Gatclif Road
I have forgotten the number
of the house
in Gatclif Road
but I remember the alcove
at the top of the stairs
in it were two doors
that were always in the dark
one opened into my bedroom
the other, on fear drenched nights,
led to my parents room
across the landing
another bedroom door
which for years
was where my grandma slept
and then for years was empty
filled only with her ghost
and a face that would visit me in dreams
I remember waking
to a shaft of sunlight
as it cut through a curtain slit
getting up before anyone else
and in the living room
of the silent house
watch the fresh sunlight
of the early morning
sweep the dust
across the table top
and each side of the
window the built in cupboards
which always smelt
of mustiness
and made everything damp
I recall dry summer days
the garden smelling of mint
and the empty chicken run
which was my tardis
my place
where from behind the mesh
and in the cramped interior
I escaped to other worlds
and times
but always returned
to my own time machine
the one that moved me away from
each new memory
one day at a time
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"What's Your
Real Job?"
"Whats your real job?"
the little voice asked
from the second row
this is it I said
I get to come to schools
I write
"You in the library?"
someone shouted
some libraries
I said
"Crap ones."
someone suggested from the back
"And only when its raining."
another voice yelled
at this point
I was getting a bit defensive
I like my job
work hard at it
so I would never have to work
for a living
tried to explain
how writing and being a poet
is a job
it got a discussion going
so we talked about the jobs people do
and wrote a list
one girl said
"My dad used to work in the mines
but they stopped his job
so now he works in Asda."
Another kid told us
how his dad worked fixing cars
which impressed everyone
because they all got to shout out
the names of their favorite cars
"Has he ever drove a Lamborgini?"
"Bet he couldn’t fix a Scoda
shell shocked at the end of the day
I left each of them
with a poem about their favorite thing
and a list of jobs that people do
it did not include "poet"
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View
from Hope Mountain
I don’t see why I should think this is special
the view East from here shows the contours of the world
dressed in snow and cloud
squeezed up to cathedral heights
to the West the Cheshire plain
ironed to the horizon
blotched with humanity
splashed with golden fields
in sunlight
twisted lines of carriageways
pylons spires
and the rat world of men
all of this
an impression of light
left on my retina
frequency filtered
the counterpane sharp edges
pre Raphaelite detail washed out
I don’t see why I should think this special
but it is
For more visit
the poet's websites:
http://jimbennett.port5.com
http://www.poetrykit.org/ezines.htm
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Copyrights @
Jim Bennet
|
Celebrity Death
stripping skin was the hardest thing
following the contours so it didn’t rip
then scraping of the inner fatty tissue
stretching it to dry
carefully pinned out
to avoid shrinkage
smelling whistfully
it stood framed on its holding board
against the wall
attracting the glances of everyone
she would have loved the attention
the probing poking fingers
eyes that took in
the awed silence of her presence
later stuffed
and stood naked
in the celebrity area
hands touched her
as people passed
felt her hard cold breasts
caressed her groin
she kept smiling
they marveled
this is the way to die they said
a sacrifice for your fans
true perfection
a real celebrity death
later peole would hire her
to stand and greet guests
at their parties
and later still
when holes began to show
and thin skin exposed the stuffing
beyond repair
she was slipped away
into the basement
a quietly incinerated
her ash drifted out with the smoke
and left a trail across the sky
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Untitled
some events defy capture
till time has passed
others are just too big
to turn themselves
easily into poems
Anyway
who would want to be
a poet laureate
for the worlds disasters
Sometimes
words are just
countless bodies
floating on a churning sea
defying you to
make some sense
of them
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When I
tried to Write a Haiku
I saw a bike
covered in snow
resting against a low wall
waiting for a thaw
when it would be taken
wheels slicing air
along the Cheshire lanes
I wrote it down
tried to capture
its crossbar
seat stays
the graceful twist
of handlebars
dripping melting ice
the canvas saddlebag
cape tied across it
like a cowboys bedroll
tried to capture this moment
the coldness of its metal
the salt smell of the wind
tried to capture it all
in a haiku
but failed
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Copyrights @
Jim Bennet
|
