I hate Marmite,
however,
I defend your right to go to war
over it being withdrawn
from clean and enticing
shelves, with best before date
showing on the label,
to get agitated
and forced fed
as your mid-morning
mouth becomes the graveyard
of quick and easy snacks.
Remember, this is but the first shot
in the Marmite war, the skirmish
in the desert, the aisle of plenty
now bare, those that lived through
rationing know how to tighten
their belts by a couple of notches,
The sound of Plymouth
yet most assuredly Cornish,
beautiful Tamar
sparkling life past the Devil’s eyes.
The home of my great grandparents,
Apple orchard innocence
hugging the cliffs of Saltash
and to the east I see a different land
one where the white cross holds
no fear against the Devil.
Cornish heart, Midland’s mindset
wrapped up in the allusion
of Maple leaf and Bicester youth; Tamar
has my soul,
as soft as the touch of a woman’s hand
upon my beating chest.
Their smiles were well meaning
as they outstretched their hands,
on that I could not fault them,
I will not, after all, denounce anyone
unless they have been a dick
to me or tried to blacken my name
and even then I only rarely
forget my standards and actually
talk about them
but why give them the satisfaction.
On the corner of Hardman and Hope
I talk briefly with a magical lady,
poetry is the order of the conversation
and my regret of not being able to attend
Trash talk, locker room banter,
hard to recollect
but perhaps,
no
I am sure
I never heard it
outside of prepubescent nonsense
and the surge of hormones
that flood the body,
as I stood drying myself off as quickly
as possible because I just
could not stand
being in the room;
I used to run the school cross country
as fast as I could
because I wanted to get
in that locker room
and get changed, get out and be on my way
A curious answer
to the question I never asked you,
it was always preceded
with the bluff
and Universe cold
“In truth?” which always led me
down the path of contemplating
going back out the freshly felled oak door
I had just walked in
and perhaps spending another
seven hours at work, bored,
going out of my mind, mind
numbing tedium
rather than listen to what came next out
of your unimaginative head;
complaint after complaint,
it is your job,
it is your responsibility,
Of course,
Women
should know their place,
it is surely to be expected
that they should be at the front
leading the way,
fighting harder, fighting all the way,
that they should be heard as equals,
that they should not take misogyny
in any form
and that they should not live in fear
of the fist,
of the male,
of the world’s
preconceived ideas
handed down by male privilege,
surely they should know their place
and revel in being
leaders,
innovators
I
would love
to see
the big picture,
however
I
am afraid
the
result, the scene,
would leave me so breathless
that they wouldn’t be able
to hang me.
Ian D. Hall 2016
You were not my great love
of teenage years, she
was unobtainable,
not the girl I could have kissed
till years had passed and our mutual
sorrow and despair drove us together
for one sweet night
of dope fuelled devotion;
you were not my great love
but you were my first real date,
a Banbury day, a film
and a burger,
I loved you deeply for that day
and the beauty you seared,
hot glowing metal
billowing against my lungs,
I love you for the memory
Thank you
for reading
Keats, Shakespeare and Auden,
cheers from the heart
for digesting,
swallowing whole
the grace of Lanyer,
the nature
and anger of Anne Askew
and the wrathful might
of Mary Wroth.
Across the ages,
a mighty
show
of immediate gratitude
and appreciation
for revelling in Ginsberg, Kerouac and McGough,
today is their moment,
always the moment
pick up a pen,
type without discretion
or pain,
a small sonnet of love
on a Poet’s day.
Forget me not,
but I know you will,
the spark of memory
you might retain
will be clouded in dust
and myth,
you will probably forget my name.
Forget me not,
though you will probably fail
to remember my face,
before the beard came along,
you will forget the kiss we shared,
the laughter too loud,
or the name of my favourite song.
Forget me not,
there on the fringe of your life,
wiped from the picture,
sideswiped from reminiscence,