All 10 entries tagged Poem

Darren in Darien

Like stout Cortez

He will not fall

On Darien’s high peaks and hills

In valleys he will walk until

He hears the sound of Scotland’s call

No more will he hear Big Ben toll

Out on the land where workers toil

In run-down houses and degraded soil

In vain for fifty years or more

Under iron fists and broken laws

By the Thames they shout and squeal

And promise there’ll be no more meals

They bang their fists and shake their heads

But he wrings his hands; he’s made his bed

“They’re only ever words of fear

In time they’ll fade and disappear

So raise your hands and drink your beer

Our sweetest-hearts and mother’s dear

Are the only ones who have our ears

It may be true, our day is here,

Though frightening; it may appear

The chance is there for us to seize

We’ll ride our luck, as Ulysses

Made his own way on stormy seas

The sun is out and the lilac’s blooming

The shadow of the past is brooding

Phantom-like in darkened corners

Lets rid the past of would-be mourners!”

His shout cries out but all alone

He finds himself on rugged stone

Volcanic lava that once was molten

Dead as granite, and only frozen

He stands a shadow on barren crag,

A dim sea beside him as feeling lags

That he’s still to seek that name he lacks

With no place to sleep and his bedrooms taxed

His health is weak and the wind is strong

It knocks the breath from weakened lungs

The voice they carry, lost in the throng

Of fearful waves against the rock

That beat in time with London’s clock

– A city t’would be painted gold

If only it weren’t already sold

At vast expense, they had been told

But no one dare to speak out bold

And question: with that great expense

Could they bring back some common sense?

“Greatest hopes that had been placed

Now drift away as the margin fades

Men fight fire with only fire,

Though the need is great and warnings dire

To do much else just leaves them tired”

The tide turns as his mother chides him

She nods his head when he says ‘they’re lying’,

They often do, those men in power

They smoke cigars in phallic towers

And compensate for small endowments

“Our chance can come again,” she said,

“Not on ballot paper, but in our heads,

And in our minds; so if you please

Go live your life to the lees

They cannot take what they cannot see.”

Samuel Dodson : 17 Sep 2014 20:17 |  Tags: Darien England Independence Keats Poem Poetry Scotland Scottish Ulysees |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Stars

Loosely jacketed against the frost bite

In the air, tight on the skin and in the strands

Of hair follicles. Beneath the swarming stars

On the dais of the earth, circling in the dark,

No light falling on them but only around them,

On a high prairie, chalk stone on the horizon,

They heard horses, jaunty, in the distance,

Though coming to that place finding no trace

That a herd ever had crossed it. And thinking the

Light from those stars may have carried them up

And borne them from the dark earth,

The electricity of night about them and

Walking through a myriad of different

Celestial pathways

They came at once to an ancient orchard

Where the fruit was of their own making.

Though it was cold, they stole like thieves

Loosed from a chain-gang and stumbling

Upon a treasure trove of different worlds

Ten thousand universes and futures ahead of them

And infinite possibility abounding like the swarming stars

There and always there for their choosing

Though until this night always just out of reach.

Samuel Dodson : 21 Aug 2014 16:39 |  Tags: Poem Poetry Stars |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Spider Bites

Studying the prickling heat on his skin,

Imagining each spot of pain to be spider bites,

Pricking flesh and spilling not quite blood

but a liquid coloured at the edge of it.

He felt no appetite, for there were no apples

Like those apples he tasted that afternoon,

He had never tasted apples like those.

Not before nor since.

There were never apples like that again

And the sun beats down on his forgetfulness

And memory seems shattered:

The smell of rain, fresh on the stone

Of paving slabs and steps beside the lawn

Where he ran on the wet grass and fell:

He fell more than he should

but it did not matter.

Samuel Dodson : 02 Jul 2014 12:52 |  Tags: Poem Poetry |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Father's Day

Merry father's day!
Not much of a poet, but I'm just gonna say,
I couldn't get you any moet* (they were sold out I'm afraid)
But inspite of all the Hallmark commercialism,
I just wanna thank you for your loving paternalism,
Yeah, there are so many words than end with ism,
But I don't want to talk about Marxism or extremism,
Just incase those folks at Prism are listenin'
So I'll rap this short poem up,
By saying you are very loved,
Now enough of all that pansy stuff,
I'm gonna go do some manly press ups.

Happy Fathers day!

* for the purposes of this poem, Moet is pronounced like Poet. Nice & gruff, none of this Frenchy wordy stuff

Samuel Dodson : 16 Jun 2013 21:27 |  Tags: Dad Day Father Fathers Poem Prism |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

These days.

