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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' Mildred remarked as she smashed Jonathan's balls to pieces.
'Yes' he grunts "is Tim Henman still going?'
He was bent over the kitchen table.
'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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Christmas Poetry Collection 2020: A Transcript

Ho ho ho, Merry Christmas! As if the greeting wasn't enough of a giveaway, it is I, Santa Claus. I bring you the gift of festive poetry, collected.

I, Santa, sit ensnared in a particularly Christmassy concoction of fairy lights and tinsel. A disaster of a delivery (as yet incomplete), has occurred. The halls were perhaps a little too well decked. I can hear Rudolph clacking away on the roof, and my elves appear to be panicking due to the length of time I’ve taken. We’re under strict orders though, only Santa can enter. Coronavirus and all that. Now if you’ll give me a second, I think I can wriggle my hand down to my pocket, and... yes! I’ve a poem for you.

Here we go.

An elite squad of elves was in training.
They were now capable of disinfecting Santa in under two seconds.


Ho ho ho! A brilliant piece of work there. Hold on a minute, another’s pasted itself to my festive insulated handwear.

Father Christmas was up on the roof.
Mrs. Claus and the elves had devised a new training regime.
The lockdown hadn't been kind, not with The Claus's diet.
He waddled across the snow glazed slate, listing from left to right, ho ho-ing with every step.
He clambered into a chimney.
The elves lubed up his expansive frame.
They pulled out plungers and tried to prod him down to ground level. 


I must admit I was hoping to keep my methods a secret, but the fall of the poems, like the tumbling of beautiful white Christmassy snowflakes, can't be controlled. As I speak I'm currently attempting to eel my way out of this entanglement. I wonder, edging towards a candle filled table this family irresponsibly left lit, is the lubricant and disinfectant I’m constantly being doused in flammable? I hope not.

The Merry Christmas Ambulance arrived.
It was filled with the usual ambulance gear, but now with a festive slant.
Christmas songs played in place of sirens.
And bells jingled from the wing mirrors.
The medics were struggling to carry their patient (heart attack) in the tinsel hammock they'd constructed.


Free at last. That took longer than anticipated, and I hope you enjoyed the poem I just slid back into my big red and white jacket. The old sack this year is feeling a little light. We’ve run into multiple hurdles with the production lines.

Some elves lost the lists of children. Santa went berserk. He rattled off potential headlines that might appear in tomorrow's newspapers, Surrounded by teary-eyed, red-cheeked elves.


I’m not so sure about the accuracy of that one. Let’s try another.

Santa fed the reindeer as he trudged through the snow.
His toes were very cold.
Rudolph chewed through his boots and every single pair of socks he owned.
Santa had a solution.
He sought the aid of elves and asked them to knock him up a new pair.
"Some insulated, steel-toe wonders."
The chief elf fiddled with a bell on his uniform and tried his best to let Santa down gently.
"The backlog's humongous this time of year" he said.
"It'll be two weeks before we have a gap in the schedule."
Santa's cheery visage turned to one of rage.
He grabbed the elf.
Launched him through the gingerbread desk partition.
"There's your ruddy gap" he shouted from behind a big bushy beard.


Again.

Santa was furious.
"You twerps are utterly useless!"
The elves were struggling to meet demands (PlayStation 5, etc.)
Several of them wept as Santa raged on.
One used a child's list to blot his tears.


Listen. They deserve it, okay. The little bastards wander around jingling everywhere with those stupid little bells, I’ve had enough of it. They string the bloody things around my reindeer too. Absolutely unbelievable. They can't even help out inside the house this year. What's the point even having them around?

Now I’ve gone and done it haven’t I? As per, I began planting a selection of presents beneath the Christmas tree. This time, however, I went and clonked the bloody thing over. Still not used to those extra pounds, and of course, absolutely no early warnings from the elves. I really don’t have time to deal with this. I need to get them vaccinated ASAP.

John planted his Christmas tree upside down.
He went ahead with the decorations anyway.
Convinced it would look a bit less obvious with the star on top (bottom).


