Tapped in the Head.

By Garry Abbott

antique-water-tap-xdl1203

 

I doodled in profile,

Heads with taps leaking into pools

with stick men leaping, bathing and

waving from the mind stuff waters.

 

In margins and backs

of books for learning,

and later for working,

taking notes of notes of minutes of nothing.

I needed something to do.

 

Always taps and wheels,

from necks with no torso,

free to roam, but carbon static.

Stuck behind the lines of the page.

 

Perhaps it was the pressure

that needed letting?

Between skin and skull, swelling,

scalp and mind.

Under eyelids welling.

 

I doodled in profile.

Taps in the back of heads.

Leaking out mind stuff.

Floating still on the page.

 

And then I closed the book,

and just got on with it.

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Don’t wait until.

Hello,

Given the inordinate amount of time my work gives over to silliness (writing gags for radio, making daft cartoons, the occasional sit-com script and spoof article on this here blog), I sometimes forget to write ‘proper’ poems… which is a shame because the last, and only, poem I’ve written in the last few months has recently been published in a collection (which, if you are so inclined, you can buy here: http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Dance-Is-New-ebook/dp/B00FL887N8)

So I should do it more often I think, and below is one that popped up quite naturally the other day. The form isn’t standard, but I like that, it’s like a poem of two halves with a connecting line that marks the change, sitting poignantly (I hope) between white space. The space around lines can be important as the words themselves.

It is called ‘Don’t wait until’ – and if I had to brand it with a theme or meaning, I would guess it would be about being truthful to ones self, or different aspects of ones self, or even to others, if you wish. It’s really up to you.

 

Don’t wait until.

By Garry Abbott

 

Don’t wait until I’m broken down,

dejected, sore and torn in two.

Don’t wait until I’m meekly dimming shadows.

 

Don’t wait until the seeds I’ve sown,

have grown and stretched,

to fill the gaps in air,

and fallen limp with time now spent.

 

Don’t wait until the Earth and I have met again.

 

If time is pressing, press back harder,

with bruised and aching shoulders.

Until it does to you, not does you in.

Until you spiral bound in wholeness.

 

Don’t wait, until I’m broken down,

Don’t bear a weight of torment.

If time is pressing, press back harder,

Until you own the moment.