This is the silence that comes from paying back debt,

I’m indebted to you, we’re all in this together, One for all

And one for each other, Well I’ve slept long enough in this

Facade of a dream world in this real world where my feet crunch

Over dollar bills on cobbled streets where rivers meet,

Stirred by sleet they rise and swell against these

Bastian walls, only time will tell etcetera

cliched phrase, etcetera

Well we were part of this star trek generation which assumed

Beings from all nations and across the universe spoke Anglais.

Now I’m afraid if we were ever speaking from the same language;

The same page, then we’ve underestimated how poor we are at

Understanding this riskier business they call banking

But seems more like a free for all, an unregulated brawl

In a tavern where the landlord sits and takes tabs.

Sometimes I wake as if I've fallen through the looking glass,

Found myself in wonderland, a never, never land,

Peter Pan and Tinkerbell, mere commodities to sell,

And those who found themselves here, deviated course and

Now live, underrated making pornographic films, in

These dust bowl cities, circling those cataclysms of foreclosure

Where catastrophe is creeping into the streets, sleeping

Next to those whose homes were on the edge of the bubble,

The trouble is this watermarked catastrophe has crawled into bed

And is snoring next to the government, Ignoring the

Sub-prime by watching prime-time television soap operas.

If they put onus on home ownership why won’t they own up

Like grown ups won’t own up to their kids when they make mistakes.

Now I haven’t been to Baltimore, but I’m sure if I did,

I’d feel bad for having grown up in a home

That wasn’t threatened with repossession,

And that my parent’s divorce was the closest I came to ever feeling remorse,

Well that might not be true of course but true apology is hard to come by these days.

Samuel Dodson : 17 Jul 2011 21:49 |  Tags: Poem Poetry |  Comments (4) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

When I am old and still the same inside.

I’ve buried you.

In the sands which washed us,

Fleeting. 

Too full of imagination. 

Closed in by water marks. 

Cut off what I can. 

To take this, solitude. 

You astonish me. 

In every place I’ve been, 

I’ve buried you. 

This, heroic act, 

The denouement of Achilles. 

The sting of rain, 

Embittered and recreated by the

Fingers of the violinist. 

You return, 

Rest in my shaking hands. 

These hands that cannot draw. 

Samuel Dodson : 12 Apr 2011 22:46 |  Tags: Poem Poetry |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Recycling

Recycling

Eat your dinner silently as

you stare at each other without seeing 

what you saw in each other. 

scrape your leftovers into the red bin

Oh shit you’re supposed to put food in the blue bin!

Now she’s gonna be mad. Maybe if you

get that kitchen towel and scrape it 

from one bin to the other? 

too late she’s in the room she’s seen 

what you’ve done and she’s

screaming again but she’s not

screaming with anger she’s just 

screaming because you’ve both forgotten how you 

used 

to be able to talk to each other softly after making love, 

lying in your cramped single bed with the

light’s on after shagging each other with your clothes on. 

You take out the green bin. The green bin is safe. 

can’t go wrong with a bit of recycling

eco-friendly dave, that’s you, conscientious you

care about whales and lions and even krill cos 

even though it’s not documented, krill have a rough time of it too. 

Out in the yard outside the front of the house you 

knew was just a temporary thing before you 

got your big break

then came matrimony and lying and fucking your secretary soon became 

making love to your secretary 

and soon you were standing under moonlight in Paris

and the moon was dripping down your back

and Mary was crying after the meal

and you didn’t put your arm around her. 

Glass bottles for bottling your liquid aggression 

and cans full of corporate thought

you look over at the neighbours bins and their

recycling bin is empty, 

why is it empty? are they on holiday?

Their audiis are outside, both of them, one green and one red.

You look to your left and your right and there’s

no one in sight so you leap as a fox

an urban fox in the dark

over their stone wall barrier

and you open their black garbage bin

and tear open the bin liner and out spills

cardboard

aluminum

glass

aluminum

glass

cardboard

glass

aluminum

cardboard

Arseholes fucking arseholes man they’re killing the world their killing the environment

fuck them fuck them fuck them fuck them

Don’t they know there are starving children in Ethiopia?

