Saturday 26 August 2017

There is a Light and It Never Goes Out

I am going to be submitting these pieces to a local Plymouth publication called Anthologia on the theme of 'Tradition', this last being another which has followed me from childhood: the Eurovision Song Contest. Even now, I make sure I am always in front of a tv or big screen (as is the case at uni) every year to watch it.


Tonight, we are all winners,
Tonight, Graham Norton is Terry Wogan
(rest in peace)
Tonight is a night I will not miss,
Tonight is my religion.
Like an X-Factor judge, I sit
Notepad in hand, ready to reduce
Every standard-issue diva,
Every Slavic heartthrob,
Every native tongue, kitsch ditty
And excessive use of stage effects
To a clinical note and verdict
Out of ten.
With each entry, I cringe at the weirdness,
Shiver with the frisson
And sigh as the countries lock horns
For a place in my leader board,
Turning iffy eights into certain sevens
While the nines smile with giddy pride
Or flip their hair and smirk.
At zero hour
Those smirks are gone,
Just nervous grins behind a flag
As the world’s eye flies over the Green Room.
I clutch my notepad whispering
The names of my precious number nines,
Groaning with every misplaced point
Delivered with predictable precision,
Until a winner breaks from the pack,
Streaks ahead of the rest
With each country’s haemorrhaging
Of the infernal ‘douze points’.
Midnight strikes and it’s all over,
The trophy awarded,
A tear-stained encore
And the torch passed on for another year –
I sigh and switch off the TV.
A month later, the winning song
Will echo in my head,
Lighting that distant shrine once more.

Too Old for This

I am going to be submitting these pieces to a local Plymouth publication called Anthologia on the theme of 'Tradition', this second being a slightly cynical look back at the beliefs most, if not all of us, had when we were young.

No more gifts beneath the tree
Signed by jolly Santa Claus,
No more jingle as he leaves
His sack beside my bed,
I leave him wine and mince pies –
But end up eating them instead.

No more egg-shaped chocolate
Left by little rabbit paws,
No more plastic tub of crème eggs,
No Guylian or Nestle,
I leave them a large carrot –
But step on it the next day.

No more pound beneath my pillow
For the tooth of my young jaws,
No more hideous display
Of pearly gnashers on a page,
This time I can leave nothing –
I foot my own bill at this age.

A Bowl of Shreddies

I am going to be submitting these pieces to a local Plymouth publication called Anthologia on the theme of 'Tradition', this first coming from a childhood tradition of going very early to an air show at the Kentish airport Biggin Hill and eating our breakfast in the car.

It’s 8.30am and I’m sitting in the open boot
Of my family’s white Volvo Estate
Clutching a blue picnic bowl of Shreddies
As I have done every year since I can remember;
My sister’s bowl is white,
She is shorter than me –
How long has it been since then?
We breakfast in Indian seclusion,
A bold patterned throw over the door,
Impatience for the coming day
Crowded in with the cool boxes and fold-up seats.
Soon, I know, the sky will become
The biggest stage I have ever seen –
My dad made sure of that by parking
As far from tall vans as he could,
Allowing for an unbroken swathe of blue
From horizon to zenith.
As I munch through my ever soggier Shreddies,
Memories of last year play out
In my mind’s eye:
A jet moving through the air
In imitation of a begging dog;
Star shapes in red, white, and blue
Fading into purple clouds;
A drawn-out thunderclap
Ripping the sky apart;
Biplanes stalling - falling
From precipitous heights.
Bowl empty, I am already salivating
For chilled chicken drumsticks and pork pies,
Wishing I could eat them on the roof
Closer to the display

In the big open sky.