Chrome and Glass

I would stand on a hill in Umbria
hoping for an early glimpse
of the wild boar

I would sit in the shade
of unfamiliar trees
by the pool,
sip a cold beer
and watch you swim towards me,
glistening in the bare sunlight
scattering tiny rainbows

I would breath in the scent of wild thyme
and woodsmoke,
watch the swallows dart and chase
through the lessening light
see the stars appear
in the valley below

If I were in Italy right now
Instead of Milton Keynes
Instead of in this Novotel
Instead of in this restaurant
Instead of at this small table
writing this poem
and waiting for my pudding

It's a radio opportunity. Check out Radio Blog

Swimming Pool Tear

When you wrote me that letter
Saying goodbye
A swimming-pool tear
Fell from my eye

It splashed on the floor
It flooded the room
It drowned my dog
Of an afternoon

The salt water stream
Ran out on the street
Like the rush of a stranger
You don’t want to meet

It ran down the drain
With a choke and a sigh
Like the words on the letter
When you said goodbye

Fancy being on the radio? Check out Radio Blog

A New Blog

Well, I'm back from my travels and will be doing the rounds later, visiting blogland. I expect everyone will have done lots of amazing things, started lots of new and fascinating discussions, written new poems and fallen in love, fallen out of love and probably fallen over. I wrote a few poems while I was away - so I'll hopefully be knocking them into shape and posting some of them here.

Meanwhile I was talking to a friend of mine who's a radio producer and we thought it might be fun to write something for the radio based on blogging. Maybe a play, a drama, a comedy - maybe a soap. Then we thought - why not create a blog for that purpose and use it as the basis of the programme. And that's what we've done. It may work - it may not. But it should be fun.
So if you'd like to contribute visit Radio Blog

Wonky Journeys

Just a quick note before I leave for Cornwall (not Devon at all) and the last stint of the current school visits - mind you, I'll also be looking up a couple of old friends.

Great reaction to Wonky Finger! You can read a fab review at The Utility Fish Shed - thanks to CJ. And some equally fine comments from Liam at The End of the Pier Show

Meanwhile - had a very funny poem sent in to the
Poetry Zone by Asley Iam (aged 12)

Rose are red
Violets are blue
The zoo called
They're looking for you

Usually I don't post these Roses are red type verses because they're not very original - it must be the corniest little Valentine's verse ever. But here's the challenge. Can you come up with an original one? Something new?

Back next week when I hope to visit everyone's blogs and catch up with all the thrilling news here in Blogland.

Travelling Poet

I’m off on my teaching travels for the next couple of weeks – Milton Keynes, Wolverhampton, Devon, Rainham – all over the place – spreading the word in schools. I’ll try and do a bit of blogging in between times – but may not manage it. If I haven’t dropped by your blog for a while – or if I don’t visit in the next couple of weeks - forgive me. Hopefully I can catch up on all the blogging news when I return.

Below is a poem I published nearly year ago when I began this blog. New readers might enjoy it.

And also to say that you can now listen to some samples of Wonky Finger on the Rabbit Press website. Let me know what you think.

See you soon.

Regrets

Regrets?
I’ve had a stack.
Too many to mention, really.
Girls in the main.
They say that it’s a knack
I never was a flirt
I mastered that too late.
A shame.
I could have taken centre stage
Won them over with a well-worked speech, I’m sure
Or hammed it up
Or dazzled with a fancy line of dialogue
Or pratfall (actually I tried that – just got hurt)
My mind was dancing
My head was thinking of the craic
For that’s what being young is for
In truth I was too self-absorbed
Assembling the programme
I didn’t see the exit sign
Above the door

Cider House Days

I remember the cider house
Where the ring roads met and circled
Where I met Sam

There was little joy there
Where the old boys with the sour apple scent
Sat at the wet wooden tables

And the desperate laughter
Getting more maniac with every sip
More intense

Until we tripped arm-linked hell-bent
Into the high-pitched singing air
of Birmingham