Tag Archives: poetry by Ian D. Hall

Exit: Persuaded By A Bear.

If only every death,

every murder, every execution

and tight lipped soliloquy

moaned and driven through barbed poisoning

by the players upon the stage,

were as interesting as the company

made them, then Polonius would not have died

in vein, killed by a misty eyed word,

Ophelia would not have drowned

languishing in a painted scene

and slowly dying of hypothermia

and Hamlet, dear Hamlet,

the man whom of first I read

but as a young child in some hand me down

book, tattered but loved, creased and bent

Exit: Persuaded By A Bear. full post

(175 words, estimated 42 secs reading time)

In Praise Of Whisky Ginger.

From down in the steam covered pulpit,

the area filled with the sweat

of the encroaching night

and heavy breathe of tenderness,

I watch Whisky Ginger wryly

smile and lift up that one eyebrow,

slightly touched and kissed

by the sweeping gestured touch

of eye shadow, brownish tinge

alluring and deep in meaning,

as she combats the noise of indifference

and early weekend discussion, dissecting

through the early on-set liver damage

and creaking prostrate

that sits in a thousand men

who fall to their knees in deference.

In Praise Of Whisky Ginger. full post

(197 words, estimated 47 secs reading time)

Salt Wound.

Biting nails down to the quick,

the slow reveal of blood that hunts

down the clear skin and slowly

congeals and revels

in the sting of pain, sharp

and enticing, finger sucked

but the will

to place it in salt, the desire to increase

the medicine and the healing

overwhelming.

 

Too old to bite my nails

but it gives the nerves

something to chew on, to

let the rage and unquestionable tension

gorge itself and release the strain,

the simplest of self harm

Salt Wound. full post

(115 words, estimated 28 secs reading time)

The Whisper From The Middle East.

She had the look

of God’s right hand woman,

the fixer extraordinaire

to whom God, when she was in

the tightest of fixes, called upon

with a certain amount of pleasure

down the end of a tightly wrapped

phone, the old fashioned type

with the plastic curly cord,

still used just in case

she had to resort to throttling

the life out of someone, can hardly do

that with a smart phone after all;

the fixer smiled at me

and I knew I was in trouble

The Whisper From The Middle East. full post

(121 words, estimated 29 secs reading time)

Aut Pax Aut Bellam.

The family motto suits me fine

or it just may mean the battle

is never over, that along the way

and through shrouded dusk

will come stomping feet

over heather and gorse, through thick blood

and soothing mud that clogs the lungs

and in which only the sweet faint smell

of whisky will revive;

Aut Pax Aut Bellam

is the mournful cry

of slashing swords and muted dying words

faint hearted upon the lips of former giants

as their world is disarmed by blunted weapons

Aut Pax Aut Bellam. full post

(211 words, estimated 51 secs reading time)

Which One Of You.

These thoughts are constant

and there is no release

as there is permanently a state

of war going on being the two

emotional conditions

in my head; both trying so hard

to be on the side of good,

upright, pleasant and respectable,

both always losing.

 

No Hyde though appears,

I leave that for others

to search for, their tattle

giving them their own hope;

I am too weighed down

by wanting to be free

to care anymore.

 

Duality means taking two breaths

Which One Of You. full post

(160 words, estimated 38 secs reading time)

In Or Out.

By voting in or out

Britain could still be in the Eurovision

Song Contest, by voting out

or in, there might still

be an arsehole in Number 10, by voting

in or out, you could find

another arse waiting in the wings,

(or you might not), by

voting out, voting in

or even spoiling your paper,

one set of people will be happy,

(we didn’t vote for that)

and another will be spitting rags

(we didn’t vote for that either…did we?),

by voting in or out or even picking the fluff

In Or Out. full post

(268 words, estimated 1:04 mins reading time)

500 Days Of Siege.

I built a moat,

hammered down a sign, hand-written

biting scrawl, the legend “Ere Be Monsters”

screams at passers by

and just in case they think

of asking for the draw bridge

to be lowered, to come

inside and visit the land of the self siege,

they first have to negotiate the mine field,

to cover their noses from the smell

of plague that I pump into the air

as a warning, to cross their souls

and brace themselves for the sight

of scythes being sharpened

500 Days Of Siege. full post

(182 words, estimated 44 secs reading time)

Eyes Up.

How is it there are not more accidents

upon Britain’s high streets

as we have found a way to truly

be at one, not with the universe,

but with a small selfish screen

which demands we lower our heads in silent

prayer and ignore

the passing footsteps of the careworn

and the sarcastic, that we must

bump into those surrounding us

and argue that they should

look out for our shadow dangling off us,

desperate to get away and seek

out other sun driven silhouettes

in humanity’s gloom;

Eyes Up. full post

(124 words, estimated 30 secs reading time)

Freedom In Budapest.

It is a freedom fought and worth

the small slow drag on a Cuban cigar,

the long drawn out

spiral of smoke

and the collection of brown

spit that chokes the air

off the Danube, only briefly

before it becomes invisible

but toxin rich, before it is joined

by the steaming coffee, stronger

than home, sending its aromatic

desire up the street in a kind of wanton

come hither eyes and stroke

of the silk stocking that I watch

of one woman on her young friend;

Freedom In Budapest. full post

(147 words, estimated 35 secs reading time)