Monthly Archives: September 2013

Forgive me internet, for I am drunk. Thee nights on the sauce and I am now exhausted. Gone are the days that this behaviour seemed normal and now I am ready for a hot toddy and a good book before bed.
Tonight  I was with some friends, one of whom is also a poet. We were challenged: who can write the best poem in ten minutes? I rose to the challenge as I’m super competitive and going through a dry spelled regarding poetry right  now, so an excuse to write was fantastic. The other poet was bragging he writes every day. So, I put it to you, internet. Which poem is better? Both were written in the beer garden of a village pub, both took ten minutes. Comment on this with your preference to settle a bet. Here is poem one:

Remember your secret name?
A day
You forwent
For want
Of being both jeweller and appraiser
What are all these stones
You gather in those tusks?
It went dark tonight. A secret shade
Discovered only by
A secret name.

Do I worship mundane things?
Overwhelmed by the gone ones?

I don’t know me like you do.
I’ve no framework or reference
Divorced: I run the basin
Watch my own eyes on the pool
A muddied brown
And morning frown
Whilst yours sing of a youth

I’ve been losing sleep since June.

And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, for poem number two.

I am the most faltering of bedside manners
My psychopath wakes up and wipes the wakey dust away
And whistles nonsense tunes
Imbedded by his parents
Moving diatonically around.

There’s Opera in his croaking marsh
Whose Voicebox was a raindrop
Descends a crooked canon
Falls into plagal, false endings
From the Bedroom to the kitchen
Then the parlour and the Library

Like it was something to be proud of
A note suspends in steam
My psychopath sings in the shower

A silverish sound when partnered with
The cascade of shampoo bottles
The jam red flood of the hot tap

I lie in the bedroom
Aware that one day I will be found
On the floor in the wet room
Ten years after
My psychopath died.