Timewaster

 

‘Sorry’

the man on the train says

‘for asking, but

are you a writer?

I’m a writer.

Sci-fi fantasy.

I don’t believe in happy

endings, such a cliché.

In my book, everybody dies

after three

thousand pages.’

 

‘Sorry,

sorry to disturb you

I’ve been

writing my book for ten years

since I was sixteen.

Unfortunately

I’m off to work, insurance

for my sins.’

 

I ask him when he writes

and he says he hasn’t written anything

for five years.

His eyes roll

little wet pebbles

his eyes gape

little fish pleading

with me not to say the bleeding

obvious –

if you haven’t written for five years

you’re not a writer.

 

‘Sorry’

he says

‘I’ll let you get on’

He watches me make notes

for five minutes, and says

‘that seems like a lot

of work

for a poem.’

This is a re-worked version of a NaPoWriMo 2013 poem, I’m trying to get it ready to submit for publication somewhere, so all comments and feedback are especially welcome. The original version is here, if you’re interested…

The mall is full of dugong,

Basking gently in the atrium of filtered light,

This temperate zone, these grazing pastures.

Flippers on the handlebars of grand-nippers,

At whom they smile, bewildered, but kind,

Floating tenderness to the youngest

Of the Family Dugongidae.

 

Dugong spend much of their time alone,

Great, grey, chamois-soft, slump-shouldered bulks

Navigating zeppelin-slow through the aisles

Of the twenty-four hour Asda,

Pondering the mysteries of couscous,

Considering treats for little visitors.

 

Dugong spend much of their time in pairs,

Rootling with their bristled, sensitive snouts

For nice cups of tea and a scone,

Though they are sometimes seen

Gathered in large herds,

To do taichi at the community centre.

A synchronised dugang,

Fluked tails moving patiently

Through Needle On The Bottom Of The Sea.

 

Dugong dugon of the family Dugongidae!

Come and pass your undemanding eye

Over the paintings from the Gray Collection,

Here at our local gallery.

I know you will pause

At the Victorian child, pink muslin and ringlets,

Her giant St Bernard dog, its head huge on her lap.

I know in your great, grey, chamois-soft heart you understand,

The restful weight of trust,

The touch of small-fingered hands.

 

 

Summerlight flicks, the edges of London,

Sparks on glass-blades, city spires,

Smithereens of past, shards of future,

Gilt crust, glamourdusk , quick flash-fires.

Greenwich, we say. Thick in the waterbeds,

Maidenhair sinewaves, mechanized wash;

Old man river rolling shingle on a blue tongue,

Popping candy, lost slang, memories, tosh.

The pub we sit in, burnished planking,

Orchestrated mismatch, pristine scuff;

Raise a glass to owning it, scotch eggs a fiver,

Nowadays a feast is as good as enough.

Niggardly futons, in the flats of longago,

Fistholes in plaster, scrag-end of lust,

Bargain-bin fabric pinned against windows,

Rose light, clementines, fag ends, dust.