Tag Archives: poetry by Ian D. Hall

Midweek Birthdays Are Not Cool.


Birthdays rarely fall

when they should,

a day in which to celebrate

and make good

of the hopeful

cheer that might come your way

would be better served in warmer climes,

not in the frozen pastures of February,

neither ought it tumble

onto the stony, unforgiving ground

of the weekday, wantaway Blues,

where grown adults of the current age

shake their heads and say,

not on a school night, despite

not having children to care for.

I will take my birthday when it comes,


I have thrown out so many bags

for refuse of late, that countless

ideas of nonsense have become

obsolete, not worthy of being

in the same house anymore;

I must find a way to make room

for the hopeful flights of fancy

that are being conceived,

embryonic, shifting shapes

of butterflies, pinned down,

to grow into

the nonsense they desire to be.


Ian D. Hall 2018

Valentine’s Table.


Valentine’s Day is cruel,

unforgiving as expectations are raised

and the hope of a declaration of love

so special is hoisted high

in the hopes that your relationship

is seen to be perfect;

she told me to be ready by seven,

the table was booked for eight

and for a change

she was treating me to a night out

in low lights, soft music

and a night which was not

to be considered make

or break.

I hated the idea of such fuss,

Dialling For Radio Luxemburg.


It was like scanning a dial,

an old fashioned radio receiver

searching in the darkness

for Radio Luxemburg, static,

partial signal, lost, found, ear

splitting, brain numbing sound

as you close one eye in response

and try to shrug away as the dentist,

fiendishly and with enamel desire

starts removing the loose and the cracked,

the split and gleefully

finds the station’s pulse mark

and enjoys the hits coming forth,

in at this week’s number ten, a new sensation

drill baby drill.

On The News Of An Engagement.


There will always be happiness

to be found in the announcement

of love, it is the way of things,

we fulfil a need to see life

continue, to see it flourish

and avoid the rain

that some would bring just

by their presence; you cannot beat

the feeling of love and it is to be happy,

to be thrilled, when it happens to you.

Love, you are lucky my son,

you have found the one to hold

and admire, to care for

They Tell Me That Elvis Is Dead.

They tell me that Elvis is dead,

they showed me the carefully

snipped out press cuttings

they had saved since

the dreadful news broke,

back in ’77, every line

preserved, poured over,

taken out every now and then

and the days of tears that follow,

a single one

slowly drifting down the face

when it hurt too much

as I see them close the thumbed

to death, barely hanging on scrapbooks

and draws and bloated cupboards of memorabilia;

floods when the grief of Elvis

You Will Not Converse With The Silence.

I don’t know why

but it got to me

that you didn’t see Terry

before he died.

I knew that you had an issue

with death, you had lived with it,

a day to day companion, an image

in the corner of the room

whenever you thought of a brother,

one not destined to be like you,

vibrant, easy going charm,

a devilish smile, rakish

but with sound heart beating,

but not for the dead,

it got to me because I realised

no matter how close we were

I Play Sax For Them As They Jive.


I nod my head to the leader

of the band playing my tune,

the signal that silently suggests,

if he would be so kind,

to go up the range,

make it beat faster, till I lose my breath

in the smoky atmosphere and sit

wide eyed at the dance, this mix of tango

and waltz, gentle and frantic

all in the space of a single ball room

to which I play the saxophone, sweat

drives with the speed

of an out of control Plymouth,

The Noise At James Herbert’s Wake.


Inside those tunnels,

I imagined rats, gnawing, chewing, ready to bite

down and feast on my flesh, the gatherers

at James Herbert’s wake in Liverpool

that night, as we toasted the horror of man

and the brain that seized them all,

made the connection between sex and the

ability to frighten, the strange allure

of the thrill in every page,

was down in those tunnels even now,

sharpening his pencil, readying his wit

to kill us, one by one, by one

who knew how to extend the torture

Seven Emotions: Smiling.


Have you ever seen me

smile? Laugh even;

snort like a free-wheeling pig

as it bathes in the mud,

almost lose the ability to breathe

as the joke hits home.


Have you ever seen me smile

properly I wonder, I rarely

show my teeth when I do,

the ones where I am ready to bite

down with anger, the smile of revenge.


Did you ever catch me, earphones in

and my mind spaced out, high

on a Galton and Simpson trip,