Wednesday, March 4, 2009


Another post to the Guardian Poster poems. It's becoming an obsession, but hopefully a learning curve too. This one I've tried not to rhyme...


The Moon spills its milky light
From its small pocket in vast denim sky,
Intermittently crossed by translucent clouds
Obscuring its blank marble face.
Extending its spindly pale fingers
It snatches into depths of darkness
Reaching wherever it is allowed
By the blaring man-made globes below.
They pierce the gloom, but remain silent
Unwilling witnesses to harsh scenes
Illuminating the noisy streets
Mute as the moon drifting hopelessly above.
Darkness swells around artificial shields
Under which the revellers clash,
Shining bright peacocks in vivid clothes
Sucking lurid potions through pugilist lips.
Men in checked shirts and sunday shoes,
With cigarattes dripping from loose fists,
Women with brassy bangles and glassy jewels,
They meet to fight, the night their battleground.


  1. I like the pictures this conjures and the idea of night being a battleground for revellers. Gut feeling says there are maybe more words than you need?

  2. Yes, I think I'll try to distill it a bit and possibly write that second verse... I keep on promising these things though don't I??

    I removed the need for the word verification, which presumably allowed you to post your comment, but then I got some Spam so I've put it back on again. Ho-hum. Such is life.

  3. This completely reminded me of Mardi Gras:) Well done!

  4. Oo I've never been to Mardi Gras, kind of just reminded me of most nights out back in the rough places of my youth. I think I can probably think of something better to say about the women - couldn't think of a clever way of saying they were horribly tanned with skin like leather which scanned into the line I wanted to fill...