolly apart

The first thunderclaps and sonic booms
Rattle the Dutch rafters and chimneys
And the birds head for the country

Midnight and we raise our glass, whoop
Troop outside to witness the carnage of the old year
And the aerial bombardment begins
Screaming devils and heavy-duty explosives
And Jill says, We were so young when we met
We’re so old now

Cricket Poem 2

Riddle in cracker

How can a wicket keeper get you out?
The question

Had me stumped.

Christmas Eve

On Christmas Eve
it is so late
that even Mum and Dad
are fast asleep in bed

I stand at the top of the stairs

The house is warm
and the tree lights glow

I can smell mince pies
and anticipation

I make a wish

Pet Name

Your pet name for me
Is Elbow

You will often call my name
In my sleep

Walking

After midnight
Walking back to our hotel
Orange and brown
Plane leaves
Scattered on the wet pavement
You feel
A rush of happiness

Cricket Poem 1

Our captain said, Right! You stand at silly mid off.
I said, Okay. But wouldn’t it be better
If I stood at very silly mid off?
Billy said, Why don’t you stand
At stupid mid off?
Our captain said, No!
Just stand at silly mid off.
I said, Could I stand at ridiculous mid off?
Billy said, Why don’t you stand
At pants mid off.

The umpire, Mr Walton, said,
Just do it – or you’ll be on litter duty.
So I said, Silly mid off it is then.
Billy said, You could stand at…
The umpire, Mr Walton, said,
Billy! That’s enough!

Lines that Held Promise But Fizzled Out

If we could synthesise the background hum
At the British Library
We’d… um…

Telepathic Encounter

On the tube
I was thinking up a joke
And when I reached the punch line
The young woman beside me
Looked at me and grinned

Five Famous People Spotted in the British Library

Man, faded jeans and crumpled white shirt
Invented a code
Enabling computers of different races,
Religions and sexual persuasions
To talk to one another.

Woman, frizzy hair back from forehead
Low-slung scuffed leather bag
Wrote a series of mind-altering essays
On cytotoxic triterpenoids derivatives

Man, blue shirt, head down, muddy shoes
Turned conventional wisdom on its head.
Sells out at philosophical conventions
Obtuse and garrulous
Working on novel about Ba Jin Ba Jin

Man, Marcus Turuk (still wearing name badge
From yesterday’s meeting
With professor Huff and colleagues)
Inventor of over two hundred applications
For polycarboxlate cement

Man, Robbie Williams

Balls

I threw you the red ball
You tossed it aside
I threw you the yellow ball
You threw it in the fire
You weren’t in the mood
For imaginary catching

8

A pigeon
On a rainy slate roof in July
Composes a haiku

Under Construction 7

Do you ever feel sorry for inanimate objects?
The time you poured coffee into the cup with the teabag
And had to throw the teabag away?

Remember giving the last rites
To your favourite shoes?

The toilet roll that fell down the pan?

The hammer taken to Gran’s wardrobe.

The love letter that you found
By the bus stop?

Rupert

Today I am
drifting around town
in a small boat
searching for Rupert

Floating along flooded streets
watching the rats
swimming in the evil waters

I am scanning the rooftops
searching for Rupert
Looking for a lad
Stranded on a roof
dressed in red
waving his school bag

I have a ladder in this boat
But have not yet had
The chance to use it

I have rescued seven rats
Who, although very pleased,
Are all crouched nervously
In the stern
Keeping as far from Kenny
As they can

Under Construction 6

Don’t let your bits go to sleep
Be careful with your leg draped over the arm of the chair
Or you’ll stand up
And promptly fall over again
Like you did on Tuesday
Knocking the cup of hot chocolate, drinking chocolate
Over the new, cream carpet
And surprising the cat
Who leapt between Mum’s legs
Just as she was carrying the chain saw
From the kitchen into the back room
Dropping it and inadvertently turning it on
And sawing the TV in half

All I’m saying is
Be careful, that’s all.

