Cenotaph of my loathe-quarry
lurks in the corner
ominous obelisk of misery-grey fabric
stained by stagnant-self
arms grubbier than a plagiarist in an inkwell.
It haunts my body
memory-foam cushions twisted
around my depression
like an alligator in death-roll.
If perching, it’s only for seconds
dread at comfort swallowing me whole
or falling over the feet clumsily
delivering self-recrimination
that plunges me into that dark brutal chasm
- again.
The armchair is a sound-hollow
negative echoes only
so I stay silent near its plinth
⁃ yet sometimes the pride in victory
my eyes hold
is loud enough to drown
past despair.
poet
The Book Bag – Street Sailing by Matt Gilbert
Welcome back to The Book Bag. Last week, I shared my thoughts on The Language of Bees by Rae Howells.
This week, between Sax practice, attending my first writer’s circle and some bitter cold temperatures, I’ve been reading…
Street Sailing
- Author: Matt Gilbert
- Press: Black Bough Poetry
I was lucky to meet Matt at 2023’s Black Bough Poetry Party in Neath after reading his poetry on Twitter/X for @TopTweetTuesday. By all accounts, he is a decent, genuine chap and a very talented poet. It was a highlight meeting him.
Street Sailing was released in 2023 and is an exquisite debut collection of poems that provide sensory portraits of daily life across a span of settings, full of imagery and texture.
The bustling market of ‘Ridley Road’ is vividly brought to life in the pages, bringing back memories of when I spent a few months working on a market stall selling fleeces and coats (in the middle of summer – a job I didn’t excel in), is a prime example of this.
Matt brings his emotion to the pages in the poem ‘Father’s Day’ revelling in his parenthood and in ‘I made a mess of my own pathetic fallacy’, he gives an introspection that combines tragedy and self-deprecation.
I’d highly recommend reading Street Sailing if you want to see life captured through an inventive and rich lens. Don’t just take my word for it either, it has plenty of strong reviews online and one of the poems, ‘Foxed’, was nominated for a Forward Best Single Poem prize. I loved reading this.
Favorite Poem:
‘Undercliff’. It brims with rich language, vivid imagery, nostalgia and achievement.
One More Thing…
The cover artwork by Ben Pearce perfectly matches the urban poetry that is dotted throughout the book.
Read more about Matt Gilbert at https://richlyevocative.net/ and https://www.blackboughpoetry.com/matt-gilbert
Next Week’s Read
Looking ahead, here’s what’s lined up for my book bag next week;
- Title: Consolamentum
- Author: James McConachie
That’s it for this week’s reading roundup! If you’ve read any of the books I’m sharing or have recommendations for what poetry I should be reading, drop a comment below.
Take it easy
Paul
An Affair of Pipistrelles
Shrouded in the half-light
of a crow-dusk sky and ruby streetlamp blur
I observe hidden lovers
tango in mid-air
wings outstretched ready to hold the earth
in their lust-love
time is stolen by the passion of the near-night
and silent melody of the harp-moon
until the crackle of burnt leaf-beacons
warns of a stoat’s prying eyes
endangered by discovery
the paramours bow into the shadows
leaving only the gentlest echo of their romance
to the dark.
Midnight Pillow
Folded in the nape of the moon
I stand between time
wingspread arms caught
between yesterday
and
tomorrow.
Doubt subsides
like starlight from distant cosmos
a supernova of anticipation explodes
all in the space
of a stuck second.
I fly too close to the Earth
planetary mass gravity
I crash
a ribboned comet’s tail
⁃ clock hand my nemesis.
Autumn From The Kitchen Window
Maple leaves are falling like flames
touch-paper thin and crisp dry
perfect kindling for burning
the last vestige of summer.
Brambles bruised as a boxer's eye
are being wrangled by magpies and jays
blue tail-feathers glisten
with every blood-spattered bite.
Furnace-chested robins stare menacingly
their smouldering coal claws
seem melted to the gatepost
soul-bound guardians
- a comforting presence.
The arrival of a delivery van
steals my view
- ambushes my catatonia.
Community Orchard Picking Party
pears are dangling
silvery earthen-green earrings
inviting to be removed from leafed ears
some have rotted in the intensity of the sun
sheen dulled to clay rust
damson plums nestle into branches
like amethyst hiding in rock
only smoothed
precious stone fruit hiding
emerald green flesh
braeburns have fallen
comfortable in the flame-kissed leaf beds
and honey golden late summer grasses
orbs of sweet promise
the kids are dressed as pirates
wandering with small baskets
ripe with wonder
they gather their treasures
before a couple of cavaliers
spoil their bounty.
Carnivale
rum-wide spacehopper eyes
staring up at midnight Malagan sky
discoball stars glistening
like a dancers skin
my bloodstream inferno
ready to set my beachgrass bed ablaze
voiceless flame amidst the pulse of revelry
the forest of ravers surrounding
will welcome the fire
I raise myself
but remember my legs are lost
to strong liquor and fatigue
stumbling into a dance
floating on the breeze of second wind
rotor blade arms almost take me away
and what goes up
must come down
I’m laughing at myself
backing track of Faithless
and howls and cheers
when I wake
I want this feeling to be my cure
my comfort
my soul.
Footy Down The Rec
To be twelve again
drunk on the scent
of summer-sweated privet
eventful walks to the pitches sometimes
a dog jumping from a garden-strewn manky sofa
or fly-tipped washing machine
and husbands fighting with wives
binliner of clothes next to them on the pavement
comedy in tragedy when you’re that young
we always took a few balls
best to - if some of the older lads were around
on lighter-fluid highs - lacking sense
but the nights of Wembley
three hours of pelting leather against bare legs
ball bobbling along the clumped surface
bodies skimming the field like lawnmowers
making outrageous crunching tackles
ankles twisting like Maradona past Reid
rabid rapture at curling a Mitre Delta into the top corner
and green-kneed, mud-stained wanders home
a magic that can never be imitated
unlike the knockoff boots and shin pads
give me that innocence back
- that simplicity of fun
with friends.
Grains of Memory
Your table is a real table
sliced oak and oil-dressed
uneven surface like the road leaving the village
grains swollen from drowning emotions
- and spilled cups of tea
so many hands have smoothed it
over so many years
some anxious
some happy
- all loved
a few splinters are bulging from the corners
each a memory
some good
some bad
some probably just about the times the ashtray was missed
and maybe one where the beer bottle exploded
resting like a stained glass window
- the table ready to hear pre-night-out confessions
if it could talk
how many stories could it tell
- too many to worry about
next time we’re around it
we should give thanks
drift palms gently over the lines
a loose embrace
that clings tightly to the seams
- like the roots of our friendship.
Ryūjin
devour the sand
plunder every grain
horde them in your golden keep
conquer this land fleetingly
– rise triumphant
spread your scales of quicksilver
under the feathered winter sun
retreating only
– at the moon’s blunt counsel.
This poem was created in response to the Imagist Poet Hilda Doolittle’s poem Oread as part of TopTweetTuesday on X/Twitter.
Paul Writes Poems 