My very first ‘political’ poem – in that it’s about a politician – has been published by the exciting New Boots and Pantisocracies blog. Check them out – a poem a day for 100 days – telling it like it is, in these strange post-GE2015 days.
Here’s the opening of my poem. For the rest, click here and support this brilliant endeavour.
WHAT NICOLA KNOWS
Worrying about Nicola Sturgeon’s sleep
keeps me awake the night before the general election.
Three to four hours a night, she tells us on the radio.
I wake at three, wondering if she’s up.
I get her sorted: Vote first thing, then pep talks
for candidates. The afternoon’s for sleep.
She slips off her stilettos, lies fully clothed
on the bed’s shiny cover. Her tights crackle with static.
I miss most waking up to turn my head,
glimpse through pillow-level port hole
rain-hit swells or air-stilled calms
or wind-thrown waves. Knowing first thing
the kind of day we had.
I miss, as much, dealing with heavy rain.
Pinning the corners of plastic bags to cracks,
trimming the bucket’s position to catch the drips.
Tensing tarpaulin ropes. Bailing out.
Rain so loud there’s no talk of method.
I miss postponing everything
for urgent weather-proofing.
Now back on land, under a holeless roof,
I peer at huddled trees for slanting rain.
If I’m quiet I can hear tyres splashing puddles.
If I’m still I can smell city-muted dampness.
Today the wind is up. Some roads are flooded.
Eight miles west a storm mauls your boat.
With bag in one hand, pins in the other,
I think of you inventing practical tricks
to keep the weather out, patch up the leaking deck,
ensure you’re dry, today.
I open wide my squarely-fitted window,
feel drizzle spot my face. The clouds are moving fast.
Published in The Rialto, No.48