This is the end of the line

you’re tired of letting people slide into this middle class individualism

selfish selfish selfish selfish

Let them eat fire

let them eat petrol

let them drink their fill of smoke

who knew that rags and fuel could fuel a vendetta against the riches

the fire crackles behind the glass

glorious recyclable glass

do they know their house is on fire? 

let them sleep in the fire

let them warm their hearts

oh shit man there was a dog inside and the dog

man it’s going fucking mental it won’t stop barking

it won’t stop barking

it won’t stop barking

head back inside to the cupboard by the stairs

take the extinguisher out. She

watches you but she doesn’t say anything she just

watches you leave with the red extinguisher

you’ve never used one before so she’s going to

watch you struggle

watch as you try to stop the flames

fuck man this is a carbon dioxide extinguisher! 

you’re fueling global warming you idiot

but the dog won’t stop barking

maybe you can get to the shops and buy a new water extinguisher?

shops probably sell extinguishers. 

now their’s this

screaming. Is it her? Is it one of the neighbours? This

screaming is getting closer and louder and it’s filling your brain with

screaming man it won’t go away. 

and there are blue lights in your eyes and the red of the fire 

is melting into your retinas 

blue, red and green...

...and the grey of the police cell.

Will Mary remember to sort out the recycling? 

Samuel Dodson : 10 Feb 2011 16:16 |  Tags: Environmental Poem Poetry |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Where we're going we don't need titles

Compartmentalise your minds

And leave behind you all the things

That time could not remind you of.

Because you see it’s easy enough

Even though some people may say it’s tough

That’s just because their attempts are feeble

And they aren’t trying hard enough.

Because all you’re doing is allowing yourself

To forget and move on

And since – as yet – this method has

Not been undisputedly set to rest

It seems a shame not to make the best out of

What we can do with our thoughts.

It’s not like they can be bought

Or exchanged like a cheap engagement;

And although they might not yet be all the rage

They aren’t something I would bet against

In fact since one’s thoughts can be one’s ideals

And because ideals are generally ideal

I think we should make a deal with ourselves

That we will not put our ideals on the shelf

They will not be stacked away out of sight

Only to wake us in the dead of night

As we remember we chose not to fight the fight

For what we want and what we need.

Because if we do that all we’ll lose is our self esteem

It’s not like we have a team to let down

Because as it happens there is an ‘I’ in ideal

-        And also one in intoxication (but let’s not think about that) –

So what should we think about, well as a matter of fact I have an idea myself.

Samuel Dodson : 12 Apr 2010 15:51 |  Tags: Poem |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Letter from Prince Charming.

Gave up reading the lovely old Faerie Queene to write this - I think it might have been all the talk of Knights and ladies in waiting that brought this on, but who knows? 

Anyway here it is:-

This is a letter from Prince Charming,

To the girls in all the lands,

Do not think I will come charging,

With my white steed to lend my hand

To you and carry you away, 

For all your thoughts of yearning

Let I, Prince Charming say;

That those hopes will be unyielding,

And unlikely to come to pass,

For all your dreams of gallant deeds,

Are foolish, dumb and crass. 

I’m sorry to say that the need

Has come, to tell you all the truth, 

There is no shining armour

Stowed away beneath this suit. 

I am simply an idealist’s paramour;

No secret agent come to save the day, 

And I’m afraid I do not have the money

To wipe your debts away. 

You see, to me, it’s kind of funny

The thoughts inside your minds;

That there’s a land of make-believe

Which remains somewhere in time

And space, or else hidden in between 

The reality of this real life,

And the insanity of your thoughts.

So let me now end your strife

By stating how you have bought

Into this capitalist idealist 

Fundamentally backward state of 

Traditionalist elementalism 

And a desire for the fake consumer-led 

Request for a Prince Charming 

From North Somerset. 

Eternally yours, 

P. C

Samuel Dodson : 14 Feb 2010 19:00 |  Tags: Poem Poetry |  Comments (3) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Sunday Morning Poetry

Not sure what to do with this, just wrote it in a semi-conscious stupor a moment ago. Anyway without further fuss here it is: 

We’re caught in the time flow so lets watch the grass grow,

We can watch in the past and see what’s meant to be,

When we recite lost poems over cups of tea,

And we chat about us, each other and you and me,

I can see it’s easy to see the way the two of us make three, 

When we look at it like that, well it’s simply

The case that we’re caught in a time trap. So 

What’s the rest of us to do, 

When all the talk is of me and you, 

We can sit on horizons and watch the setting sun sink low, 

Vicariously into the voluptuous mesmeric tones,

Enveloping us in the cold hearted palisade, 

Time warps and we’re caught in an air-raid, 

Blitzkrieg bombs are falling you know there’s one for you, 

One for myself if I look closely, 

But mostly I’ll just sit and watch the outside shake, 

Think about it all because I find it hard to take, 

All the gourmet passions have become just ‘so-so’, 

And now our questions have answers but they’re only yes or no, 

Our reality is closing in and we’re calling this real life fake, 

There is no more feeling in this forsaken state

Of elemental desire. For pity’s sake

Have a little heart. 

Samuel Dodson : 07 Feb 2010 13:49 |  Tags: Poem Poetry |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem