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.

Suburbia on Sea

Raining

Pelted windows

Gurgling down the drainpipes

Fast flowing rivers in gutters

Flooded gardens

Water pooling in the rosebeds

Settling on the bin lids

Suburbia

On sea.

We've had a few hard downpours lately...

In Twenty Five Years

It's twenty five years since Euro 96 and the last time Wembley hosted England v Germany in a tournament game.

In penalties and heartbreak
In phantom goals and pain
In hope that crumbles into dust
And washed away with rain
 
In hope and dream co-mingled
In football coming home
In records that write of failure
In an ever growing tome
 
In all our patient waiting
In a quarter century
In another twenty-five years gone by
A silverware anniversary

A Shot In The Arm

Hope is in the air

Confidence building daily

A shot in the arm

My wife and I both had our first vaccine doses this week. I had AZ whilst my wife had Pfizer today. I had a day or so of fever and a general fluey feeling but supposedly Pfizer has few side affects. It remains to be seen what difference the vaccines actually make against covid, but we will find that out in time I'm sure. 

It's hard not to feel the general vibe of confidence in the air though I'm not sure how much the warmer weather has to do with that. I took the baby out for a walk at the weekend and was stopped a couple of times for a chat by some of our elderly neighbours. Their attitudes were almost childlike and they seemed thrilled to be outside and interacting with others. I can understand where they are coming from.

I do hope that this is not a false dawn, and that even though future outbreaks are likely, they remain short and flat.

Also added are a couple of  photo's from my walk at the weekend, from Frank's Park, near Belvedere.

Snooker and a Poem - "Crowds"

I've been watching the closing stages of the World Snooker, and its marvellous to see crowds back in to watch. I don't think I realised, until now, how much a difference it can make to an atmosphere, even watching it on TV. It would be lovely to think that this marked the beginning of things getting back to normal, at least in some capacity. We shall see. But greatest of all is to see the man who always sits in the corner, at the front, is back in his seat again after a year away.

The shouting is loud
It shivers down my spine
The roars of the crowd
Says that it may be a sign

That the return to normal life
Might now be coming true
Though it rests upon a knife
We've almost made it through

Sport doesn't really work
If there's no-one there to watch
To sigh, or go beserk
At triumph, or when they botch

So can we really dare
To hold our hopes high when
The man who's always there
Is back in his seat again

NaPoWriMo Day 30 - "Fairy Folly"

The final prompt:

And now for our final (still optional!) prompt. Today’s prompt is based on a prompt written by Jacqueline Saphra, and featured in this group of prompts published back in 2015 by The Poetry Society of the U.K. This prompt challenges you to write a poem in the form of a series of directions describing how a person should get to a particular place. It could be a real place, like your local park, or an imaginary or unreal place, like “the bottom of your heart,” or “where missing socks go.” Fill your poem with sensory details, and make them as wild or intimate as you like.

It was tricky really finding the inspiration within one day for this and I've probably ended up with something a little generic at least in terms of concept, but I hope the rhythm is interesting. I apologise for the length:

If you go to seek the fairy queen
You must be sure, you must be keen
For a special journey you must take
To seek out that fairy queen
Then you must be very keen

Turn off right at the old oak tree
Never turn left or you will not see
The fairy queen that you desire
Be sure of your way at the old oak tree
If a magical world you want to see

And when you pass the patch of holly
Avoid its prickles, no gosh and golly
For to sneak up upon the fairy queen
You will need silence at the patch of holly
Don't let them hear your gosh and golly

You may feel sleepy at the three grey willows
But don't lay down with rocks as pillows
Don't fall for the fairy queen's magic
Turned three witches into three grey willows
And they'll use your head for their own pillows

Then you'll come to an open glade
Where you must weave daisies in your braid
If you wish to fit in at the fairy queen's court
But don't you wander in that open glade
And never use buttercups in your braid

Now push yourself through a hedge of loam
And you will find that fairy queen's home
But do beware as she won't let you leave
From that palace in the dark in the hedge of loam
(near the glade, past the willows
near the holly, past the oak)
That you in your folly must now call home