[Note from Ash: Vicky is away from her PC today. She's in London for National Poetry Day experiencing the companionship of poetic greats such as Roger McGough, Grace Nichols and Jamie Field. She's sending her blog content through in small bursts and I'll be updating them throughout the day. Please keep checking back for further updates.]
Fat, broken frog,
its insides a string of pearls,
lunar glisten on mottled pavement.
An explosion of belly.
Heavy boot?
Bicycle?
Dropped from the sky?
Long fingers reaching up dramatically,
legs splayed indecently,
a ripper victim beseeching the clouds to cleanse its past.
New body - water
dropped over months and
now the fields mirror the clouds which
bore them.
Vain sky.
A crane crouches,
sulking at the soft jawline of her powdered visage.
How do the fish travel to new water?
How does the bird know when they've arrived?
Cat.
Tiny in an
expanse of grass and lake.
Beneath a hedgerow, ginger head watches the train.
No houses visible this side of the tracks.
Has it built a home
beneath
the
hawthorn?
Poetry.
An app from the Poetry Foundation. Random
words: spin
to discover
convoluted extractions old and new.
Linh Dinh eats sparrows.
Ish Klein ('No Promissary Note') makes me smile,
a penis in
the opening
line will do that.
Trepidation.
30 minutes to touch down.
The city scares me in the approach. Mass. Congregation.
I want to see
the river today.
When I'm in the country I long
for fences.
The gentleman
on the seat in front
has well oiled skin which stretches
across his dome,
the colour of fat on Jersey milk.
His eyebrows are thick and
grey as the underbelly of clouds.
I see him
in profile.
I guess that his eyes are blue.
He isn't bald. When
leaning forward he revealed a
Patrick Stewart band of silver hair
and frown of flesh
in the centre at the back.
I feels its discontent at my
previous
observation.
Is it all poetry?
What?
Is all this poetry?
Huh?
Are all these books poetry?
It's a poetry library.
John Berryman wrote
prolifically. 3 stanzas
on every page. I hope
his content is more
creative
than the form.
Roger McGough has silver
hair, Grace Nichols
has a gold scarf. Teens know of
love and snow.
Ira rhymes with admirer,
not hearer.
Rachel Rooney thought
day was night
(the cosmic theme confused perhaps).
Heads make better doors
than windows. Phil Jupitus
propped up the bar, beard
in tow.
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