Counterweight

The poet who seeks his own fame

Who seeks to be

Outside of the establishment

But nevertheless

He wants to be thanked by them

For his dutiful service

The poet

Here in place of everyone

Who feels at odds with the world

Even at odds

Within their own world

Or looking at their own world

The poet

Then as the socialist worker

A justified struggle

By the poor

And the under-privileged

Yet what is the result

The unencumbered

Alternative

To be even more disenfranchised

Or instead to carry the load

With dignity

To become a pillar of society

Or to become

Entirely disillusioned

Or euphoric in joy

Is there here

Half a story

Or even any story at all

In any case

Would we, or could we

Understand how to reveal it

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Coventry City 3 Sheffield Wednesday 1

It's a funny old game, nine against eleven, and last year; two of our boys lost their lives on their journey home. So today, in their memory you play our signature song; Hi ho Sheffield Wednesday.

Your fifteen thousand three hundred and thirty five supporters and our four thousand one hundred and fifty four travelling fans; they raise together in a humane and emotional tribute.

No wonder then that the unshaved stubble stands (on end) to attention here again now, as I watch the raindrops fall on to my windscreen, with my eyes softly focussed, slowly and thoughtlessly towards the endless oncoming traffic.

Later. I ponder about the American guy, sat across from me in the coffee shop; he is here tonight to talk to our cohort; about all things literary and publishing; I wonder; will he mention this commentary on our beautiful game.

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Autumn artefacts, oh my Hillman almanac

Did we ever have so much sunlight

I don't expect the inanimate objects

Can give me the answer, nevertheless

I feel you would be warmed

By the reflection in the blue glazed vase

Even now, as it is, empty of flowers

Or the clay formed hedgehog

With it's turned up nose cocking a snoot

At the Ivy and the swaying willow

And the Clarence cliff tea pot

Empty of function, it sits still

Lets the sun fall on its contemporary spout

The young girl, with a blue headscarf

She watches me, but as yet I have not started

To wonder what it is that she is thinking

In her plain gold frame

With a wide white cardboard border

Sunlight, sat here, yet going nowhere

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Words whispered on the breeze

The Wolds, up over the folded jackets

Of violins and strings galore

There through the flickered leaf

The video of the motor cycles roar

The stillness of the rolled up straw

Already giving birth to grass

If ever we should find silence

Would we could be so lucky to last

Up and down and pan

All around and all ways across the horizons

In the stillness of sleep

With a breeze from faraway offshore islands

You quietly began to talk

Of last nights film; about sliding off

From the edge of the world

About the contrasts

Between here and Kings Cross station

I listened with great intensity

To the comfort of your voice

I wanted you to talk forever

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Before and after the movies

You laugh at my eagerness

And completeness

My desire to reach dessert

You smile at my certainty

And surety, of the goodness

in Liquorice Allsorts

You fumble at my love

There open and tender

Touch me why don’t you

We walk in the night

You hold my hand under the stars

With a clear dark-sky wish

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