Happy Christmas!

Christmas is about many things:










And, of course, a child born at just the wrong time to parents struggling to deal with an unhelpful government and soon to be refugees.




Night Trains





In daytime, a train journey is anchored by the scenery,
Visible river and industrial estate.
You might see an ornate narrowboat edging forward
Or a small red car manoeuvring into a tight space;
At least if some station names flash by in a blur
There were letters, they exist
The details work hard
Holding you back from flying off into
The unknown or Iceland. You are where what you see.

And the regular commute, even if sliding
Into the night, is clamped dead straight by habit,
The endorsed rule of office or home

But enter into an unfamiliar train at night,
Passengers silent or shouting, not even dark showing outside
But a mirror image of the train’s interior
Patterned seats, bland tables, preoccupied passengers
Trapped by their smartphones into writhing worlds,
But no sign of yourself, and you wonder
Where you are going , if anywhere, in what world if any.
No wonder the retreat into laptop homelands.

So different is the plane, where there are only two options,
Lesvos or death, the first being much more likely.

Night train

The Quiet

At 8:30 precisely on Christmas Eve, the family next door fell silent. The loud music had been belting out for nine hours, interspersed only by yelling over the thump of the music and the sound of something heavy falling on the floor.


But suddenly – nothing. Not even footsteps.


Leroy looked at his girlfriend. They shared a tentative glance. He spoke:


“It’s quiet, Carruthers – too damn quiet.”

Not a poem

That ought to make a lot of people read it.

Well, I haven’t been writing much poetry lately, though this is something written for a small, friendly writers’ group that could easily be poetry.

I thought it best not to use a picture with this since it’d push people’s understandings in particular directions. Make your own mind up what’s happening.



Consciousness: a kind of moving light. Aware of the light moving in the darkness. I am the light. Am I?

I am. I’m conscious. I’m somewhere. I’m aware of my body, a dull, vague casing round the bits that see, the bits that hear, the bits that think, the bits that clasp.

I move my arm.

I’m lying on something. Lying face down. Not so dark when I move my head. My arm aches. I hear a regular sound, soft, rasping, reassuring. Cat purring, mother breathing. Waves. The sea. I smell salt tang. I’m lying on a beach. There’s sand stuck to my face.

What’s that? Something blurry. A building? It has meaning. I should get to it.

I don’t want to move.

I’m seeing clearer. I push myself to rise on my elbows and move forward. My elbows sink in damp sand. A pebble pokes at my thigh. I reach the thing. It has a message


Should I carry the message somewhere? Where, then? I was going somewhere.

Sand is sticking to my shirt. I’m wet.

Who am I? Stupid question, boy. I am me. I am that I am. I am the monarch of all I survey. Sand, pebbles, lost seaweed, a plastic bottle, a flip-flop rising out of the sand like a sinking ship.

The sand around it is smooth, then rough.

Something is angry. That’s a gull. More gulls. Raucous cackles and shrieks.

Something is pushing me into the sand.

I know that. It’s my heart beating. It beats much faster than the sea.

I can see a bit further now. This is a beach. But no girls in bikinis, no fat men, no yelling kids, no barking dogs. What time of year was it?

I’m not wearing shoes. Or socks. Sand rasps and tickles my feet. Why didn’t I notice that before? Sensations returning slowly, top to bottom. Front to back. East to west.

There is a big, dead animal on the beach, its stiff arms outstretched.

It’s a long way off. Can I stand up? Nothing broken, just this huge sensation of weakness, of everything I try to concentrate on slipping away.


That wasn’t so hard. I can see trees now, higher ground. Alternate universe. Alternative?

STAND. I’m standing. Careful. To walk, put one foot forward. Shift weight to that leg. Move other foot beyond first one. That’s the way to do it. Who said that? Edwards. Who was Edwards? Do I have to tell Edwards? I can repeat it: EXTRA KRACHT BLEEKMIDDEL. Good boy.

I can walk. The soft sand tries to stop me. My feet sink in. What I push against shifts. But I move. The dead animal is closer.

