The Poetry Collection of July 2019


Welcome to another poetry collection. Dive in and ruminate amongst the words, before swimming back to the surface with a new perspective on, well, life perhaps. Share with your friends, your loved ones, your hated ones, and give back to the community that shaped you. 

Let’s go.

"It's a bit like playing tennis" she remarked as she smashed his balls to pieces.
"Yes" he grunts "is Tim Henman still going?"
He was bent over the kitchen table.
"I think he's an analyst now" she replied "he seems to enjoy it."

There’s a solid chance the BBC was covering Wimbledon when I wrote this, and it wouldn’t surprise me if Tim Henman was talking at the camera. Grunting probably occurred between his interruptions. I don’t mind tennis, to be fair to it. I don’t watch a great deal of it either, I suppose it rests in the place that could be described with “I’ll watch it if it’s on”. On this day, I imagine I did exactly that.

Sue escaped the studio.
She followed the crumbs.
Now she basks in the sun.
The men rally round.

Sue Barker would've also been involved in the coverage, which explains this little number. Sue probably had a solid conversation with Tim Henman about hitting balls. I like to think Tim enjoyed the occasional sip of his cordial, too.

I hated you.
Then I loved you.
Because I'm materialistic.
And you showered me with gifts.
But then the gifts stopped.
Now I hate you again.

"I have a plan!"
The guy said it with such conviction that everyone believed he had a plan.
He didn't but enjoyed the attention so much he went with it.
Things didn't end particularly well.

A man shook his sack and winked at his wife.
"Not now dear."
She looked at him sternly and continued filling in forms.
He sighed and packed away his Scrabble board.

If anyone's up for a game of Scrabble please get in touch. You can call me on [number redacted], thank you. Also, bring a Scrabble board, I don’t own one. And those tiles to go on it, and the bag the tiles are in. Maybe keep the whole thing in the box so it's easier to carry.

He loved to remain mysterious.
Which explained the balaclava.

He saw a switch.
He smiled.
He flipped the switch.
He didn't know what the switch did.
His smile widened.
He flipped the switch back.
Just in case.

Ah, mystery and intrigue. Two key ingredients in any good piece of poetry. I've seen a few mysterious switches out and about, but I'd never be so bold as to toggle them aimlessly. That's the sort of thing that causes ships to burn down.

The poet walked for miles.
They saw indescribable views.
Then they walked for miles more.
Listening to indescribable sounds.

Being incapable of describing things would be considered a hindrance for some of the great poets. Not me though. Let the reader’s imagination fill in the blanks, I say.

A man bought some wraparound shades.
He put them on.
He instantly turned into a twat.

Mildred blew him all night long.
She even carried on when he fell asleep.
He felt like the coolest guy in the world.

Mildred is still knocking about. Some rather hot July nights must have surrounded those two poems. Will wraparound sunglasses will ever look good on anyone? I can’t imagine it. Their only use, as far as I can tell, is to adorn the faces of Olympic quality athletes as they pedal their bicycles through towns and countryside.

The eyes followed me around the room.
I didn't trust them.
The gallery was displeased.

I’m an artist, I’ve been to a gallery or two in my time. In a gallery I appreciate high quality art and a good bench. The bench is the most important part, to be honest, and the art a distant second.

The bacon was still attached to the pig.
The whole situation was very inconvenient.

I went to a wedding once, and while I was there they had a pig rotating above a fire. I must admit, I wasn’t much a fan of the ordeal. Pigs are, in my opinion, best served pre-sliced in supermarkets.

A man considered going for a run.
But then he thought,
No I won't go for a run.
That kind of commitment really made him appealing.

A man couldn't find his shoes anywhere!
Thankfully he had taken a picture of their last location on his phone.
He couldn't find his phone either.
Thankfully he had taken a picture of that on his disposable camera.
Which he could find.
But he forgot to get the film developed.

Futility or something? I don’t know.

Robin Hood forgot his bow.
He forgot his arrows too.
He decided to shoot everyone with a machine gun instead.

There you go, top ten poems for the month. The end.

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