Category: Poems

Posted on in Cambodia, Poems

The train to Kampot

People going through things, I salute you. Here’s a short poem.

The train to Kampot has teal cushions
but you might call them green, or blue.
On its way out of town it passes
all the colours and flavours of Phnom Penh:
a critical mass of scooters and remorques,
old men poking around in heaps of plastic,
women in patterned skirts dutifully sweeping
their patios, young men in livery
eating breakfast from tin bowls,
wrecks of cars buried under layers of dust,
occasional smooth stretches of road,
overgrown waterways, plumes of smoke
carrying the scent of grilling pork and bananas,
billboards advertising “premium German beer”,
white-plastered low-rises,
slum communities clustered around the tracks,
dogs hollering their responses
to the locomotive’s incessant blasting horn,
and everyone watching the windows of the train,
making half-closed-eye contact
with the passengers as we rattle and scrape on by.
Until, at last, the buildings give way to Cambodia’s
sun-baked flatlands, ridged by endless
water management systems and scrubbed clean
by the tongues of thirsty cows.

Posted on in Poems

The end

Quick intro: This is a poem I wrote a long time ago. Like, 10 years ago. I was 19, a spring chicken, and on my very first bicycle tour (London – Paris – Luxembourg City – Aachen – Maastricht – Brussels – Calais – London), which I was not psychologically prepared for but which I do not regret one jot, as it planted me on the path I’m on today. When I was performing at/organising spoken word events in London as a student, this is the poem I read the most. It has a dear place in my heart. The reason I’m uploading it now is because I reached into the psychic archives last night and performed it at a lovely open mic night (with a poetic focus) in Bangkok, organised by Lyrical Lunacy, and multiple audience members requested I send them a copy!!!!! Which is a very nice thing. I had also brought along a small handful of zines of my reality TV poems and cycling poems and they all went to new homes. So anyway, here it is. And I’ll be writing in more detail about the event for The Friday Poem (link to website). Eyes peeled.

The end

Let’s think about the end, right,
because the end is in sight
and try as you might, you can’t turn back…
from the old school unlimited or sunset riveting 
patchwork of life as it rushes past your eyes,
so don’t forget the images, the undulating symmetry, 
the catastrophic syzygy that comes from being there till the end.

And maybe the end is not so bad,
not full of all that stuff that made you sad:
maybe it’s all the opportunities that you never had,
to be lived through by tapestry—
so what, it’s a two-dimensional artistry,
it’s full of life and movement and energy
and whether it be the life of me 
or the death of you it is infinite, like me and you.

Maybe the end is light bulbs,
or a thousand Roman candles and eureka in the dead night of the south pole.
Maybe the end is dim blue skies,
or shortened school-ties,
or black grass forever spiking and leaning into soft lines,
doctrines comprising the eternally wise
and packing it all down into three little lies.
Or ten big lies, set down in stony hypocrisy.
Maybe the end is mediocrity,
swings and roundabouts, and everything it ought to be.

Maybe the end is coiled like a spring
and biding its time until bade ‘come, sing’;
maybe seven deaths in all and nails bitten to the clear,
wicks lined for the squad-
cars boxed for slaughter or
punctured lambs bleating ‘hurrah’ for the eternal,
bleeding hurrah for the end
with beady eyes beating, too far from home;
maybe silhouetted husks, or stuck in a rut, 
bathed in the brine of a sun so fine
and holding onto tears of light
that once made you cry but now make you strong like the trees.
You can live in peace if you choose to seek and kind and mindful way to be.

Maybe turbulence,
maybe extravagance,
maybe champagne on silver and no need for the ambulance
because you’re almost there with bubbles galore
and there’s ecstasy all over the floor.
All your morbid memories are replaced with exotic delicacies—
you’re Superman or Peter Pan
and whatever people say you are, that’s what you’re not.
You’re bursting through these eyeball phases
and racing through countless powdery places
and what’s at the end but your own sins and graces?
What’s at the end but the smell of fifty million dead cigars,
a trip round New York and volcanic jazz?

