Tag Archives: Poetry

Poetry: Villanelle, not vilify


We make an art of common things,
little changed from Yeats' deep darkly inside,
so can there be a common song we sing?

Concoct the coat which provides wicked spin,
hold me to the truth and keep feet in the fire;
we make an art of common things.

The alt of your enemy asks for embracing 
greater minds than ours have given logic,
so can there be a common song we sing?

A bullet-proof union still registering
from Spanish Town to Oldham to wilder High Wycombe.
We make an art of common things.

Mrs. Groce and Mr. Blakelock both in our grieving,
an eye for a high and we all go blind,
so can there be a common song we sing?

Three-fingered salutes in congregating
the collected grievances with mercy as might.
We make an art, an uncommonly rare thing,
so will the song of the commoners be arresting?

Poem: (Besieged)

 My local post office
 was besieged yesterday.
 I shirked the queue to skirt
 the mask-less, living chins attack.

 Every molecule
 might be blame-free in its
 shop-worn simulacra,
                                             (seeped in from a loud one's

                                             Meeja Stud. homework - aargh)
 Nothing's no bother when
 bothered most the time, but
 I don't fool easy:
 dealers of gruff guff,
 say, or gran's skimped covers
                                              (unfit for emboldened
                                              street wine quaffers even)

 two examples of risk.
 I ignore youth's slave talk
 but mentally in bits, 
                                              (and still without a stamp)

Poem: Hue and Cry

Dusted flats will be auctioned

off in years when green leaves

are news, not loss.

Ken opulence will bloom

to cheers with skedaddled

brown faces still

fearing the view.

Bridges drawn and tightened

belts, a monophony

of penury-denying

fools. Colour schemes

are always brokered:

oligarchian white

over Trinidadian hue.

Poetry: ‘Flit’ and ‘For Sons of Daughters’ in #58 of The Journal

I’m happy to have had two of my poems printed in the Welsh poetry magazine  run by @originalplus. Here below are the first two stanzas of ‘Flit’ and the first three of ‘For Sons of Daughters’.



Old lore it was – a form of love –

that held a mode for living.

Heed fast the roles to follow

through en-route, ascension, heaven.


Band rates survived the loss of life;

a ledge for new fry flew anew,

as it then done – respectful sons –

a guided stance with atrophied moves.



For Sons of Daughters

Pick up the pegs, avoid her bend

is my sole thought when I survey

these colours splashed outside their house:

this rained-down game, no box or rules.


Might next-door spurn this plastic vommed,

not corralled right, but they, their backs,

look well-broke scrat, corners

ornered, destitute.


There’s scant chance of a friendly wave

as each follows their own standard,

flower tips afore brought Eid meals with

hasty greetings only then thrown.



If you want to read the whole of both poems, and other great work, visit https://thesamsmith.webs.com to discover how to subscribe.


Shacked up and Cut-up: A Man Walks.

A man walks. That’s all he does.
This man wants war, a literary and artistic one. He works hard at both tasks when they aren’t contained in one slow attempt. His attempts are sporadic yet the desperation within him is on his face. The way he stays in front of the stretched paper, frowning as if lost, however he keeps at his task.
A break is called for; a need for human contact, and the unpredictability which is built into any encounter. He kicks off his shorts, checks the towel is dry on the back of the bathroom door and steps into the narrow bath to quickly shower. The cafe he is headed to will be semi-busy with lunching ladies. Mums and daughters on a dutiful catch-up. Wives able to prolong a careless work-free existence after mothering at home has turned into rousing teenagers in time to leave the house for school. These ladies tolerate him, he thinks, as he turns left then right under the water. He’s local colour. Or is he now in the eccentric, weird zone?
He steps out, bends over to dry each foot propped up on the edge of the side of the bath and carries out his usual ritual of giving himself up to the sight of his body in the long mirror stashed by the sink. It never doles out a favour except to remind him his stomach folds don’t sync with the chicken legs. There is a reason why he has pasted advice on avoiding regret and shame on the wall near the toilet, and here is another slip of proof to add to the mountain he works on. Far better to stand in front of the sink and try to provoke a pair of smiling eyes.
After ten times or so of tugging the door handle to his flat’s front door to ensure he did perform that task successfully, and so that slip is taken off the pile, the ship-like corridor is walked and the once-polished stone steps practically jumped.

At the cafe man left yet seclusion?

In will one try kid ship slow, which

due of proof the door has himself,

towel to stretched task

after war, when stomach inside

certainly exists under front

Youth up the times

all stone turns apology pile

except to he that are by his

and already the desperation;

regret the mothering edge.

Doles end man.

Attempt at school inside walked left. Is

it the rousing end of kid A? Why the

mirror at need ritual? They encounter

his unpredictability, his avoiding semi handle –

both in familiar by a coming (he

of usual steps: welcome, catch, perform)
Propped and man off in polished

and up however thinks and

remembers pile into attempts

together of wives. Easy exists

on water. His contained ladies.

This mums and like within on now

each to tolerate for giving in near.