I can feel wind. It’s cold. It’s in my face.

It isn’t a dead animal after all. I know this: it’s a tree trunk. A tree that fell into the sea and drowned, its trunk picked clean of bark, its leaves fallen away. The pale grey wood is smooth, very smooth. I can hear the secret hiss of my fingers running along it.

Can anyone else hear it? I must be quiet. I must be invisible. If I sink in the sand I can disappear. The sand tickles. The sea is salt.




Some bloggers pretty much blog as if they’re talking to their best friend. This seems to be much more common among women than men. So some personal conflicts, hopes and fears, some things about relationships and childhood memories, come along with whatever that person is most interested in. Their readers can feel they’ve got a pretty rounded picture of the blogger. Quite possibly they haven’t really and one thing life has taught me is that if one person gives you a picture of a relationship or an argument, it’ll look different from the other side. To tell it how you see it is entirely honest, but how someone else sees it might be worth looking at too.

Some bloggers, women or men, talk about the things they’re interested in – maybe only one of them, travel, golf, heavy rock, politics, poetry, science fiction, cars, Buddhism, gardening, architecture. You learn very little about the rest of that person.

This is a poetry blog. I had another blog until I lost access to it after my last computer crashed, but it was a blog of satirical writings mixed with arguments about moral and political issues. So I’m very much in the second camp. I don’t feel a need to open myself out to people I’ve never seen. On the whole, I don’t want to. You can argue that poetry is about all sorts of things, the whole world (so is politics) and it’s intensely personal, but it’s feelings and perceptions through a prism. Not sure if that’s a good image or rubbish. Anyway, a poem is not a confession.

Nonetheless, I thought I’d widen the scope of this blog a bit and say a little about myself. So here are some of the things I HATE, with the things I really feel passionately negative about left out. In other words, these are big dislikes.


Tomato ketchupketchup


tinned tomatoes

penguin suits (aka formal dress)

people who laugh at their own jokes (I did that once myself and nearly killed myself – a story for which this blog is not quite ready)

jargon that has no clear meaning (e.g. “the modernisation agenda”)

belching (I have a more nuanced attitude to its sister sound)

foreign holidays where foreigners are kept to a minimum

people who drive at forty miles an hour along a good road without passing opportunities when the limit is sixty, but then pass a 30 limit sign and proceed at forty miles an hour and out of sight.

gushing introductions, spoken or printed, to poets, which on reflection tell you absolutely nothing to distinguish poet A from poet B.

toilet/washrooms in semi-public places (restaurants, cafes, pubs, meeting halls, offices, sports venues) that offer you an opportunity to wash your hands in a washbasin, provide a soap dispensers that works and covers your hands in a soapy gel, but also provide taps that then turn out not to dispense any water.

I think that’s enough for now. I might even list some big likes. What are your big dislikes (similarly leaving out things people genuinely feel passionate about)? Let’s hear them!

In the Dark Wood



Cross over the steep-sided stream in the dark woods
Where three thick branches offer a dry passage;
There’s little understory and the trees’ green leaves
Are high. The chaffinch’s jangle is distant. Follow the track.
Climb. The shadowed pond will be on your right. Then left
Past the almost-dead great oak and where the hollies grow
Find it: a broken square of smoothed brick, an odd hump.
Here when the hornbeam and cherry were young
You lived.



In the richer countries, people live largely protected from the seasons. Food supplies don’t fail in winter, central heating is pretty reliable and when a village is cut off by snow for a few days it’s big news. We (I mean the majority, not people who are poor) can get summer any time we like at the end of a flight. Spring means longer daylight and maybe some green shoots in the garden. Autumn means leaves on the pavements. August means school summer holidays and the start of the football season.

All this of course is from a temperate zone, northern hemisphere perspective, but the same sort of thing can be said anywhere. A rainy season means less if the road surfaces are good and you’ve got a car.

Yet the succession of the seasons is dug deep into the language and consciousness of most peoples.

Here’s a poem I posted a long while ago.