Maybe the end is three weeks on the road
with nowhere to go but among strangers and strange lights.
(or on a bicycle in Bangkok, performing your poems despite stage fright)

Maybe the end is ego death, going back for a chat with Socrates,
a lapse in the continuity and serving a crystal Mephistopheles,
the repetition of stars and lights and not being able to get it right,
you look for God but he’s not in sight and suddenly you’re on your knees.

And maybe, absolutely, indefinitely, it’s not so bad –
not full of all that stuff that made you sad.
Maybe it’s all the opportunities that you never had.
So don’t forget the images,
the undulating symmetry,
the catastrophic syzygy that comes from being there till the end.

*

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Posted on in Poems

Odysseus’ final battle

With chainmail leggings and an Iron Shirt
or a faux leather catsuit. Clean wet dirt

to coat his skin. No need for a gun:
an elephant wetted against the sun. 

Cardboard armour in concertinas
and kevlar, fat with carabiners. 

Two-litre bottles sliced into tubes
(but so they didn’t catch he used water-based lube),

holes plugged with Extra. He filled all the gaps
with expanding foam and booby traps.

He was indefatigable until he saw the
size of the swarm, so rang out his order:

Coat me with acid. Leave no stone unturned
Deliver me peace, for all that I’ve earned.

Cut off my arms and sever my feet.
Suck out my blood and replace it with Deet.

Posted on in Poems

Blood and oil

Vladimir Putin but not riding a bear
Volodymyr Zelenskyy, two Ys, getting spellings right, 
that Yale lecturer who talks about Ukrainian history, Timothy Snyder – or Snider?
The Syrian leader with the forehead, Assad, no, his father Assad, very top-heavy
Conservative MPs Damian Green and Bob Stewart, of Ashford and Beckenham respectively
My old MP was a doctor, she was popular until her colour changed, when she defected
Same goes for Christian Wakeford, although he’s not a doctor
Is he?
Not a doctor, not a doctor
Dad’s a doctor. Wakeford––
Same surname as him I sat next to in A Level maths. Shane. Rugby lad
Kwasi Kwarteng is sure to go, an alliterative name
Nigel Lawson’s got nearly the same name as his daughter
mee-crow-wah-vay
Uh oh, not Nigella
Gary Neville’s dad’s called Neville Neville. What were they thinking?
Sr, Jr, II, III
Lorelai and Lorelai Gilmore, onwards ad infinitum
… Donald Trump’s tiny hands, Barack Obama’s propensity for bomb-dropping, 
the Supreme Court’s decision to overturn Roe v Wade
What has the world come to? Elon ‘African American’ Musk buying Twitter
Ron DeSantis being sanctimonious, or loving meatballs
This lady getting dangerously close, almost as if she wants me to think
Nigella Nigella Nigella
Fish finger bhorta causing consternation among the ranks
Smell of Maldive fish – a spice, therefore not considered to be actual meat 
among beachfront restaurateurs of southern Sri Lanka
Eating barbecued sheep meat off the floor, drunk, craving flesh
Chicken fajitas cooked by the Israeli boys
They used to speak to me in Hebrew while I surfed. Israelis in general, that is, 
not Ram and Amir
Asked me why we were going to Israel. Ram and Amir, that is, 
not Israelis in general
Same as what that Lebanese woman said in Beirut. ‘You wouldn’t go to a zoo’
Which sounds very different depending on what you know about who says it
… Milkshakes made with Milo
Coconuts scraped with love
That terrible bar
Snakes, lizards and spiders called scorpions
The sound of the sea
The sound of the fan
The sound of the fan in the room with the lady masseuse, wearing only a towel and thinking
Nigella, Bonjela, measles, rubella,
It’s over, I made it, time to go.

Posted on in Poems

More than Saudi Arabia but fewer than Mexico

Dense with deep brown air,
coldness emanating from within.
Beast belly brooding, brewing.

