My inner guide
refuses to use anything
but the Ordnance Survey,
not content to update
to Google Maps,
on the basis that anything
so up to date has no historic value,
that having a folded out plan
of the area
and the walk ahead
is filled with status
by having it blow
inside out
at the worst possible moment.
Ian D. Hall 2017
Disused, broken shell,
no sign of work, no indication
of what you are meant to be, just
sitting in cold winter sun
for the last three years
and a symbol of everything that the town
has become, left to rot,
shame of the county,
the once fine building
is our children’s first place
to let off fireworks like cannons
in battle, for this is a war within itself
and the stakes are higher
than at any time;
you were once resplendent, towering glory,
Your doorbell has never worked
so I knocked harder to try and rouse you,
to no avail, either sleeping
or just not in the mood to give me shelter,
your indifference at answering the door,
to give me access for a while
as the rain falls down around my head,
causing clouds to gather, to become storms
that grumble and fork lightning deliver
internal solitude but become the reason for others
to avoid the sparks; I will not knock
upon your door any longer,
I see your doorknocker is but a novelty
How does she do it, Hopkins,
so much bile and hate
in one mealy mouthed squished
heart. I would
ignore her but she refuses to go away
as I was taught at school
and home
that if you give no quarter to the verbal
spouting gob talking shit bully
they disappear long
into the night, their shadow blissfully forgotten.
If only there was a way to lose you.
Ian D. Hall 2016
Rang an old friend before Midnight,
before the clocks rang out
and Big Ben, guardian and trustee
of celebration, rememberance and morning salutation
looked at the revellers below,
crowded streets, drink passed round
the merry go round as kisses
are exchanged
and promises made, secret liaisons and encounters
hanging in the crisp night air.
I rang my friend at home, a brief call,
from my front step to his leather Lazy Boy
and whilst my year was spiralling down,
his was content,
television drowning the drowning;
I hear the door close, one of many,
after one, after one,
I could do the same, shut the door,
slam it, barricade it completely
and let go, hide behind the door,
behind the memory of everything that ever went wrong,
my door, my fault, I am so very sorry
to have let it get to the point
where even the postman cannot push the letterbox,
cannot dump the adverts, the mix and match rubbish
bag fillers, the black plastic coffin
for the unwanted junk mail for this junk male,
I carry in my pocket bread,
two one pound coins, coal from the surround
we can never afford to put on
for more than half an hour,
and salt, it is not a fetish
but just my way of offering you fortune,
life, heat and wealth in the coming year.
I will walk across your threshold
with a smile and propose we shake hands
under your hallway light, twenty watt bulb,
may you be happy and know love
in the next twelve months, may your Sunday
lunch with family and friends
Lead me into midnight, let me feel the new
dawn rise, artificial construct though it maybe,
we all need to hear the chime of midnight
and the serenade of ships’ horns on the Mersey,
the minute watched diligently
by a Captain’s beard and the deck hand
letting off a series of fireworks into the cold
night air, no snow, perhaps rain
and the shower of memories to come.
Lead me into midnight where for a moment,
Peace reigns, there is no alarm
at the moment of surrender;
You received my parcel
on Christmas Eve,
plain
brown envelope
on the outside, nothing
to distinguish it from
the ray of beauty you told me
it contained when you opened it.
The stated fact that you opened it
at all meant a lot to me,
you could have just
left it on the table
and away from your tree;
decorated tastefully
but still something
you take down
and forget by
January the sixth.
Ian D. Hall 2016
I know I am
not everybody’s cup
of tea
but then
as I watch them stir their spoons,
plastic or sterling silver,
Hallmarked or fully
acknowledged that someone
with snot running from their nose
had licked it first,
I understand with a smile
that they drink
from the chipped cup,
the bitterest ground
coffee.
Ian D. Hall 2016