My Favourite Author

Of all of the authors

in all of the world,

I think of my favourite one;

the writer who writes

with the choicest of ink

and a pen from which wonders

are spun;

the bard I regard and 

who leaves me aghast 

at the beautiful turn of their phrase;

the wordsmith who works

with the best of all words,

whose creations astound and

amaze.

There’s Shakespeare and Dickens

and Roger McGough – 

indeed I could wax on and on; 

there’s Sylvia Plath

and Virginia Woolf,

but my favourite one is

‘Anon’.

Joshua Seigal

A Chef's Request

I can’t stand jalapeños.

Please keep them out my pot. 

They’re jarrowingly jorrible 

and jideously jot!

Joshua Seigal

Honest Jack

Jack Sheppard (1702-1724), AKA Honest Jack, was a notorious English thief. He is famous in folklore for escaping from prison on numerous occasions. Using this fact, I thought I would come up with a limerick poem to commemorate his escapades:

HONEST JACK

Jack Sheppard was locked in a cell.

His mind, cogitating, did dwell

on making a break,

so a rope he did take

and he clambered away down the side of the prison wall. 

Jack Sheppard was banged up once more.

He sliced through his bars with a saw. 

Leaping over the gate

and defying his fate, 

he promptly absconded for a second time.

Jack Sheppard, imprisoned anew,

was certain of what he should do.

Distracting the guard,

he crept into the yard

and he sauntered out of the jail, dressed in women’s clothing.

When faced with unwanted restriction,

Jack always escapes this affliction.

You can cuff him, detain him, 

confine and constrain him,

but he’ll always break loose of whatever limitations you put upon his freedom.

Joshua Seigal

Spicy Mind

I recently discovered the word 'neurospicy', to describe neurodivergence. Naturally, I wrote a poem about it. Enjoy!

Spicy Mind

I have a spicy mind. It doesn’t

do what people tell it to. 

It’s often very friendly but then

sometimes it’ll yell at you. 

It’s like a pair of horses pulling

each their separate way at once,

or else it is a jester with

a chestful of annoying stunts. 

I have a spicy mind. It often

makes me want to scream and shout. 

It’s like a tiger, locked up in

a cage, that simply can’t get out. 

It throws me lots of curveballs

and it’s riddled with anxiety. 

It conjures ways to trick me

with its impish impropriety. 

I have a spicy mind. I guess

it’s tiring, but I’ve grown to learn 

that often it’s delectable

despite the way my brain can burn. 

My mind belongs to me, you see

I think that I am stuck with it,

so stick it in your recipe

and come and try your luck with it!

Joshua Seigal

Making a Name for Myself

My moniker is Monica.

From Monaco I came. 

I’m good on the harmonica;

Veronica’s the same. 

They ask about my moniker. 

“It’s Monica”, I claim,

“and me and my Veronica,

we came in search of fame.”  

My moniker is Monica.

Simplicity’s my aim:

see, Monica’s my moniker – 

my name’s the name for ‘name’.

Joshua Seigal

poem published in 'Teaching English' magazine

I am delighted to say that a poem of mine has recently been published in the fantastic 'Teaching English' magazine. Check it out!

Four Letters

The ultimate goal of life remains the spiritual growth of the individual, the solitary journey to peaks that can be climbed only alone – M. Scott Peck 

He had four letters tattooed

on his forearm – TSWF – and he went

to the grave without telling anyone

what they meant. He loved his wife,

their lives entwined as all good couples’ are,

but he never revealed to her

the secret code. His friends and family

likewise – he was open and honest

and right and true, but he never told anyone

what the letters stood for. He worked hard

at his job, and was roundly admired.

At first they asked him about the letters,

but they gave up eventually – it was clear

he would never reveal their meaning.

A good man, evidently. Loved by all. 

And at the summit, four letters in the snow.

Joshua Seigal 

portraits of me, from Fleetville Infant School

Following on from my previous post about my visit to Fleetville Infant School, and my longstanding association with this wonderful place, I'm delighted to share some portraits (!!) that the children drew of me. One of the teachers presented me with a pack of them at the end of the day. You will see that my much-loved cat, Bluebell, makes a couple of appearances! 

Superhero Poem for Fleetville Infant School

I have been visiting the amazing Fleetville Infant School, Herts, as their Poetry in Residence, several times a year since 2014. Yesterday I had another one of my wonderful visits. Upon learning that Year 1 had been studying and writing about superheroes, I did what I often do and wrote a special, bespoke poem, just for them. Here it is. As you can see, it lends itself very well as a writing model. Why not have a go at writing your own version? 

If I Were a Superhero by Joshua Seigal

If I were a superhero

I would rescue all the lost cats

And keep them all as pets

If I were a superhero

I would make sure

That no one in the world is hungry

If I were a superhero

I would catch bad guys

With my pair of magic underwear

If I were a superhero 

I would make sure that every dog

Has a nice juicy bone

If I were a superhero 

I would take the news off the TV

And show nothing but cartoons

If I were a superhero

I would take all the broccoli in the supermarket

And send it to the moon…

If you were a superhero

What would you do?

For Fleetville Infant School

All Alone

You see the moon

but you are not the moon. 

You think your thoughts

but you are not your thoughts. 

You hold your wife in your arms

but you are not her

and she is not you. 

You are all alone.

And it’s beautiful.

