are very close
but there are some things
I can never tell her.
This poem is one of those things.
I can’t tell her about this poem
because that would lead
to more questions.
The answers to these questions
would burrow deep under the surface
until we’re both staring
at an open wound
with the roiling magma below.
No — the best thing
is to keep this safe, somewhere
my wife will never find it. Saved
on this laptop, perhaps;
the laptop I know we share.
new coat new shoes
new risk new ruse
new bag new books
new mask new looks
new shirt new tie
new trick new lie
new pens new paper
new dance new caper
new words new style
new face new smile
new wish new plea
new school… new me.
I’m sitting here in my conservatory
watching the late afternoon sunlight.
The apples are gleaming in their bowl,
the bubbles rising in the glass of sparkling water
by my side. Somewhere outside birds are calling
in the trees and a light breeze picks up a leaf,
sweeping it across the periphery of my vision.
So I sit here and think to myself: I bet
I can write a poem just like Billy Collins.
I bet I can describe things just like him,
extract the unseen reality from behind this facade
that masquerades as mundanity. My pencil
point is poised to capture the very essence
of humanity in this undulating world.
Suddenly the light turns to dark, the apples
rot in their bowl. (The bowl is glass, by the way.)
I could never write a poem just like Billy Collins.
That’s what the birds were trying to say.
that hector me are haughty men
with doctorates. They often
have grey hair and/or owlish glasses
and have frequently written scientific books
of some considerable consequence.
And yes, they are always men.
The voices in my head
that harbour me are women:
they are calming and compassionate
but don’t have too much heft behind them.
They haven’t written books.
They are flighty, ephemeral
and don’t feel safe to run to,
as though doing so
will leave me washed away
on dark and viscous tides.
So which is it:
mean but strong, or kind but weak?
I think about this as I decide
which of these words
to chuck, which to change, which to keep.
I’m really rather popular.
My gifts are piled high.
My vast approval rating’s
not a thing one can deny.
I got a Lambourghini
and a new computer too,
as well as several smartphones
and a solid gold canoe.
I got a champagne bottle
weighing eighty kilograms.
I got a pair of oxen
and a clutch of newborn lambs,
and if you think that’s crazy
I can tell you something more:
I got a diamond necklace
and a trip to Singapore.
I got an ostrich feather coat
plus ninety pairs of shoes.
It seems my pupils love me
so they came to pay their dues.
I got some fancy Christmas gifts.
It made me feel smug.
The greatest gift, however
was the ‘World’s Best Teacher’ mug.
I think I’ll eat a biscuit.
There’s not much else to do.
Perhaps I’ll grab a hobnob
or a ginger nut or two.
I think I’ll eat a biscuit.
I’ll have it with me tea.
I’ll scoff a jammy dodger
or custard cream or three.
I think I’ll eat a biscuit,
with chocolate on the top.
I’ll dunk it in my beverage
and hope it doesn’t drop.
I think I’ll eat a biscuit,
to get me in the zone.
I’ll sit and have a biccy
in the staff room on my own.
LONGING
Write a poem
A poem
Me?
I would love to do that
To discover that I can think
After all
That I hold within my own mind a richness of words ready to be used.
To choose what to say is
Even how to say
Try to express my internal confusion
My Eternal confusion
And sometimes the blankness
The thinking stops here-ness
The loneliness
The depths
The fear
Always the fear
by Tracey Seigal
I am terribly sorry
if this gives the impression
of being a poem.
It may have the word ‘poem’ in the title,
and I know that
some of the lines are longer
than others;
it does indeed also appear
to be broken up into stanzas
thus creating the impression
of being a poem,
but really it’s nothing of the kind.
If you are looking for a poem
you’re in the wrong place.
And I can assure you
that even if, perchance,
this is a poem,
I sure as hell didn’t write it.
Angels We Have Heard While High
I Saw Hancock Kissing Santa Claus
Do They Know It’s Lockdown Time?
Mistletoe and Crime
Conniving Home For Christmas
Gaslight My Fire
Baby There’s Proles Outside
Confess, Ye Scary Gentlemen
Legal Clause is Coming to Town
Randox The Brown-Nosed Profiteer
It may be that your artefact is somewhere on the moon
It may be in the jungle being mauled by a baboon
It may be in a manger being blessed by three wise men —
I guarantee that Hermes parcel won’t be seen again.
It could be on a hillock being sullied by a yak
It could be in Gibraltar in a disused cul-de-sac
It could be in a farmyard in a mountain of manure —
A parcel that’s from Hermes won’t be coming through your door.
Perhaps it’s on a rocket being fired up to Mars
It could be on a spaceship that is circling the stars
You can holler up to heaven, you can genuflect and pray —
The parcel that you’ve ordered will not see the light of day.
It may be in a cavern in the bowels of the earth
It may be at a therapist because of low self-worth
It may be in a forest in the centre of a clearing —
I promise you that Hermes parcel will not be appearing.
It could be up the rectum of a big Alaskan moose
Or else in a bordello and exposed to grave misuse
It could be being borne aloft as part of a procession —
The fact is Hermes parcels don’t come into one’s possession.
But hark! Is that the doorbell, though it’s in the dead of night?
You whoop with pure elation and you bellow in delight!
So out of bed you clamber and then down the stairs you go —
You open up the door… is it the Hermes parcel?
No.
Sometimes they’re too big
and they crowd your mouth
so your lips can’t close.
Sometimes they crack apart
like crockery and turn to paste
as you try to talk.
Sometimes there’s just one huge one
projecting from your face
like a narwhal’s tusk,
and sometimes they disappear
and spontaneously regenerate
as your mum refuses
to call the dentist.