Right then, Santa to elves, it’s time for extraction. They’re still somewhat useful. I just tie this rope around my waist and up I go! Well, not as smooth as I’d hoped, all things considered. I appear to have snagged on the brickwork. Perhaps if I just unhook my jolly black belt and…

"They don't call me Saint Knickerless for nothing!"
A drunken Santa wobbled half naked to the music.
Mrs Claus tried to shield the elves with a baking tray.
The gingerbread men screamed.


Sleigh’s lined with a towel, Santa’s back baby! Rudolph, Blitzen, Dasher, the lot of you, away we go! As we flutter into the snow filled night sky (which, I might add, is pounding away at my face, and creating some particularly chilly formations in the leg region), I shall leave you with one final festive family gathering.

The Christmas bubble was in full effect.
Uncle Gerry wanted to try that trick with the sword and the bottle.
(For some reason he carried a sword.)
He got on with it, ran the weapon up the stem of the booze.
The bottle shattered and shards of glass hurled toward Uncle Lloyd.
Aunt Helen's head whipped clean off with the wayward blade.
Aunt Miriam observed that at least she was producing a Christmassy colour.
Things started to get a bit heated.
Uncle Lloyd shared some disagreeable opinions about certain races.
We all tried to have a good laugh about it anyway.
This is what being in the Christmas bubble was all about.


That’s your lot for poetry, I need to get back to concentrating on the deliveries, but of course it’s not all that’s been written about me. There’s loads of it from this month alone on the website, of which I have no affiliation. Go and have a look. 
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Lockdown Collection

In order to celebrate England's return to a full blown lockdown, I've taken the time to herd up a few poems I cobbled together in and around the last one. I expect to receive a knighthood for my services some day, but I understand why the queen would be a little slow on the distribution right now, what with the pandemic and all. Happened to the Royal Mail too, so it's clearly something all royals are struggling with. I must admit, I'm a bigger fan of the mail part of the royalty than I am the queen part. Please don't tell Liz that though. Back to the matter at hand, apologies to other countries of the UK, and indeed the world, not currently under full lockdown conditions, I hope you'll join in the festivities anyway.

So many of these things (poems, if you will) get written that keeping track of exactly what I've said is a full time job in and of itself. I already have a full time job, it's definitely being a poet, and a disorganised one at that. Ultimately, this means what you see below is just a small collection of what's been written during the pandemic, and those which came to mind while I ramble out these few paragraphs to appease Google. There's actually months worth of the stuff, this pandemic has been dragging on a bit after all. I assure you, it's all brilliant. Probably.

If you don't find what you're looking for in this collection, you could always do some poetry hunting yourself. It's a great way to waste a few hours, and the design of the website makes it even more enthralling. There's biting political commentary, loneliness, romance, all kinds of topics really. It's nice to see someone finally give them a go in poetry form, you know? Go! Hunt and gather, you're a human after all. Show a little respect for where you came from, for god's sake.

Click to Read On
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A Gathering of Coronavirus Poetry

As the first of the United Kingdom's lockdowns draws to a close, I thought it might be time to gather together some of the poems I've written on this wonderful journey. Looking at the giant list I am quite perplexed as to where to start or how to organise it. Quite frankly, it's a mess, but then so is everything surrounding much of the world's handling of the pandemic. I suppose it's quite fitting really - unfortunately the same can't be said for the flaccid pieces of cloth people are slapping over their faces.

One of the most exciting events during the lockdown life in the UK was the beautiful display of friendship between Boris Johnson and Dominic Cummings, and his trips to exotic destinations such as Barnard Castle. I captured a brief glimpse into those moments, along with the delights of travel, in poetry, like any good poet would. These have been collected below, plus a few other pieces celebrating a return to work.

Remember, COVID-19 (a coin toss of capitalisation), the coronavirus, or whatever it is you've decided to name the virus, still ravages the world, but the shops are going to open up again, so it's probably fine. Boris Johnson has said it will be fine, and he hasn't put a foot wrong yet.

Click through for the links
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