One for every two 
hundred and seventy-four thousand, two 
hundred and twenty-two people,

give or take. Call them oases 
or corporate quagmires,
spaces you can be dressed

in more than a T-shirt.
Feel your breath be conditioned as it leaves;
rub shoulders with the twin-tailed mermaid.

Lower yourself into darkness, eat
with your fingers, your wallet, your planet.
Drink identically and nearly caffeine-free in 70 countries.

Dip yourself in syrup, insulated from real life.
And when they call your name – Bernard – do not correct them. 
Forget yourself, one cup at a time.

Posted on in Poems

Pie

Written some time ago with my brother, Inigo

I want a large macchiato, 
2 lattes,
sweet and salty popcorns,
979 big or fat apricots with stacks of corned beef pie, 
hot tortilla cut in circles,
omelettes 50 by 8 furlongs deep,
a blackberry crumble,
a garlic ciabatta
and dumplings.

FYI: there’s something to ‘get’ here, but I don’t want to spell it out, because that spoils the fun. The clues are all there.

Posted on in Poems, Uncategorized

Knock-kneed and coughing

We went for a walk through the trees up the hill by the beach.
The sun was in the sky, I didn’t want to underestimate the heat.
We drank all of the water that we’d brought up to the top, we could feel
our temperatures were on the rise and we were still an hour from the lee.
And when I called your name I couldn’t hear it – you were caught inside a dream.

Dying of thirst on a mountain in Abra de Ilog
is hardly a 51st date idea to make me nod.
We hadn’t told anyone where we were going – gleeful
and gung-ho, we’d swapped all our caution for portions of bihon.
What made matters worse were the warnings of poisonous tree frogs.

On the track running flat from the waterfall, close to the zenith,
we paused by a series of bushes all laden with berries.
Then out from behind came a noise that filled us with terror –
we didn’t agree on exactly what thing it resembled
but that didn’t matter. We ran with our tails tucked between us.

Down through the brown and the green of the jungle we clattered,
thrashing and pelting, devil may care as we batted
our eyelids, twisted our hands into shapes, concertinaed
like Mexican waves as we crashed in a heap to be seated
at last on the carabao grass, sore-bummed and weakened.

Our water out and armpits more than fusty,
the sundry jungle smells mixing with must, we
saw, in winter boots, its nappy chunky,
leg up but hardly proud, a collared husky,
its owner, clad in sliders, making duck face.

FYI: Abra de Ilog is in the Philippines, on the northern edge of Mindoro, which is the island south of Luzon (where the capital is). Frequently, in Manila and other parts of the country, you’ll see dogs that may once, in lives long past, have been ferocious, or at least able to look after themselves, but which, as they’re being trundled about the mall in a baby’s pram, or as they wait patiently outside Auntie Annie’s in their lickle fluffy boots, seem completely removed from the evolutionary process. And yes, you’ll see them even on hikes where dehydration has made your life flash languidly before your eyes, and you will feel, in that moment, even more pathetic than them. Oh, and the title is from ‘Dulce et Decorum est’, a Wilfred Owen poem about the First World War. Thanks for reading!

Posted on in Poems

Not for a lack of sun

Kungs Cafe Lao, no apostrophe,
is a haven, a cave that smiles –
discrete, it doesn’t ask questions.
Dried gourds hang from bamboo rafters.
The coffee, Lao coffee, is thick and sweet.
Pots of dangling greens interrupt the sunlight;
strings bearing delicate ceramic figures
curl slowly when the fan’s arc curves.
The side wall is the same, and more:
butterflies, red frangipani,
dok khoun (literally ‘golden shower’),
who knows what else. And roses
on the tabletops absorbing light
French conversation, catching phrases
among the clutter of kitchen sounds –
blending, chopping, arranging,
tap noise and pot lid sounds
popping out from behind the corner.
The Americans are talking about
revisiting old students and feeling
like a rockstar, hopping off the
brand new Chinese train (it’s only
two generations since LBJ rained hell, yet
it’s the Chinese everyone’s in two minds about)
and being welcomed by screaming children.
I know the feeling of aggrandisement
that comes from people shrieking my name,
or ‘welcome’, or even, by mistake, ‘bye-bye’,
and I know what it’s like to be a citizen
of a country complicit in genocide,
to plant one experience in another soil and
watch it gently wilt.

