Shane

You set me spinning

A wizard of mastery

and mystery

Joyous to watch

Your skill and enthusiasm

To be bamboozled by googlies

Flustered by flippers

To be treated to a masterclass

Every time

And now, never again

Will we hear the words

'Bowling Shane'

Brings a tear to my eye

Never again that zinc cream smile

Sits heavy in my chest

Though I wanted to

I could never bowl as well as you

But there was no one better

To emulate

No one better to hate

In all those Ashes defeats

And no one better to miss

Not that we wanted to so soon

Another Channel Tragedy

I'm just going to leave it at this, because really, there is nothing else to say:

Hopes dashed
Like their bodies
Trying to escape death
But finding it, wet and tugging
Drowning

Choice - for National Poetry Day 2021

This my poem for National Poetry Day, inspired by their theme of ‘Choice’.

I have tried to think about ‘What is choice?’ And ‘Who has it?’

Choice is a word that is used a lot in the modern world, especially since the opening of privatisation and free markets in the UK. We are told that we can choose all sorts of things, but do we really have choice, or is this just an illusion.

Having said that, in the western world we have much more choice around our everyday lives than those in other countries, but even here large amounts of the population do not really have choice.

In the backdrop of Sarah Everard, can any woman really say that they have the choice to walk alone anywhere at night?

In the wake of Black Lives Matter, can any person of colour really say that they have the choice to follow certain careers or be comfortable in certain places?

In the current energy crisis that hits the UK, and the loss of a large number of energy companies, who can honestly say that they have a real choice in who provides their gas and electricity?

And in the wake of Covid, how many people can say that they’ve had a choice in the way they work from now and into the future? Is homeworking possible? Is it enforced?

The key to choice comes with power, privilege and control. None of us will really have choice until we are able to harness all of these to some degree.



Freedom
Comes from choices
As we are always taught.
Or are we caged in a cycle?
Upgrades.
Switching.
Renewal dates.
Comparison websites.
Where differences are miniscule
And our minds become swamped
What is a choice?
Power.
Control.
This is freedom,
To have power and control.
But for those who lack these
Means no freedom.
No choice.

NaPoWriMo Day 19 - "Super League"

The prompt:

And last but not least, our prompt (optional, as always). Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a humorous rant. In this poem, you may excoriate to your heart’s content all the things that get on your nerves. Perhaps it’s people who tailgate when driving, or don’t put the caps back on pens after they use them. Or the raccoons who get into your garbage cans. For inspiration, perhaps you might look to this list of Shakespearean insults. Or, for all of you who grew up on cartoons from the 1980s, perhaps this compendium of Skeletor’s Best Insults might provide some insight.

This was a prompt that sounded interesting and something I may try in the future. I have written similar type poems in the past but I kind of have to have something to specifically be angry about first. I have written about something which has frustrated me in the news this week. It's about the story of the European Super League, and I just hope that nothing comes of it. The poem is in the form of a Tanka:

With locust hunger
Devouring in arrogance
Mowing up the cash
Will the fans stand by and watch
Will humble pie be eaten

Homeschooling, Trump, and Two Poems

So, the homeschooling began this week. In a positive sense both the kids want to learn, however Isabel wants to do the whole term in a day and gets jealous when Freja gets attention, meanwhile Freja (with her limited vocabulary) needs a bit of extra help with explaining things.

All this is going on with the 11 month old trying to pull everything down, or clinging to us or screeching.

And all this going on with me working full time after having taken a lot of time off over Christmas.

Meanwhile, the Covid situation seems to be getting worse. I've read figures saying that 1 in 30 within London have tested positive, whilst the national figures have topped a thousand for four days running. It's pretty scary really. With the transmission rates being so much higher, I'm amazed that the lockdown is so much more lax this time around. 

The local car dealership appeared to be open today when I went out of a walk which amazes me. I mean, who wants to buy a car during a pandemic anyway?

But we're coping despite being exhausted and in a brain freeze. So, here's the first poem.

Pacing chocolate intake with no means of escape
Laying on the couch, trying not to stay in shape
Anxiety is the new normal state
Grilling Twitter for the latest Covid update
Understanding that there are better ways to live
Empty tank with very little left to give

If all of this wasn't enough, the crazy goings on happening in America just seem hard to fathom. How can it be that a President can be allowed to whip up this sort of situation of gangs breaking into the Capitol and attempting a coup?

It's not something I could ever imagine happening here, even by someone like Farage. It's going to take a long time to heal the wounds over there (and here of course) and across most of the world. 

We definitely appear to be heading into some sort of crunch position. Either humans are going to bring about some sort of cataclysm which only a few (or any) will survive, or we will find a way to pull back from the brink and maybe into a fairer world - one can only hope.

In light of this it was pleasing to see Trump removed from social media channels. Although, they themselves have to take some of the blame for the world being in the position it's in, for not blocking people's channels before this. There is so much hate being peddled there by so many, and yet they are allowed to carry on - some still denying Covid of course.

All this inspired another poem, another acrostic.

Tweeting no more lies to incite

Riots that attempted to

Undermine the democratic process

May we be thankful that his

Presidential days are almost over

Take care & stay safe

Out of Lockdown

Who wants to be out of lockdown?

Because we can't end this too soon.

Our safety is in the hands of a clown

Who wants to be out of lockdown,

Without a care if we swim or drown,

They're shooting for the moon.

Who wants to be out of lockdown?

Because we can't end this too soon.

Laureate

It's been announced that Simon Armitage is to be the new poet laureate in the UK. I've not really read much of his poetry, however I did read a book of his where he was walking part of the South West Coast path, and conducting poetry readings along the way.
He came across as fairly (for want of a better word) "normal" person for a poet. But then I guess when we, or I, think of poets we think of Byron & Keats, people who seemed somewhat self-destructive, and mired in that Romantic era.
Or perhaps Dylan Thomas, drinker and chaser of women, and again somewhat self-destructive. People who lived, and died, for their art. Passionate and unable to deal with their passions.
Somehow, this is how we expect poets to be. Penniless and living on credit, drinking away their demons, and dying in dark corners, unknown and obscure.
But all that is outdated, and a mythical stereotype. There are plenty of people who are good poets without having to live a wild life, or die a short one.
Armitage himself used to be a probation officer, and although he gave up a steady job to become a poet full time, it is a very ordinary sounding starting point, and in some ways shows there is a chance for all of us who have that creative urge, that if we practice and have patience, work hard and take a chance, then we can become recognised.
It also makes me think that I should be reading much more modern poetry (even if I rarely understand it), and at least try to soak up the rhythms and the essences that are entwined within it.
Anyway, here's a poem to celebrate the new laureate:

Ten years for a poet
Without early release
No chance of probation
When rhyming for Royals
In sentence coils

Those sherry bottles
To be drunk with disorderly words
In infinitives split
Over world events
Trying to make sense

Our leader in verses
Versus fake news
Storyteller of truth
In a post-truth age
Taking the stage