A rose by another name
would probably find it annoying
to have an extra vowel placed
somewhere in its heart,
the petals red
with shame as they try
to figure out the meaning
of being called rosee,
like some cheery greeting
in a flamboyant bar; come here
Rosee and have a drink;
Rosee could be a typo, a slip of the keys
but it still realises that the florist
takes great care to spell
Chrysanthemum correctly
and not call it Chrissi
for short.
I have shut the world out,
It is not the first time
I have resorted to this
but it only stems from not wanting
to be in the way;
from wanting to leave
the world in peace
without it worrying
about me.
Safe
here in my hole, the King
of the darkness I survey,
here I am protected from my own
toxic trust, innocent
in my rusted pleasure;
here I sit dependable
for there is nobody to tell
me otherwise.
Nothing has changed,
I still feel the gravity, the grave
of the three
in the morning shadow
that I have had since childhood
that all I know and love, those
to whom I have sheltered,
will all be vaporised in a minute
as bombs rain down
over our heads.
I once imagined
it would be amongst those envied
for why would you consider
living
like that, in amongst the rubble and burning
fires, the smell of death and putrid
dissolving water, now as I feel
Alarm pull
for help
is on wrong side
of the bathroom
for someone naturally left handed
or someone who cannot open his eyes
in the morning,
reaching out half drowned
in the land of nod, the sound
of impending storm troopers,
Nazi guards in blue Travel-
lodge shirts and raised eyebrows
break down the door
with a gentle shove
and raise their eye brows
in disbelief
when they interrogate you
till you throw yourself upon their mercy…
I didn’t mean to pull the alarm,
Let the chant begin at Watford Junction
that we’re off to Wembley,
there is no commemorative
souvenir pullout in the daily
paper, no rosette hanging
down from pin hole spurred
lapel and no colours,
no Liverpool red, no triumphant
blue under the shadow
of the great Bobby Moore,
England’s last great gentleman,
let the chant begin, let the scarves be waved
we’re off to Wembley,
from Watford Junction
the Twin Towers are so very close
now but the cheer you hear
at the final whistle, the moment
They built one in China,
that now to history seems a wonder
of ancient technology, of planning
and people look at it and marvel
of how, wrongly, it can be seen from space
where there is no barrier
and there is no nation line.
A man paved with delusion
and whose phallic tower
rises
almost impotent
when he declares that a wall
be built to keep Mexicans
but not those north
of the winter border out;
that wall is insane.
Then comes along the self important nation,
The eternal scriptwriter
has already written the lines
and knows that at some point
you will do your best to change them,
add perhaps a colon or an emphasis
somewhere into the laid out plan,
your interactions with the other players,
grease painted, mask of tears
and joy painstakingly rehearsed
in the scriptwriter’s mind but
with only a single chance
to get your cue right, remember
that cue, one shot or else
you fall behind and then your lines
fall behind and the eternal scriptwriter
Slightly broken,
I walk on
the egg shells
that surround
the subject
of you,
careful not to breathe,
think
or murmur
your name,
for you
dear egg shell
are nothing to many now
that your inside was proved
to be the reason
that people’s
hearts broke.
Ian D. Hall 2016
It is funny to think
of your back catalogue
always being rehashed and repackaged
as it is something new,
glimmering away
fiscally
like a must have bauble
on an already over tilting Christmas tree,
a decoration too many, nothing
but avarice sentiment
to keep the tills ringing.
It is funny, amusing for a while
but then the resentment kicks in
because they always
ignore your folk club days,
the sound of your true self
and not the polished ego
I
know you sometimes
need to cry,
to let out the emotion
as all of us do.
Just remember though
that whilst I can offer tea
and sympathy,
I sometimes don’t
bring out
the handkerchief
that is tucked
away in my
pocket just so you
can blow
your nose.
Ian D. Hall 2016