At the completeness of the year
Yellow, scarlet, claret, orange flare
One dissolves in the other, unique colour,
Beech, dogwood, spindle, aspen, elm
Blazing dead fronds of bracken. Robins still sing.
Last swallow lingers.
Soft damp, a hint of fertile rotting
Cold, sharp, a sense of winter’s hardening
Tumult of migrants misted in the air.

Past the long changing wood
The road runs fast, cars jockey,
Schedules are met, business done
And the computers speak
Of golden beaches in the sun.

Like other seasons, autumn looks back and forwards.

I was thinking about the seasons recently because suddenly, in late July, a whole lot of birds suddenly stopped singing. They were singing and a few days later they were all silent, yet I knew even the summer visitors wouldn’t have left yet. They were there, but silent, and therefore largely invisible. At about the same time the common small butterfly the Gatekeeper went from none to dozens round most bramble bushes.


And for once I was more interested in the cricket than the opening football matches (I prefer cricket, but the start of a new season is always fascinating). To save Australian blushes I won’t mention what was holding my attention at Trent Bridge…

Next time, a new poem. Promise.

The flexible villanelle

I’ve written before about the villanelle, that very strict verse form (all lines rhyme, only two rhymes used, two lines repeated many times) that sounds ridiculous but is extremely powerful in Dylan Thomas’ “Do not go gentle into that good night” (that’s one of his repeated lines; the other is “rage, rage against the dying of the light”). I tried out one myself and commented that it ended up rather more mournful and fatalistic than I wanted.

Well, I’ve written some more villanelles. CAUTION: WRITING VILLANELLES CAN BE ADDICTIVE. There’s one other serious one. But I thought: someone saying the same things over and over again. What does that sound like? Three of the answers I came up with were:

# A politician of a certain sort (Fascist, say) making a speech.

# An old-fashioned comedian with his familiar stock-in-trade phrases.

# A bore in a pub who has cornered a listener.

I’ve written villanelles to fit all three. Here’s the bore in the pub. For reasons of credibility and verisimilitude, there’s some bad language.



Did I tell you I used to be in oil?
You don’t mind if I scratch this awkward itch?
It literally makes your blood to boil

The way they treat the sons of their own soil.
She had it in for me, the snooty bitch.
Did I tell you I used to be in oil?

I used to be the right-hand man of Doyle
But last year I slept one night in a ditch.
It literally makes your blood to boil.

They used to say, “It’s him!” like I was royal
That stuff was really mine, but some cheap snitch…
Did I tell you I used to be in oil?

The shit who sacked me looked like a gargoyle,
I told him about her and queered her pitch!
It literally makes your blood to boil.

What did I get for all my fucking toil?
You know me, right? I should be fucking rich.
Did I tell you I used to be in oil?
It literally makes your blood to boil.

I’m guessing not many villanelles are like that. It turned out less light than I’d planned: here’s a guy who’s obviously brought about his own downfall, but he lacks the saving ability to admit it was his own fault and remains consumed by resentment – which he visits on anyone who can’t get away. So it is a kind of tragedy.

A Serious Concern

In a village I often drive through, there’s a sign advertising CANINE BARBER.

Dog face

Dog face

Now I’m one of the least prejudiced people around, but I’d rather my hair was cut by a human.

The Politician Bites Back



You’re not interested?
If someone demolished your house, perhaps then
Yes, OK, but not your neighbour’s house
Seeing the properties are all detached.

We’re all just in it for ourselves? Correct.
Promotion gets turned down, the kids complain, but
It makes me happy when what I did
Makes someone less likely to die
When injustice falls
And we chisel through lies.
So like the others I’m in it for myself.

We’re all the same?
Right on the nail.
My opponent attacks
Immigrants and scroungers;
I attack
Making of poverty and deserts.
Much the same.

We don’t tell the truth?
You couldn’t be more right.
We half-say, suggest, hedge.
We’re smooth: we tell half the truth.
But if I roughly told the whole truth,
Would you hear?