Poems in Large Page Design

Page-Home

Poems: a Large Page Design

Information Board for using the page

This page, which gives a selection of my poems, can be easily used without any further explanation but Page travel gives a very short introduction to aspects of Large Page Design.
The poems are in different regions of the page, with poems linked by form, subject or tone.
Click on an underlined link in the Region-list to the right to go to a region.
To travel back to Page-Home, perhaps to use the list again, click anywhere in a poem. (The page uses 'dual-function ' images and text.)
If you use Internet Explorer 7 or 8 (or the browser Opera) zoom facilities give an aerial view of the page. 50% is a suitable level to use. Zoom facilities are at the bottom right of the screen.
Some of the poems have a linked Commentary.

Region-list

Concrete poetry
War, the Holocaust and the Troubles
Child labour
Relationships in trouble
Difficult poetry
Nature poetry
Snow
Humour and sarcasm
Miscellaneous

Death and a salesman
Published in 'Route 57,' the literary magazine of Sheffield University

Sure, gas has its advantages, but it reeks.
Have you ever thought about the danger of leaks?
Basically, gas and injections are just chemicals,
and we should cut down on chemicals,
you agree? Pollution has to be Public Enemy #1
- after crime, gun control, lefties, liberals and the Theory of Evolution.
Electricity’s no better - anything but clean.
Like using electric shocks in loony bins - I mean!
It may seem modern but it’s too much hassle.
No, true sophistication is to use the best of the past.
Have you considered a method based on renewable resources,
cost-effective, with, worldwide, thousands of satisfied customers?
That’s why the penitentiary should use hanging, Warden.
The rope-makers of America say, ‘Go, Go, Go Hempen!’

Humour and sarcasm

The Inquisition

On the rack they are highered.
At the stake they are fired.
And all because of
simple, clerical errors.

The worst restaurant in the world
Published in 'Krax,' the magazine of humorous poetry

In this restaurant we serve them right.
Yesterday, someone asked for wholemeal bread.
I gave him stale, sliced white
and shouted in his ear, 'Did you hear what I said?
Stuff it up your stupid arse
if you want brown bread with your lard-and-leftover soup.'
Whatever will they want next? I ask.
An immensely dignified head waiter with a slight, servile stoop?
That newspaper not acceptable to the lady?
First you demand a knife and fork and now you want a napkin!
You're not enjoying the chef's speciality,
'Limaces étuvées à la margarine.'
You ARE fussy! What's in a name?
Fried slugs taste like snails - exactly the same.

He loves reading about falling snow.
He's usually indoors whenever he does so,
but if any began falling outside as he read,
he would dash outside and let it fall on his head
and only return to reading his text
when fear of frost-bite gave him a pretext.

A Learning Zone

The first thing you notice is a loud noise,
as if from hundreds - thousands - not thirty girls and boys,
a shouting. shoving, guffawing, seething mass
boiling over with resentment, hostile and crass.
Some of them do have a purposive look
but they're writing on the walls, not in an exercise book.
(A helpful youth tries to wash away all their crap,
using a Bunsen burner connected to a water tap.)
Today, the teacher has to assess them on this:
Skill 87, 'Learning strategies in formulating a scientific hypothesis.'
The teacher pleads for their attention,
mumbles words like "extra work" and "detention"
but the only response is the throwing of a dart
(the kind thrown in pubs, not a product of the paper-folder's art,
though this does play a part in their war games:
a paper aeroplane is lit, launched and crashes in flames.)
Then it happens yet again, yet again - someone farts.
Gales of laughter, bless their little hearts.
The teacher loses all self-control and shouts, "Who did that?"
The teacher's pet owns up at once: "Me, you twat!"
Surprisingly, in the end, Skill 187 is actually assessed,
though most of the answers are meaningless.
Astonishingly , the Headteacher writes for this teacher's references,
(after "His philosophy of education is pupil-centred. Pupil preferences,
aims and objectives are paramount always...")
"His examination results are excellent: many, many grade A's."
The bell rings. The teacher hopes that a note of quiet authority
will impress the inspector lying there, hit by a missile, unable to see
but still recording Learning Performance-Indicators - many, many zeroes.
The Learning Inspection Partnership has its unflinching heroes!
"Please email Laptop-Learning Outcomes by tomorrow.
Upper sixth, you may go."

A high-pressure salesman, les mains sales,
a poor beggar who almost beggars description,
un-suited for his calling,
dandruffed, constipated - taking laxatives on prescription -
has been talking for over an hour now,
or rather listening, more and more forlorn.
His client's a walking encyclopedia
of consumer law and consumer lore,
who shows complete contempt for all his pathetic reasoning.
He's got no spare cash, the miserable git,
and is completely un-pre-possessing -
"I never buy anything on credit."
An awkward customer.
Who's so pleased (this may come as some surprise)
he's got the better of this bumbling salesman
that he relaxes, and in the end, he buys.

The sky vaults
over soaring hills
gradually falling
into the darkness at their feet,
and resting between the hills the sun.
The sun slipping from the grasp of the sky, growing
smaller and smaller.
Rocks still glowing there,
and here a stream gargling.
Birds still dashing around,
still masses and masses of light,
ducks ducking on the pond,
no life in the least unhappy.
The air still warm,
the colours of the flowers still warm,
in the garden by the pond,
and the sun, marigold orange, slowly turning
deep geranium red,
set in its ways.

Bats blinking in the dark wings.
Moths, the butterflies of the past,
flutter to their flitting,
playing in the light,
a lamp swung across the pond,
a moon known to our world,
their world unknown to us.
What bats do, so we,
shrieking unheard.

Commentary

They are gone
and at one
with the earth,
beneath turf
or corn or
an airport.

Commentary

Nature poetry

War, the Holocaust and the Troubles in Northern Ireland

Commuters

As day turns to night tonight,
in a bed as soft as the half light,
a man turns to a woman,
both near to sleep, the man
mentions his emotions,
she shudders, both suddenly emotion-
less, and she says,
"Are we going crazy?"