Loopy Linda

Wild as an easterly gale,
on a yellow April day,
you swirled around the grey coast.
Always causing a commotion,
fresh with a smile, a banter
and a sunshine wave.

The first time I saw you was in The Com,
dancing with a chicken leg between your teeth,
see-through as your sparkly top.
You liked Robbie Williams and a beer,
a fag in the sun with your mates,
leaning against the wall, chewing up the day.

The last time I saw you was at the Chippie Van.
Thinner, hair cut short and night in your eyes,
laughing too much, teasing all the guys.
You never got that coffee at mine
or the Spanish holiday, only brief escape
to Witherspoons for one final, sweet latte.

I wish I’d known you better,
the granite girl with a sherbet heart.
I brought daffodils a day too late,
a sudden gust had taken you away.
So wherever you are Loopy Linda,
fly free and blow a hurricane.

 

This poem was written in memory of Linda P, died March 21st, 2013.

 

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Photograph by the author

Tales of a Sea-Dog

In the old days I was Canis Marinus, Dog of the Sea.
I was born in a mangrove swamp of the Antipodes,
abandoned by Ma at first swim to the murky
mysteries of waves, death and capitalism.
I was crated frozen to the Land of the Free.
Now they call me Tiger, Blue, Hammerhead,
Great White, Art-wank. I prefer Sea-Dog
but they call me shock, ragged, monster, demon
or jaws (cue scary music and pearly sharps to die for)
the perfect engine and eating machine, soulless
beast, killer of slaves and pretty girls in bikinis.
I can morph into fin soup, a Chinese delicacy
or a shifty money lender. A role model for the aspiring
acolytes of Damien or a trophy tanked up on formalin
stinking behind the thin glass wall of privilege.
Predators queue and gawp
at the impossible.
I stare straight back
and what’s more
I never blink.

 

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Photographic image created by the author. The Heinz tomato soup can is a reference to Andy Warhol’s pop art featuring Campbell’s soup.

 

I was inspired to write this poem after seeing Damien Hirst’s so-called conceptual art entitled ‘The Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living’.  I found it disturbing to see a wild creature exploited and displayed in an art gallery.  My feelings of distaste and anger increased when I later learned that Hirst had several Tiger Sharks killed for his art work.  Even though the sharks are preserved in formaldehyde they start to decompose after a few years and need to be replaced.  Other animals have also been killed by Hirst for his art, including cows and calves for the piece titled ‘Mother and Child (Divided)’.   I find the morality of this indefensible.   It is one thing to kill for food or survival but not for art or entertainment.  Hirst’s pickled shark was sold for millions.

I also find it sad that humans have a tendency to demonise and label as ‘other’ anyone who is different from themselves, this includes other species, races, religions, sexual orientations, disability, etc.  Even sharks can respond positively to kindness and afffection.  They are not the vicious, mindless monsters portrayed by our culture but a beautiful creature trying to survive the best it can, just like the rest of us.  Please watch this amazing YouTube video showing a shark conservationist petting and playing with a shark.  Perhaps they are truly the dogs of the sea.

 

The Fallen

Beauty lies frozen

soft at my closed opening

feathers upturn sky

 

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Such a sad morning to find this poor, wee robin by my door.  Much as I understand death is inevitable for all creatures, I sometimes find it hard to take.  The image of this bird has haunted me all day.

Inheritance

No-one knows the people of bone
or why my drunken grandpa brought them home
from an auction room on Goldspink Lane,
shipyard wages blown
on beer, cigarettes and porcelain.
Their unexpected arrival, smooth and brittle,
put grandma in a flutter
flapping about with her feather duster,
finding the best place for aristocracy.
The old king with daughter at his knee
and her lover, typecast, ensnared eternally
by some secret quandary,
unaware of their position,
centre stage.

On a white cherry blossom day
I sipped cider with my lover on Goldspink Lane
while Player’s No 6 sucked grandpa away,
left grandma alone with royalty.
No-one knows their story, how it ends.
They hover inside my door, uninvited,
the bone people atop the tall cabinet
next to the clock.
I make my entrances
and exit,
looking up as I pass by.

 

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Note 1:- The subject of this statue remains a mystery.  The figures appear mythological or Shakespearean.  The object is about 18 inches tall and is made from Parian Ware, a type of bisque porcelain imitating marble.  The material was popular for sculpture in Victorian times and was developed around 1845 by the Staffordshire pottery manufacturer Mintons.  It was named after Paros, the Greek island renowned for its fine-textured, white marble.  It was prepared in a liquid form and cast in a mould, therefore suitable for mass production.