Poetry for Adults
The Neighbours' Child villanelle was long listed (last 125 of 16,000 entries) in The National Poetry Competition 2019.
The Neighbours’ Child
The neighbours had a child we used to know,
Shot into the world, Brasso bright shining,
Just another dead boy in Walthamstow.
He marked his territory in pink dayglow,
Taunting passers-by with swagger and sass,
The neighbours had a child we used to know.
His handful of stones broke our front window.
We fixed the broken glass with sticky tape,
Just another dead boy in Walthamstow.
Cast in gangster black from hoody to toe,
Knocking over bins, owning the street,
The neighbours had a child we used to know.
Ripped from the page of Edgar Allan Poe,
Spliff-smoking, swearing, staring youth/slash/man,
Just another dead boy in Walthamstow.
Knife in his pocket, it’s only for show.
'Til 1053 on a Friday night,
The neighbours had a child we used to know,
Just another dead boy in Walthamstow.
An Old Friend was long listed for the 2016 Canberra University VC Poetry Prize.
An Old Friend
I remember Rachel Carrington
Large-breasted in her school blouse
Blonde hair resting on her shoulders,
Skirt turned over at the waistband
Engineered to expose nylon thighs;
All the boys knew they would.
They say she had one breast reconstructed.
You say they don’t match
As you fall off your stool at the bar.
Concerned drinkers reach down to haul you up.
Bewildered and wide-eyed
Your pink-blotched face
Sits uneasily under its new wig.
‘You must come round for brunch’
You slur through missing teeth.
We leave.
Your glasses fall in the road;
You follow them.
I help you up.
Your house is scented with damp and joss sticks,
Yesterday’s takeaway overflows the lidless bin,
Cigarette butts gather outside the back door,
Cancerous crew.
‘You and me’ you say
‘We used to dance together. Do you remember?’
Cycle was long listed from 13,000 entries in The National Poetry Competition 2015.
Cycle
A small white dog
Who was once a Hindu boy
Crawled inside a washing machine and fell asleep.
It tossed and rotated him
Filling his ears with suddy soap
And as the water whirled,
The dog became the boy again.
He stepped from the machine
And gave a little shake
No dust on his feet, no grit in his eye
Minus the burden of his clothes.
Don Juan was long-listed in 2022 Plough Prize Competition,
Don Juan in Birmingham (1970)
Elbow on the bar, a Jumping Jack Flash
Commands the room with his hippy panache.
Sways from the waist of his hanger-zipped jeans
Blowing Stuyvesant circles as he leans
Across the bar to order a Barley Wine,
The last before closing time.
The barmaid detects a mixed bouquet
Of Old Spice, Brut and his mother’s hairspray.
Juke box plays The Seven Seas of Rye,
Girls shift position to catch his eye.
He smiles through perfect gleaming teeth,
From regular brushing with Dentifrice.
He can unlatch a bra in total darkness,
From years of practice with Helen Harkness.
He’s dark and mysterious like a Heart ice cream
Filled at the centre with a blood red dream.
One-night stands in his Cortina car
Notched up as trophies on his guitar.
His flat is littered with cans and bottles,
The bed is creaky, the covers mottled,
Traces of girls who’ve stayed before,
Phone numbers etched on the bathroom door.
They leave at dawn to the singing of birds
And wait for his call, which is absurd.
Reflecting on the story of his romantic success,
This legend at sixty – wifeless and hairless,
Drowning in debt and restorative ointment,
Wonders who’s to blame for his disappointment.