Monday, 18 June 2012
Saturday, 16 June 2012
Ok, so you're all Joyced out but I've just remembered this I wrote after I last read 'Ulysses' in 2001 when I was living in the North Laines in Brighton. It's absolute rubbish, I know, and deservedly unpublished, but I like it for the fact that it shows I was willing to experiment a little with the style of poetry I was writing back then, and I share it in the spirit of celebrating all things - high and low - Joycean.
Just Nipping Out
Rain in the air. Face. Cobbles wet.
Who’s that? Hannah? No.
Girl at school, left bike in her garage.
Brother friends with her brother,
listened to ska music together.
Three saffron rice for price of two.
Poor quality olive oil.
Wouldn’t sell their best, would they.
Perugina. Perugia. Bought selected
William Blake there. Simple in Italian.
Closed. That aloof young guy
unpacking boxes, putting books out.
O well. Bit cloudy for sunglasses.
Great rack. Tight T-shirt.
Wonder about her boyfriend.
Could buy body lotion for Jane.
What was it: camomile or aloe vera?
Home soon. Bread shop closing.
Always nervous entering this one.
Unwelcoming. Overprice their poetry.
Belonged to dead people mostly.
Stand here till rain passes.
Thought Rutger Kopland was Danish.
Big feet. Should’ve brought coat.
Eased up. Doesn’t matter anyway.
Watch out! One-way street. Twat.
Nothing much up here. Probably is.
Walking faster now. Blue door.
Currant buns under grill.
Smell of toasted cinnamon. Umber.
16 June, 2001
©2012 Dan Wyke
Saturday, 2 June 2012
The First Taste of Freedom
For background there’s unbroken blue sky
draped with red, white and blue bunting.
A trestle table stretches the length
of the cul-de-sac, which is unusual,
but somehow fits in with the adults
hobbling, legs tied, on the playing field.
We’re all suntanned and freckled,
except Jeffrey, who’s darker,
and whose parents have stayed at home.
We haven’t even heard of heavy traffic,
but we know the rest of the world
is celebrating the Jubilee.
He takes a piece of cake out of the flag,
chews it, and pretends to be sick.
Someone’s mum shouts, Don’t do that!
He splurts, It tastes of shit, the Union Jack.
From 'Waiting for the Sky to Fall', Waterloo Press, 2010.
©2012 Dan Wyke