Under Construction 5

Two slow crows
On the dawn road
Fly from the mist
Spreading joy

Green Frogs

We had green frogs once
They were a very rare kind
We had several thousand
because they kept on breeding
and Dad threatened to flush them down the toilet
so I crept downstairs
at midnight
and let them all go
You may have seen it in the papers
GREEN FROG EPIDEMIC
and they were poisonous
and lots of people died
but the authorities hushed it up

They always hush it up -
the authorities

Under Construction 4

Sometimes it feels like I haven’t a minute to myself
A minute for watching the birds
A minute to think
A minute to contemplate death
A minute to visit the map shop
A minute to lose myself in the view from the train window
A minute to see how the Su Doku turned out
A minute to wonder what that last crossword clue was all about
A minute that passes to fast or too slowly
A minute to fire up my lap top
A minute to lay a wreath
A minute to finish my drink
A minute to finish these words
Sometimes it feels like I haven’t a minute to myself

Rooks

Do the thousand roosting rooks
Have to say goodnight
To every member
Of their family
Before they turn in?

Under Construction 3

It happened on the 8.16 to Victoria
She approached me from behind
Like a gunslinger’s shadow
I glanced up
Saw black, spiky hair
A bag slung casually
Around her long, dark, open overcoat
She reached towards me
She wore a silver ring on her thumb
She had the mark of a professional
But also an individual
And I shivered
As her eyes met mine,
As she clipped
My ticket

Dad's Coming Home

Dad’s coming home tomorrow
And he always brings me a present
And my sister, Sally, too
And mum.
But I’m his favourite
And my presents are best
Once he brought home
Two tigers
They were tame tigers
A prince in India
Had tamed them
To hunt flamingos
Using a special method
We rode them on the lawns
Sally rode Saranga
And I rode Rajah
We had three races and I won two
You should have seen us
Flashing and roaring
Orange and black on the green grass
On the winner’s podium
I shook up a bottle of Coke
And sprayed everyone
And even the pigeons
Rose into the sky, applauding

Under Construction 2

He met her standing on the train
Victoria bound. She leant against him
As they swung into the curve
Approaching Haywards Heath

She whispered, Can you feel it?
Magic… you’ll not forget it
Stand below my balcony
And call me Juliet

I’ll unlock the gates of silver
That lead down to your dark thoughts
The basement of your wild dreams
And this the wildest yet

And this may be your last chance
To taste youth’s sweetest offering
For I am young and you are old
And death waits in the wings

And as the man passed with the trolley
Tinkling like tambourines
She slipped her hand inside his jacket
And found his hot damp skin

But then the train pulled to a halt
At Clapham Junction she was gone
He glimpsed her on the platform
The train continued on

He thought, I should have got her number.
Left the train at Clapham with her.
Maybe next time if I meet her
Maybe next time, maybe then…

But in a way was pleased he hadn’t
As he found a seat left vacant
As the train slowed for Victoria
And her touch began to fade

Under Construction

The young woman
(Ignoring the blue sky and passing greenery,
The misty vistas of an early Saturday morning)
Proceeds to transform her face
With a variety of Lily Lo products -
Brushes, powders, lotions.

After thirty minutes
Her spotty, pale face has given way
To unnatural pink
She paints on a scowl
Beneath the table I notice
Her heavy brown boots

When Skies Were Orange

Once in a long time ago
The skies were orange
Erupting volcanoes threw up
Small islands
into the dark sea
and the air was carbon dioxide and nitrogen

Once in a long time to come
The earth will fry
Or come to some other violent end

Right now I’m thinking
We are but tiny and brief
bursts of light.
And I watch you sleep
Naked beside me
In the hot night
Your back pain momentarily forgotten
And I listen to the seagulls
That interrupt my thoughts
And my mind swings to and fro

