Category Archives: Poetry

The Over Critical View Of The School Nativity.

 

Greeted with a glass

of what seemed cheaply made,

home induced, egg nog

at the door of my daughter’s school

by a woman with dust marks on her hair,

and the strange smell of child nerves

upon her weighted down shoulders,

deeper in debt, demoralised

and now having to greet

parents to whom their child is the star

of this off Broadway, local authority show.

 

Small talk surrounds the close fitting

chairs, designed for the uncomfortable

advances of an ice cream pot for child sized hands

Winter At Home.

 

I promised myself

no more cold winters

stuck indoors

as I approached the autumn

years of fifty.

I promised with hand on heart,

a vow to my then hopefully older self

that by then, the words would have meant

something more, that the days

would be long and bright,

not sat under a blanket,

with two pairs of socks, a cardigan, long johns on

trying to keep my nose from freezing

and turning blue, choosing

between heating the house and eating a meal,

Arthur Askey’s First Curtain Call.

 

It is all about introducing children

to the delight of theatre,

thrill them with a funny

but beautiful tale at Christmas

when they are young, and in hope,

you will have them for life.

I was seven before I first saw my first panto,

played out for some reason

on my birthday and with Jimmy Edwards

and Arthur Askey on stage,

Hello playmates and bushy moustached Whacko

transferred from my bedside radio

to the grandness of the Birmingham Hippodrome,

my birthday, I needed to visit the toilet

Witches In High Heeled Shoes.

 

When I was a boy

I believed that witches

were real.

Even good ones.

The Witch in the Wizard of Oz

scared me,

the pointy shoes

and I cheered when Dorothy

and her friends

dropped a house on her

tired withered body.

I reasoned that good witches

could wear high heeled shoes,

all black, stiletto points

and daggers in the stamped down male foot,

when we didn’t behave.

Dorothy, I thought,

you can leave those witches be.

 

The Culmination Of The Great Ice Cream War.

 

English towns and cities,

grassy, curtain twitching villages

very little play Hamlets

seem so ordered and logical

in how they are named,

how they gained their identity,

Ox-Ford, seemingly self explanatory,

Ply-mouth, a river runs through it,

Birmingham, named after a great Norman,

Wallsend-

a future prophecy in which the great

Ice Cream Wars finally came to pass.

 

Ian D. Hall 2017

The Words Of A Hostage.

 

I blink my eyes

a thousand times

a minute, in hope

that you recognise

the Morse Code I am sending,

don’t try to find me,

quite lost,

quite lost,

a small sudden stare

into the distance

reveals more pain

and torture to come,

the taboo to be broken,

the last vestige of my soul

quite broken,

quite broken,

beat me,

they seem to want

to always inflict more

ridicule, surprised I am

still breathing here

in this cold, unforgiving place,

Another (Modest) Proposal.

 

How Swift

We forget

that there was a time

that satire was preserved

for the throats of the pompous,

the lofty with copper bust

on show

in Halls or outside churches,

seeming pious in their pose

and their place in history texts assured,

satire was preserved for them,

satire, let’s eat the rich,

for in their taste for blood,

the Chingford Iain, teeth bared

pumping fist

now uses the poor for fuel,

the disabled to further his cause

of a bright beautiful future,

For The Love Of A Sister (Not Born Of Blood).

 

Sisters, who’d have them,

I didn’t when I was a young boy,

the thought of being

in the same room as the overuse

of teenage perfume

met with warm air

and ever changing pop star

and film matinee idol crush,

of perceived tattle tale

and can do no wrong with simpering smile

and behind the scenes dirty tricks

and mind games,

filled me with dread.

Now I would love a sister,

but the closest I have is not blood,

but she is the finest woman

Like A Kite.

 

Like a kite…

I never learned properly

how to fly the paper chase and nailed

down wood, I would watch

with awe as others flew so high,

tumbled and rose again

in the swirling winds, their lives made happy

because the kite touched the edge

of the perceived sky, where mine limped

and sagged, scrapped the sands and snagged on rocks,

like a kite destined to flump along as I ran,

making my heart beat out of time,

pushing the kite, willing the kite