Date(s) - 22/05/2020 - 06/06/2020
Suffolk Poetry Society will be sharing work from their membership with us over the coming weeks with a new poem being added at approximately weekly intervals. www.suffolkpoetrysociety.org
After a working life in local government John attended an evening class on creative writing in 2003. He fell in love with poetry, attended all the adult education classes he could and then obtained a degree from The Norwich Art School. He has published three pamphlets.
Watch His Lips
Faced with a choice of the ventriloquist or his dummy,
I like the dummy. His eyes are brightly alive whereas
the ventriloquist seems self absorbed. I say seem
because he doesn’t say much. Besides, the dummy has
the gift of the gab and smiles. The ventriloquist cuts
only a flinty grin. It is as if he is still struggling
to remember his lines. Meanwhile the dummy works
the audience, tells jokes and shares anecdotes.
With him we are at ease.
It doesn’t matter that he isn’t politically correct,
often direct, and says things as he finds them.
Sometimes he insults us, calls us names and swears.
We feel we can trust him. And when he speaks to us
in confidence he winks, deliberately lowers his voice
to keep the ventriloquist from hearing anything
he shouldn’t. We can’t help but think if he would drop
the man altogether and stand for Parliament, then
we could vote for him.
Colin lives in a no-man’s land between Dunwich and Walberswick on the Suffolk coast, where he garners most of his poetry ideas from birds and sand and sea and gorsey heath, and his increasingly elusive memories. He has published in various magazines, including The Rialto, South, Magma and Southlight, among others.
spill onto pastures and pavements
in threes and fives and nines
like loony toons, or comic hooligoons,
yacking their consonant cackle
ragpie, slagpie, snagpie, shagpie,
hagpie, bagpie, lagpie, nagpie
glossy mag grackles,
who recklessly presage
woe or wealth, birth or bliss,
with numerical prank predictions
bawled in black and white
pumped-up politicos, platform foppets
in rented tails and tuxedos,
who strut over mud to blot their copy,
beak-tweak their undies in public
and thieve our bauble beliefs
with their crack-pot promises
put paid to you, plaguepies!
II Spanish Sparrows
scram, cheap cheep
you cavalier café crowd,
bitchy boyband bohemians,
and panhandling pimpsters –
be done, belief-beggared busybodies
tale-telling townies –
scoot, you natty zapatistas,
puffed up pesetas,
with hussy cousins
and tatty tanned sisters –
clap! the prattle-pack scatters,
couldn’t care nada
’cause not a jot matters
to the twit-twaddle tweeters