I Must Not Shoot Water at Mr Walton

I must not shoot water at Mr Walton
I must not shoot water at Mr Walton
I must not shoot water at Mr Walton
I must not shoot water at Mr Walton
I must not shoot water at Mr Walton
I must not shoot water from my Titan Mk2 Water Cannon
at Mr Walton
I must not shoot water from my Titan Mk2 Water Cannon
at Mr Walton
I must not shoot water from my really powerful Titan Mk2 Water Cannon
at Mr Walton
I am sorry I made you sopping wet, Mr Walton
I must not shoot water at Mr Walton
And the blast of water knocked you off your feet
and carried you half way across the playground, Mr Walton
I must not shoot water at Mr Walton
I must not shoot water at Mr Walton
That gun sure delivers a mean jet of water doesn’t it?
Wow!!! It was fantastic. It was brilliant.
But I am sorry you got wet, Mr Walton.
Really sorry.
And I’m really sorry I’m in detention writing lines
When I could be out in the playground
shooting my Titan Mk2 Water Cannon
Mr Walton – don’t mess
with the Titan Mk2 Water Cannon!!!

Dream

I sometimes dream of battles
The clash of steel on steel
And explosions
And I wake in the dark
To the angry voice
Of dad
The bashing and knocking
And clumping and swearing
And I pull the duvet over my head
And imagine a thunderstone
Rolling across the sky
Spitting sparks
And sloughing dragons
Whose wings
Crash against my window
With the hail and rain
But the wind
Gradually moves the thunderstone out to sea
And the air clears
And the dawn sun eases himself sulkily
Above the horizon
To the empty sky
And I fall back into a dream
Of peace

Metaphor Poem

He is a broken sofa
A bent branch of broom
He is a tune heard faintly in the early afternoon
A sprint, slowing, ragged for the Gatwick Express
A yellow plastic drawer
A visit to the soothsayer, dressed to impress
He is an ancient arrow head, caked with dried mud
He is words, chosen for their own sake
Lightly written in anything but blood
He is a zero, a mean nothing
A slight ache in the right wrist
A twinge after supper
Heavy eyelids
A grass snake on the edge of a dream
A distracted kiss
A mined seam

Secret World

You need a passport
To visit my secret world
Which you send for on the internet
Or you can get special permission
To make your own
As long as they stamp it
With their special gold stamp
Most people fly there
In a Boeing 999
But you can walk
If you know the secret way
I stumbled upon it walking Kenny
There was a gap
Where bits of the world
Don’t quite join up
Like that shirt my mum made
And Kenny found it
Looking for a rabbit and I followed him
The weather?
Very hot and sunny all the time.
Although I went in winter once
And it rained non-stop
When I got home
I told Mum I’d fallen in the pond
What’s it called?
Its name is secret.
No one knows it.
I could take you there if you like.
To my World Without a Name
If you take me to your other world
And make me laugh

Shouting at the Ocean

There’s no point shouting at the ocean
When you’re feeling low
The tide will still come in
It doesn’t want to know

It’s no good shouting at the ocean
Just because it’s there
You can yell, throw stones or kick the sand
The ocean doesn’t care

There’s no use railing at the ocean
If you’re angry or upset
The sea won’t even notice
It’s too busy being wet

For the sea has no emotion
It doesn’t hear you shout
It only listens to the moon
It just comes in and out

So if you’re hurt, upset or angry
Write down all you want to say
Then post it in the ocean
And watch your troubles float away

Branch

There’s a branch
Of a tree
That I see
From my window

Horizontal
A thick pencil mark
Across a tiny rectangle
Of sky

And on it sits a bird
Sometimes a crow
Black and sinister
Sometimes a pigeon

The pigeon is fat
Probably the only fat bird
On the estate
With its own private store
Of peanuts

Sometimes I see the pigeon
Sometimes the crow

As I lie in bed
In the morning half awake
Before I open my eyes
I sometimes wonder

Will I see the pigeon
Will I see the crow
Or will the branch be empty?

Why Off By Heart Missed a Beat

I was one of the heat judges for the BBC2 Off By Heart programme, part of the BBC’s Poetry Season.

I thought it was very disappointing. Sure, it was a very interesting look at the winners and their families but…

1 - despite the fact that 1000s of kids entered it and hundreds of schools supported it there was very little mention of either. How about showing some of the schools preparing for it and some of the other children who entered?

