#poem #poetry #amwriting #beehive #bradford beehivepoets digest compilation

Don't mind me...

 I'm just putting some poems together for my trip to the Beehive tonight....



at some point today
I had one son on one arm
another son on the other

there were no cars
no dogs
nothing to fear

I wished only to swing my arms
breath in the scent of the bluebells

but I held the offered hands

knowing it was love
and loving every step we took together



compassion is not a virtue but a vice
just as nice isn't pleasant but an amalgam of
                                            neat and precise
and they exactly make a perfect pair
for the empathic to feel superior

oh I know I am heartless
    for daring to say
that I am greatly saddened
    by the knowledge
      most african university graduates
      dream of working for an NGO
      or being an emigre

but it's nice to have cut flowers
   in every retail outlet
and those out of season fruit and veg
they simply will not grow themselves
      and it is of vital import
   to pile them high on gaping shelves

and then there's all the minerals
what must be gathered in
uranium is valuable
as is bauxite and tin

    and those dark chaps in the way
    they must at once go away
    they cannot be allowed to stay

of course it helps those in control
of the mining rights and oil holes
   own the compassion tap
for the NGOs to spout some crap
of how you are a racist knave
because you refuse to behave
and object to the plan
   of evacuate and drown

but mind and never mention
   - don't send blankets just send cash -
haitian hotels of grand dimension
for on the beaches tourists splash
    while up the mountain out of sight
    another child drowns in shite
    as cholera that disease unkind
    clears a path for the clinton's mine

oh yes the despots hold compassion
as the greatest of all virtues
without it they could not be stashing
the money nicely taken
       from empaths like you


 sonnet of the hanged man

only he who has lived in shadow
can know the truth of the light
or the joylessness of the lightdwellers
in their constant fear of darkness

only he who has drunk his tears
and been drunk on those tears
and felt his guts in his mouth
can know happiness of freedom

for all else is plastic of design
no matter how roughened the surface

and only we who have lived
in appreciation of our limit
and gone beyond without care
know the truth of foolishness


 and we are

and the sunlight passes through us in laughter
- roaring and rushing at the joy of living -
spinning in the moment our arms o'erspan
our reach - grab all the eye can see to
cast up in silvered dancing - to shower down upon us
drenching all that we are - and can be

and we turn and we turn and we turn -
until we lift - how full we are with love -



because I have rejected good and bad
and seek only what is
I am deafened with joy

no longer do I wrap myself
preparing not to receive

for now I
wash my soul - smell - and see
with a vivacity of which I could never conceive
or believe
before I allowed myself to let go
of those two bogus words

that from childhood define us


 for a dead child

where shall I take these ashes
   my urge is to the sea
   to the wide norfolk sands
   and trudge across the flatness
      on a receding tide
   so that I might have excuse
   to keep you

I will keep you close
   to my beating heart
      lay down on the wetness
      of drying sand
push my head
   backwards onto mussel shells
      so that I might have excuse
      to keep you

and when the tide turns
   chasing me to the land
I will find excuse
   why I never take you
   to the sea

                for I am you
and you are me

                and one day
                we shall be


alternate past

it's a party to which you were never invited
to which you would never have gone
with cheap white wine - you bought red -
and small talk so dull it goes over your head

though you like to look in through the window
and image you are one of the crowd
with fashionable clothes - and poise and with pose -
there's no point regretting it now

for what use is joining a party
to which you would never have gone
you'd only cause trouble
                           for your present self
no, it's better to leave well alone


and because it is workshop night *rolly eyes* -


 in praise of wb yeats

fuck I hate yeats -
every molecule and electron
within me - despises him -

he's a priest of cheap tricks
   shoving his mitre
   in a choirboys mouth -

nothing he says has merit -
and everything is divisive
and dull - and dulled
because he says it -

put him beside a real poet -
like rilke - who peels you apart
like lsd - or emily dickinson -
with her subtle honesty -

yeats is the lowest of the low
  which is why
   he is held so high
to enable his admirers
to jump - not at all -
   to surpass him
   in their quest for the sky

The Blue Book

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