Posted on in Poems

The mark we made on the earth

You came at precisely the right time,
flash and twinkle, skin, eyes and bones
in a heap on the step, trundling into view
like a carabao – long neck, head up –
smile swinging in a threadbare hammock
not far from the river, do you remember?
Neon-lit by the glimmer from a glass cabinet
whose light, reflecting off key lime pie,
gave passers-by a cartoon-like,
disembodied quality.
Whenever someone leaned in to deliberate,
gaze dancing from one item to the next,
I would try to predict their choice:
apple crumble, date slice, chocolate cake.
Banoffee crumbs lingered on my fork.
We were talking about the difference
between a religious experience and a spiritual one,
or between Maoism (as defined by the Shining Path)
and Mao Zedong Thought – he was a poet
who didn’t like the term ‘Maoism’ –
about Biafra, Kingslee Davey, salt flats and
mineral deposits.
                   And then there you were again,
in the street, shoulders draped in sky-blue silk,
Yumeji’s theme playing somewhere offstage;
once a geologist, forever a homeopath;
nonprofit employee in pachyderm pants
disguised as a Spaniard in search of wheels.
You bought a sack of ferns
from the old ladies on the street
before trading it back in the village for 
tubes of fresh rice cake.
We snatched them off you like children.
Your skin was soft brown. We spoke in German.
Unafraid of details, you described to me
a recent sexual encounter with a Latina woman
(her first of the kind) and an exuberant,
I remember you saying ‘pneumatic’, young man.
It could’ve been Ha Long Bay.
Draught beer was 25p a glass and cold.
Elsewhere it was free drinks from seven till eight,
happy water and off-brand cola.
You insisted I come back in the morning
for iced coffee and coconut crackers
but didn’t hang around long enough to see me
vault the fence. I keep a mental picture of you
in my wallet, wearing a mustard-yellow toque,
driving a taxi-yellow scooter,
screaming into the blackness of a cave.
I could never guess which cake they would go for,
back along the river; the options were too many.
We all have our different selves.
The kitchen twirled around you,
around the Mexican food we made
and the marks we left on the earth,
all skin and eyes and twinkling summer rain.
The time was exactly right, and will be again.


Posted on in Poems

Colleen’s a big believer in feelings

Colleen’s a big believer in feelings. She knows exactly
what it sounds like when her man, or one of her men,
goes down on one knee because she’s heard it three times.

Each time more momentous than the last, she hears
the soft collapse of carpet as it gives way under his weight,
the weight of man, of good men, devoted as pine.

This time she will say yes and everything will be different.
Her past, which aches to dissolve, will do just that,
will shimmer and fade like the blue wall of her love.

Darren performs the ritual, lands like the hull of a barge
before the wall –
he told her he wasn’t athletic, she breathed I hate athletic.
Hands shaped by cans of Carling clasp in prayer, trap
moisture from his breath.

He barely whispers the question for which they all came.
It hangs like gin in the air until she bites.

*

Morning comes. Colleen wants to make herself perfect,
a fiancée in control of her destiny. She stands before the opening
watched by stagehands, feeling more alone than she ever did in the pod.

Her fingers needle the dress she now regrets.
She wants to show off her shape in georgette or satin –
dress for the job she wants, not the one she has. The doors part

and Darren appears, wide-armed and practically jogging, perfect creases in his chinos.
She takes a step and cries uninterpretable tears.
Quicksilver pours from the tips of his fingers as he holds her,

grips her with military arms. She collapses into softness.
Reality is the iceberg of her love; a part of her dies.
This third man, the first to materialise – his smell is off, his hair too shiny.

Sad ironed and longing to break for a second, she recoils,
spins and retreats to the capsule to await her fourth.