Showing posts with label words. Show all posts
Showing posts with label words. Show all posts

Thursday, 12 June 2014

An Artist In Space

My young friend, the creative and talented Louis, gave me a list of words to write into a poem. His words are in bold and this poem is for him...


An Artist In Space

Wrapped in my space suit,
I am a Panda Picasso,
trying to sketch planet earth with my pencil.
So far, I'm doing a pretty good job.

Things look different up here than they do on the map:
Indonesia is a small bird bathing in the sea.
Italy doesn't look like a boot when it's upside down;
it is more like an alligator opening its great jaw.
Scandinavia is a piece of cheese on a fork.

That's pretty funny, I think,
and when I laugh,
my breath rushes past my ears
like a red tiger's roar.

There is no room for a lunchbox up here.
Instead I suck on sugar cubes
like a horse after a race.

Sometimes the whole of space
looks at me and twinkles a question:
"What?"

- as if I have the answer,
as if I represent all the people who ever lived
and can reply for us all.

Apart from the sugar cubes, and my pencil,
the only things I carry with me are words.
Weightless, unaffected by gravity, and very satisfying,
I nibble on them whenever I'm hungry.

My favourite one today is "flabbergasted".
And so I sing it out into space -
"Flabbergasted!"
- an answer to the question,
with a million tiny answers inside it
like stars packed into the galaxy's pocket.


Sunday, 20 April 2014

A Penal Colony For Poets


I committed a crime when I was young:
I threw my poems away.
The poetic police caught up with me,
they said I’d have to pay.

When I asked them how they found me,
they said I had a haunted look
from the ghosts of words discarded,
enough to fill a phantom book.

The colony was on the moon,
the mode of transport: ladder.
I had to build it myself with words;
this only made me sadder.

I had thrown my words away, you see,
so I had to go door to door
asking if anyone had spare words.
My cheeks burned ’til they were sore.

Eventually I had the words
like toaster scuttle marmalade.
They weren’t my own but they would do;
I had none that were homemade.

The ladder hooked the crescent moon,
I climbed in my bare feet.
Hands snatched at me, knives cut my skin,
how I wished I could retreat.

When I got there all I had were years
mining words from the white dust,
words from my lost writings,
words I did not trust.

The first I saw was corridor
then travel dream and trees
always time skies flown and child.
They brought me to my knees.

Happy I was to see them again,
I would reclaim my poems at last.
But they had dissolved into each other,
stray phrases floated past.

Let travel you me with always
I couldn’t piece them together
of the through the labyrinth night
my sorrow had no measure.

But whatever I found was mine to keep
so I made a little garden.
With autumn sunlight meadow and rose
my heart could now unharden.

When my time was up they found me,
said I was free to move to Mars,
but I told them I would stay here
in my hut made out of stars.