2 It was all about children entering a competition - but not made FOR children at all. It was on late (9 o'clock until 10.30)) and made for adults. It should have been FOR children. Or at least for families to watch.

3 Why are the BBC so scared of actually having someone recite a WHOLE POEM on screen. Why, in all these BBC Poetry Season films, has there been so very little actual poetry - so few poems read from beginning to end?

(And one of the very best bits of the season, I think, is the trailer when Phil Jupitus does recite a whole poem. In fact it's a very imaginative piece. I'd like to see more like that. I'd like to see lots of poets reading their poems.)

And finally - 4 - I'm fed up that everyone you ever hear talking on the BBC seems continually surprised that children enjoy poetry. They love it.

What do you think?

Staffroom Disaster

(for Moss Lane School)

It’s been that kind of day at school
When you know you just can’t win
The school cat has been sick again
And no biscuits in the tin

Lesson plans need updating
Reports, you still have plenty
The head teacher is on your case
The biscuit tin is empty

The school cloakrooms are flooded
We can’t find Michael’s shoe
No biscuits in the biscuit tin
Now what are we to do?

For when your class runs riot
And you cannot stand the din
Retreat into the staff room
And eat biscuits from the tin

When it’s a wet playtime
And it’s windy and it’s snowing
Custard creams and hobnobs
Are all that keep you going

So here I sit, all on my own
Feeling blue and wondering why
There are no biscuits in the tin
I think I’m going to cry.

Tattoo

I’d call him a big man
Swarthy and dark
And he sat in the seat in front of me
And wrote trouble in the air
And passengers avoided his eye

He spoke on the phone
He’d been to Brighton
To talk to the police
About the sneak thief
Who had stolen his briefcase

He would recognise him
He had a star tattoo
On his neck

I pulled up my collar
And sank down in my seat
And concentrated on the Metro
And finishing the difficult Su Doku

Cinquains

Cinquains
Can disappoint
They start promisingly
As each line grows, tension builds, then
They end

Iron Bars

There are iron bars
Around my house
A wall
Edged with barbed wire and broken glass

You say
But where?
It looks like any other.

I say, look!
There!

Mnemonics

You may be familiar with the mnemonic for spelling Mississippi.
Here’s one for Isis.

One snake
One snake

Or… on a similar tack - The River Thames.

Junction
Hut with chimney
Orange with a crutch
Two huts with no chimney
Moon with an eye
Snake

Devices

Oxygen by nasal tubes

We climbed to the top
Of Beachy Head
But I wouldn’t venture
Near the edge
For fear of sudden earthquakes

A needle in your neck
To determine your fluid levels

And I worry if the car
Has enough petrol
And if the digital read out
Predicting twenty-three miles
Is as accurate as they say

The blood pressure pads
Wind around your arm
And inflate every five minutes

But we rarely sulk
Or let the atmosphere build
I have been known to be grumpy
But I try to be positive

Three tubes into your arm
Feed you plasma, nutrients
And antibiotics

Sometimes we over-order
Indian food. Particularly
If we have visitors

Two tubes
Drain away the leaking blood
We have both experienced
This leakage of red and blues
Thankfully full Technicolor
Is fully restored

A catheter removes urine

The paper shredder is a great invention
And a boon to our office
Where we sit
And watch the sea, in two minds
Empty and refill the beach

Around your legs the dreaming tubes
Move like restless snakes
Keeping the blood flowing

You keep your computer on
Constantly
The whizzing dots on your screen saver
Never sleep

At night
My computer rests
Fitfully

Famous Philosphical Phrase

As Descartes originally wrote

I am fed-up
with French food, I think

therefore I am going out
for a nice curry.

(Part of which
was lost in translation.)