Joshua Seigal

Stunning poem from Year 5, Columbia Primary School

The other day, during a workshop with Year 5 at Columbia Primary School in Tower Hamlets, where I have had several lovely visits over the years, a pupil produced an amazing poem. I'm talking genuinely brilliant - the sort of poem I would expect to see published in an anthology written by adults. What makes it even better is that the poem was written in a mere ten minutes. After playing a warm-up game, I asked the students to think of a special person, and to describe that person using metaphors. Given the time available, I discouraged the use of rhyme, but the poet in question did it anyway. Here, then, is the poem I'm talking about: 

YOU by Rainbow 

You are my sun

keeping me warm

You are the birds

that wake me at dawn

You are the tree

that grows in my heart

Each leaf with a memory

right from the start

You are my clouds

all fluffy and soft

You are the treasures

that live in my loft

You are hot chocolate

on the coldest of nights 

You are the morning

full of new light 

You make the dinners

that fill up my tum 

You are my favourite – 

my amazing mum.

OCD

If you can imagine the sensation of your own mind

eating itself, it’s a bit like that. Your mind doubting

every part of itself, and finding a million reasons to

back up the doubt. Friends turn into enemies; love

twists and turns back in on itself until it becomes

Something else, starts to look like its very opposite. Help

becomes harm; harm becomes something necessary.

Your thoughts become arrows, assaulting your mind from

every direction. You start to suffocate under a mountain

of acronyms, diagnoses. The professors are out to get

you, turn you into a robot to suit their agenda for what

you should be. The world is turning against you.

The armies are sharpening their knives. 

But you are strong. Stronger than you give yourself

credit for. The only armies are the ones in your mind.

Your mind may be eating itself, but it is only nibbling

on its own tail. You can ignore the nibbling if you want.

You have that power. You have more power than you

know. You don’t need a PhD to know that you are brave.

An acronym is only a tiny portion of the alphabet that

delineates your own unique genius. The professors

know lots of things, but none of those things is you,

the real you, the you you experience from the inside

out. The world is a friend, if you can bear to let it in.

Joshua Seigal 

Is There a Poet on Board the Plane?

It’s funny – you wait forever for a moment

like this, but you’re never quite sure what to

do when it arrives. Should you stand up and

make yourself known? Or should you lean

back in your seat, close your eyes and pretend

to be asleep? This is supposed to be a holiday

after all; why ruin it with work? Or perhaps,

in signing up for this job, you took an ethical

pledge to make your skills available whenever

needed, whatever the circumstances. You’re

only a Junior Poet, though – surely, among all

these people, there will be one or two who are

better qualified than you, for a situation like this?

But what if that’s not the case? A Junior Poet

must surely be better than no Poet at all. And what

if it’s a baby, in desperate need of a rhyme? Or

an elderly person who won’t be able to catch

their breath without a little cinquain? You twiddle

your ring as your licence thrums on its chain.

Yes, you think. Yes. Yes there is a Poet on board

this plane. Here I am. How can I be of service?

Joshua Seigal

Aeroplane Impression

I hate it when Dad

does his aeroplane impression.

I’ll be sitting there, feeling grumpy

about school or an argument with friends,

and Dad starts doing this flappy thing

with his lips – brbrbrbrbrbrbrbrbrrbrbr – 

I try to ignore him, but the noise

keeps going – brbrbrbrbrbrbrbrbrrbrbrbrbrbrbrbrbrbrbrbrrbrbr – 

I tell him to stop, but the sound

gets even louder – BRBRBBBBRBBRBRBRBRBRBRRRBBR! – 

and it keeps on going –  BRBRBBBBRBBRBRBRBRBRBRRRBBR!!! – 

and he starts running around the living room,

his lips buzzing like a crazy propeller,

his arms outstretched like dumb, stupid wings,

and maybe, just maybe, I’ll begin to laugh. 

Or at least smile. And then, if I’m feeling up to it,

if the mood somehow takes me,

if I can bear to leave my troubles behind,

I’ll clamber aboard Dad’s back.

He’ll hold me in place with those big safe hands

and maybe, just maybe,

we both might fly.

Joshua Seigal

You Can't Take Away My Love

I wrote these as song lyrics. I do not have a particular melody in mind, and I've not set it to music. If any of my legions of readers wants to do so, then please feel free. 

You Can’t Take Away My Love

You can take away the hairs

From the top of my head

You can take away my butter

Along with my bread

You can make me sleep

On a prison bed

But you can’t take away my love 

You can fill my brain

With a tangle of doubt

You can toy with my mind

Til I want to shout

But I’ll tell you what it is

That I’m all about – 

You can’t take away my love

You can take the shirt

Right off my back

You can put my belongings

In your sack

Record all my failings

In an almanac

But you can’t take away my love

You can give me a zero

On your swanky test

You can plant a nail bomb

In my chest

But it doesn’t matter

See, I’ve been blessed

Cos you can’t take away my love

No you can’t take away my love

Valentine's Evening

I was sitting in a restaurant with my wife

when my website went down.

I pushed the button on my phone

but it wasn’t working.

I asked to borrow my wife’s phone

but the website still wouldn’t load.

I had ceased to exist.

My wife told me to put the phone away

and to focus on the meal, the beautiful evening,

but how could I do those things?

The universe had nullified my presence,

cancelled my very being.

If I was not there for everyone to find me,

then was I really there at all?

But I’m here, my wife said.

I’m right in front of you,

with a menu and new lipstick.

I reached for her hand

and felt the warmth, the flesh.

To let go now, I simply said,

would be a kind of death.

Joshua Seigal