Week 22 – photograph by Denise Bourassa
When Denise Bourassa posted this wonderful photograph of street art on Twitter I couldn’t resist asking if we could use it as a prompt for the photo and poem challenge and she agreed.
An amazing set of poems came in from the gently humorous, to the hard hitting. I am delighted to announce that the winning poem is You’re not Banksy and I should know by Hannah Teasdale. Other popular poems amongst the voters was Michael Docker’s Gone Boy and Samantha Weaver’s This City. Very well done to everyone who entered. Any of these would be worth winners. Congratulations to Hannah.
Poem 1
This city
This city is a painting hung mid-air
and far too close as to render
colour cracks, scuffs,
rough breath, tattered brown cuffs
larger than its frame.
This city strains my neck back as I try
to make space for more space
only allowing for my past head place
to be invaded by furrowed foreheads,
love glances, muttered chances.
This city won’t give up looking glasses
on the shifting brickwork sodden
with rain trodden receipts, Sunday scrawled walls
pulling the painting closer
to my resistance and any other possible
frame of existence.
Samantha Weaver
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Poem 2
Gone boy
Jimmy’s lost and Jimmy’s gone.
How he used to carry on,
Legs like pipes and U-bend knees,
Eyes as sharp as stilton cheese,
Tarry, dusty, chalky shoes;
Fading from us like a bruise.
How we loved those perfect socks,
Tell the hours, the distance, clocks.
How we loved his many faces,
Life’s undone, like untied laces.
Gutters for us, drains and worse;
Jimmy’s there among the stars.
Burn, Jimmy, burn and go,
Only chalk to tell it so,
Burn. You played such childish games,
Now our world’s gone up in flames.
Michael Docker
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Poem 3
You’re Not Banksy And I Should Know!
It seemed apt to cut cocaine
with your NHS exemption card –
a credit to your name. New starts end
and old beginnings beg to remind
of the fine white line we tread
in pretending our lives
will one day change.
I still don’t know…
Fresh perspective flushes through us –
enough to keep us guessing who
might do what, next.
Like that time you surprised us
with a Sonnet; fourteen lines
of exclamation – brave declaration
that you’re a poet.
I still don’t know…
My heart flutters. Anticipation
worries the turned new leaf in me.
‘I’m Banksy’ so you tell me. ‘Yer what?
Pipes in daps?’ I think you’re daft and laugh.
Hurt, you drop my hand like a stone –
‘You’re too dumb’ you spit, ‘go home!’
But I don’t – ‘cos
I still don’t know…
Hannah Teasdale
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Poem 4
Legs
His laces are undone
I think, staggering past the old drain
the stars and stripes wink at me
little blue shorts
tubby tucked knees
God why did I take that tablet ?
thelegsnowraiseandbeginacossackdance
russianmusicquickerstillquickerarmsfolded
my feet stumble
and as the drain pipe rises I am falling….
Andy Scotson
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Poem 5
The plumber
The plumber came,
he looked
quite ordinary,
except
for his flashy
watch strap.
But when he left,
he’d not only fixed the loo,
but left a smile
in the back yard too!
Angie Butler
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Poem 6
Look son, I know that you must be fed up
of sitting around with cold knees while
the big lads stride past in long pants.
I promise you that when you get taller
I’ll let you have some drainpipe trousers.
Karen Harvey
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Poem 7
Pipe Dreams
Pipe dream,
Stationary,
Permanently set.
Pipe dream,
The juvenile
Will take what he can get.
Ignorance is bliss
Until you fall over your feet.
Tie your laces, try again,
You’ll soon be walking through concrete…
With your one sock pink
And your shoe of blue;
You wonder who you are.
You often think
Concealed truth
Constructs the wall
That guards your heart.
Robert Mandefield
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