The Hospice Shop

Joseph said
He bought a new shirt
From the Hospice Shop

As well as shirts
It’s very good for pyjamas
And slippers

Not Arial, Not Times Roman

If I could invent
A font
I would call it
All Knowledge

Leaf

(for Adrian Mitchell)

As I was leaving Tesco’s
A man handed me a leaf
I held it gently by its stem
Turned it over
Inspected it

It seemed like an ordinary leaf
No blemishes, tears
Or distinguishing marks
The leaf was brown. No – orange.
With touches of red.
Many shades of colour in fact
I noticed the intricate network of veins
The leaf’s lightness
Its delicacy
Its perfect shape

I looked up at the trees
And thought of the billions of leaves
Clinging on, soon to fall
And thought of the billions of new leaves
That would come after winter
More than my brain could imagine

I let the leaf fall to the earth
Watched its curved flight

I thanked the man, picked up my bag of shopping
And walked home

(After Leaflets, by Adrian Mitchell. )

Wrap Up Warm

Shouting at the ocean is unlikely to halt the tide
Railing against the storm will only strain your throat
Crying into an empty bed will only make the night darker
Love may melt the coldest heart but on a winter’s day it’s much better to wear a coat.

Passion for Poetry

(Published in February’s Red House catalogue.)

I was thirteen years old when my Dad gave me an anthology by Arnold Silcock called Verse and Worse. It was full of parodies, jokes, limericks and all sorts of oddities - and I loved it. From spoofs of such classics as Browning’s How I Bought the Good News From Aix to Ghent (or Vice Versa) by the authors of 1066 and All That to nursery rhymes such as

Doctor Bell fell down the well
and broke his collar bone.
Doctors should attend the sick
and leave the well alone.

I found them all clever and fascinating. I recently bought a copy from a second-hand bookshop (Hurrah that there are still some left) to replace my copy, which, nearly fifty years later, is falling apart. I was thrilled to find it because it was Verse and Worse that inspired me to start my life-long poetry-writing career.

At school I had a brilliant English teacher called Mr Nichols. He helped me unlock the mysteries of Chaucer, Wordsworth and Shakespeare. Reading again The Rime of the Ancient Mariner still makes the hairs (those that are left) on the back of my neck stand up and try to run.

But my next big poetry adventure was the Mersey Poets, in particular Roger McGough. They were the English equivalent of the Beat Poets, riding in on the wave of Beatlemania, and bringing a rush of fresh air to English poetry. Roger McGough is probably still my favourite poet, writing as he does so brilliantly for both children and adults. He does funny; he does sad; he does wise; he does puns. And I do like puns - as much as I don’t like "getting a potato clock." (What a great poem that is.)

And today there are so many brilliant poets around. The amazing Billy Collins, so easy to read, so clever, so subtle; Simon Armitage; Carol Anne Duffy, and so many good children’s poets too, among the best being Michael Rosen, Children’s Laureate.

No time to read? Then why not keep a couple of poetry books by your bed to read before you turn out the light. Poems are short, packed with good things, they’ll make you think, they’ll make you laugh and they’re good for you. Children love them, even boys who prefer football to reading will often happily sit and read a good book of poems. If I’m preaching to the converted – great. If not buy yourself a few poetry books and find out what you’ve been missing.

Lesser Known Children's Games

Scribble
Tease the Tiger
Throw the Worm Over the Wall
Shout Monkey!
Who's Hidden Harriet?
How Far Can You Fall?

Hop Irish.
Skip Welsh.
Jump Over the Moat
Chase the Goldfish
Hurl the Spoon
Put the Coat on the Stoat

Last One Up the Chimney is a Sooty Beggar
Turnip Ball
Kiss the Rat
Snakes and Larders
Pancake Frisbee
Put the Hat on the Spratt

The Chocolate Fairy

Last night
The chocolate fairy
Came to my room
While I slept
And took away my chocolate.

My brother said, Yes –
You have to be very careful
Where you put your chocolate
When you go to bed
In case the Chocolate Fairy comes.

And so the next night
I hid it under my pillow.

In the night
I woke up.
Someone was feeling under my pillow.
It was my brother.

Just checking, he said,
That your chocolate is safe
In case the Chocolate Fairy comes.

And I thought, Hmmm…
I wonder if there’s
A Big Brother Fairy.

