Tag Archives: poetry by Ian D. Hall

Pub Tales: First Rounds. (For Andy Bell)

If I could have had anybody as my first drinking partner,

the first one for whom the tempting taste of

bitter

in a dimpled handled glass, offered over

with great ceremony from a woman with biceps

protruding, bursting out from underneath a starch filled blouse

more obscenely than an unsightly black tar mole covered in three curly grey hairs,

who suspected I was underage

but knew I could control the art of a pint without making a scene

in the Bicester darkness and in the company of pre-cancer darts players cussing

Pub Tales: First Rounds. (For Andy Bell) full post

(462 words, estimated 1:51 mins reading time)

The First…

You were the first of a select few

many times

and have remained so

both our  lives.

From being my first friend, my beautiful comrade in arms,

the first who was the better part of me and

the shoulder for my head, your unwilling soldier sending

the S.O.S. out to be rescued, to the girl I asked first and who

quite rightly

turned me down. The woman with the fire in her hair

and in her stomach, the guts of a warrior, the compassionate heart of a nurse.

The First… full post

(347 words, estimated 1:23 mins reading time)

A Dance In The February Sun.

(For Stephanie Kerr.)

You danced for me, although I never asked you too.

I still think that afternoon was extraordinary and made

our friendship what it is today, built on a foundation

of responsibility of thirty years rather than destroyed

in half a minute as I bumbled around,

fumbled, stupid boy like attempt to ask you out and to dance

for a month or two.

You have known suffering, ordeals in which

I can now only offer a long distance shoulder

but one that has always been there and as we were both outsiders

A Dance In The February Sun. full post

(288 words, estimated 1:09 mins reading time)

Footnote…

Tears were never wasted on you but the anger

diminished as it should when somebody dies in your mind.

I see the face in other books and feel the sick-

ness return at the thought of you.

 

A Sonnet for the love of you, the memory of the cult

captured and freed with remorse, the handshake

unfulfilled and unanswered, my fault.

It matters not as I still care and hope that you are happy now with nothing at stake.

 

On your own request you relegated yourself from a paragraph to a sentence,

Footnote… full post

(141 words, estimated 34 secs reading time)

Friday Can’t Come Too Soon.

Ninety-six hours I’m away from your smile.

A delicate touch displayed on an unspoiled face,

I count down the hours, fingers marking time

and try to keep myself amused

through this horrendous trial.

 

Each week we go through the same ritual dance,

a tear hidden behind a fond farewell.

A promise that whatever happens to us

we will call at the same hour, each  separate day.

Wherever I am staying and wherever my thoughts dwell.

 

By Tuesday night I’m climbing the walls.

Friday Can’t Come Too Soon. full post

(177 words, estimated 42 secs reading time)

A Night Out With Metal On The Mind.

The multiple choice between Megadeth, Magnum, ‘Maiden or Metallica

T-shirts, crumpled to hell, beaten, seven shades of death

inside a second hand washing machine that dribbled

four star oil and council pop with regular ease

and threatened to catch fire whenever you weren’t looking,

locked horns with

the odd bit of your own valuable

spilled blood and redeemed soul,

imprinted forever, stained but unsullied and undefeated,

that always goes well with a great pair of jeans and trainers

that none of your well-meaning friends would be seen

dead in.

A Night Out With Metal On The Mind. full post

(1033 words, estimated 4:08 mins reading time)

A Very British Winter

 

Not so long ago but half a life time to me,

a single snowflake would bring joy

to my innocent, eight year old eyes.

A snowdrift would have me jumping

feet in first to feel the suspense filled cold

travel up my body till my hair went limp with dampness

and only a warm bath and heated towel

would suffice to keep me from sneezing.

 

I would love the time

it gave me time to stay at home,

or play down the rec with school friends.

A Very British Winter full post

(328 words, estimated 1:19 mins reading time)

A Farewell To The Military Man.

The train left with military precision

at twelve minutes past the hour.

The driver, so used to punctuality,

waited impassively for the station master’s

whistle to set him free like an eager greyhound

from the traps that bound him.

 

My bag was packed, half empty

having left behind part of my childhood

that would no longer fit within a so called adult world.

A name and number etched forever onto the surface of my skin

And peered at with frustrated,

Damning blue eyes.

 

A Farewell To The Military Man. full post

(245 words, estimated 59 secs reading time)

A Town By The Sea: The Ballad Of David Owen.

The monument of a thousand radio plays

and midnight angry violent arguments in which the host would

invariably

find the stirring spoon such a joyous toy in which to thrill his sterile wife

who listened in to make sure he was really at work,

was barely visible

as David Owen, former prison inmate of a town near Prestatyn,

former, yet not reformed, alcoholic like his father,

former fighter, brawler and unreformed gambler, better, debtor

like his mother and a thief of uneasy time, as well as the odd

A Town By The Sea: The Ballad Of David Owen. full post

(502 words, estimated 2:00 mins reading time)

When Echo Was A Boy…

Tiresias witnesses another time

Ahead of the end of the days

In which Echo was a boy,

 

And in which Narcissus was a woman.

Who am I?

Who am I?

 

One cries out loud,

Whilst the other merely repeats and cries.

Tiresias weeps at the unfairness

 

Of his vision,

The conundrum of what befell

Them both, unsolved to sightless eyes.

 

Though unsighted, Tiresias is moved

By the plight of the Echo boy

And the Narcissus woman.

 

When Echo Was A Boy… full post

(737 words, estimated 2:57 mins reading time)