The word mines

Each day I carry it: a sack of ideas

My back is bent. Been doing it for years

Past the theatre that won’t let me in

Past pubs, those gilded palaces of sin

Each day, I place imagery in my bag

No-one acknowledges my grind

To recover poetry from mere slag

For my hardship is of the wrong kind

No-one notices me. I don’t care

As I struggle to unearth simile

It’s dark and dangerous down there

Sifting through mere spoil for poetry

No-one sees me and no light shines

It’s dangerous and dark in the word mines

What's wrong with British poetry

And now – insert sincere voice here
Something to keep the hordes from the door
Something gloomy, you’ve heard it before
Something for Sunday night on Radio 4 –
A walk through a Victorian museum.
First, selected by Eileen and Eric
From our echoing mausoleum
Comes this blood-stained relic
How we murdered the Zulu nation
Words are needed to mark the crime.
It’s a hymn of praise to exploitation
Colonial delusion served by rhyme
We had the Maxim gun, they had spears
The same today, it’s been going on for years

Jimi Hendrix revisits the Troubador

People grow old, bits are dropping off

See them clutter hospital and stage

They sniff and splutter, croak and cough

It's annoying. It sends me into a rage

Beauty and youth are glorified

Aren’t they embarrassed at their age?

Surely, silence would be more dignified

But Jimi still looks good in his flares

His gnarled fingers grope for the whammy bar

He twisted his knee on the narrow stairs

Of the club. I helped him out of his car

Couldn’t stop him. He had to go on

His Strat soared, the old magic wasn’t gone


Jimi would have been 70 this year. I went to a club in Earl's Court that he played in, probably in ’66, only four years before he died and I walked down the same staircase. I imagined him then – the amazing presence that he must have had, then I imagined him as he might be now. His favoured weapon from which he wrung magic - left-handed – was the Fender Stratocaster guitar, preferably played through a Marshall amplifier and stack. Pedals were invented to create the sounds that were in his head – phase, flange, wah-wah, it all started with him. He could play with titanic power and delicate beauty. He was 27 when he breathed his last. But he will never die. He is trapped in time. Peter Pan.

Holy spirit

To Cecillia

I'm not scarred by a righteous fight
Don’t have a piercing, or tattoos

I’m not certain that I am right

About my haircut or my shoes
There’s nothing peculiarl in my speech

Don’t have artistic hands or feet

Sublimity seems out of reach

I live in a suburban  street

I’ve never wowed a trendy club

My lights are off at half-past nine

I haven’t but I know I could

Perhaps I could, with one more wine

I would capture with my muse

The holy spirit of the blues

I touched a tiger

I remind you of when you were wrong

I’m not sure if I can forgive you

You don’t want to like me – but you do

It’s your indifference that made me strong

I touched a tiger when I was young

That’s what sets me apart

I go round with a damaged heart

Chaos is written on my tongue

The way you treated me was risible

Don’t use this counter, sit at the back

My struggles were all authentic

My scars are almost visible

I have the soulfulness that you lack

How real I am is just sick

Shady Lady

Aesthetic horrors from her bands

The worst one was Duran Duran
Dictators paid in Krugerrands 

Fat men in tights doing the can-can 

Jolly games of bridge and tennis

A home in Dulwich: better buy it
G and Ts and golf for Dennis

A gated world of peace and quiet

She didn’t like her men too lippy –

Part of the creed of Thatcherism

And she invented Mr Whippy

A hint of sadomasochism?

The world after they bombed the Grand

Tasteless, vulgar, trite and bland

Alpha

His suits are sharp, he works at night

A hint of stubble, shadowed eyes

His website is in black and white

To cross him would be most unwise

He hunts wild animal for sport

Antlered creatures in a wood

His car is the high-octane sort

He’d suck the tailpipe if he could

The papers love his bad-boy looks

The craggy fissures of his face

He is the alpha of the cooks

See his keen blade unzip a plaice

His bounty from the blood and dark

A home in leafy Holland Park