(This is from the collection I’m currently getting together for younger children.)

Three Pub Sonnets 3

A slant of sunlight on the time-worn wood
An old boy reads his paper in the snug
The landlord dreams of days when life was good
In the saloon Gran’s longing for a hug
The horse brasses hang from a smoke-stained beam
No Smoking notices offend the eye.
Where once trains stopped with gentle sighs of steam
Trucks on the carriageway go roaring by.
Now through the hallowed doors come Bob and Liz
“Have you got Sky? Man U are on tonight.
Some prawn and mayo crisps, an alcofizz
And as for me – I’ll have a lager LITE.”
“We’ve none of those things, sir, oddly enough...
And so... might I suggest you both sod off?!”

Three Pub Sonnets 2

The noise subsides, the chatter settles like
The Guinness on the bar. Loud speakers rattle
Optics. Says Jim, into the booming mic,
Welcome to the quiz. Ten teams will battle
For the prize – a jug of ale and five
Crisp ten pound notes. Ready? Okay, let’s go!
What is the capital of Uruguay?
Frustrated groans – and cheers from those who know.
An argument erupts. Who won the darts
In 1980? John Lowe did, Dad shouts.
Gran whispers Eric Bristow. Says Dad – Don’t start!
You’re pants at sport! Gran sulks into her stout.
And when the quiz is won by “Right Says Fred”
Gran, proved right, decants the stout upon Dad’s head.

Three Pub Sonnets 1

I’m sorry that I have to break the news.
But I’m afraid things aren’t as they appear
And seemingly straightforward things confuse.
You do sell spirits, cider, wine and beer
Your customers, upon those fancy stools,
Do moan or boast of bloody conquests past
Or talk about the game and why the rules
Are wrong. But that’s a cocktail in that glass!
Those rows of vintage wines, the skinny latte
Or decaff, the rolling news, the chef from France,
The art by Jean Pierre Antoine de Monet.
And whither the bar billiards? Or the darts?
Perchance you dream. Aye, there’s the ready rub.
You are a trendy wine bar. Not a pub.

The Poet Called Gorringe

There was a young poet called Gorringe
Who was after a rhyme for orange
With a tinge of regret
Said, I’ve not found one yet
As he sucked on a peppermint lozenge

Help

She came out of the house
Holding her broken jaw
Her husband
Helped her to the car
Arm around her
Protecting her from the prying neighbours
Who bang on the walls
In the early hours
When the whisky
Takes over

7

Around the corner
Sweep five sleek black limousines
Moosh, spelt in flowers

6

Five pegs – red, green, blue
Huddle on the line strung
Across the fire escape

5

A cup of coffee
The patch of sunlight creeping
Slowly round the bed

4

Waiting at Hayward’s Heath
The carriage lurches forward
Crumbs on seat

3

Clouds edge the horizon
The boat is two hours late
I can smell basil

2

My dog is lazy
Sometimes he moves his eyelids
As if to say, Hi

A Week of Haikus 1

A rectangle of white tape
Teaches horses
The value of geometry

The Boy Who Cried Wolf

You can watch the sky
And the wind patterning the grass
And try to understand the ways of sheep
But you’ll get bored
In the end
Or fall asleep.

Wolf! You cry out.
You blow your whistle, ring your bell,
Call the wolf hotline on your mobile phone
And the villagers come.
But there is no wolf.

Later, you try it again.
This time making it sound more urgent.
Come quickly. The wolf has carried off a new-born lamb!
The villagers come.
They are angry. You are sorry
But you know you’ll do it again
Before the long, dreary day is through.

And where the trees meet the slopes
As the evening fades
The wolves are gathering

Unseasonal Weather

Here, in the Loire Valley, snow.
A small English boy is amazed to learn
That sled is pronounced sledge.

Happy New Year

The radio tells me it’s the season
Of love and understanding
Which is a great relief
After the preceeding season
Of hate and incomprehension

...................................................

Snowbound in France right now with dodgy internet connection. But hopefully normal blogging service will resume soon. Happy 2009.