Eight of Alex Barzdo’s poems:

A Day at Margate

I used to skip the flattened stones
Across the water at the beach
Into calm unrippled zones
From the rim of the slight waves’ reach.

Mum vicariously felt our chill
Called us “Luvvy!” – urgent tones
“Come away!” above the shrill
Wind’s whistle and the crunchy stones.

Great droplets hurled down from the slugs
Of arrogantly swarming cloud
Engendered haste to fold the rugs
And wrap the happy picnic’s shroud.

Into sticky Pac-a-macs,
Into shop-front shelters we
Scurried like bedraggled cats
Seeking dryness, warmth… and tea.

In the steamy tearoom shelter
Rain and sweat ran down the pane.
In discomfort seats we’d swelter
Rearranging our domain.

Plastic buttons stick to plastic
Macs, as they to plastic chairs.
Arms felt, kind of, inelastic
But the hot tea drenched our cares.

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Youth in the Suburbs

never close enough to burn.

holding the broadsheet page against the breast

drawing, not smothering

kneeling on the fender

smelling the smouldering

warm face, warm hands, cold feet

wanting invitation

needing recognition

feeling the blast

as the nuggets glowed brightly

frighteningly not near enough

living on the wrong side of the news

never close enough to burn

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One Egg Is un Oeuf

You put the effort in

Following the current trend

Delia, Gordon, Nigella

Could hardly quite transcend

The beauty and simplicity

The style, the joie de vivre

As the soufflé puffs up

For diners to receivre

Tension mounts within you

Cutlery poised and set

The moment of truth arrives

This may be best yet

Then, seconds from success

Some idiot slams the door

The soufflé sags, collapses

And triumphs slips once more

This is how your life goes

You’re puffed up for a while

Until the door of fate bangs shut

And all you can do is smile

And ditch the soggy mess

And scrape the dirty plate

And wish you’d done them baked beans

And been thankful for what they ate.

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At Close of Players

Cigarettes are going up in smoke
The political world is stubbing out fags
No more sitting in your place of work
-        taking drags

No more drinking in an atmosphere
That chokes the cleaned-up happy lungs
Of third-millennium drinkers of foreign lagerbeer
-        with smooth pink tongues

Everyone is quitting now forever
Even in the toilet block or out-of-doors
Your contract of employment may be severed
-        kicked up your big draws

Sir Walter Raleigh’s end is now at hand
His legacy is drying like a leaf
Now you surely are alone with a Strand
-        there’s no relief

Society is going to the cleaners
Tobacconists are scraping round for cash
The air is getting purified between us
-        there’s no more ash

Grind the powdered embers out – that’s your crime.
B & H is not quite down the pan yet.
So play ‘Air on a G String’ just one more time
- And puff the magic drag on one last Hamlet.

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Overbrown

You take it for granted that your toaster will make toast
As if by magic every time for when you read your post
And drink your morning febrifuge, so
when it didn’t the other day I was so
stunned
That I had to try it several times, several times,
That I had to, I had to, I had to try it, try it several
Several Times in several ways I tried it, I took the round
Of bread out on the third occasion, checking that the glow…
Of internal elements had indeed, now ceased
...
to show.

I had done nothing to cause it to give out
Always spoken kindly of its mother
Never pushed a knife in it to get a thick one out
Given it no cause for any bother

Not like the young man wanting cheese-on-toast
Who laid the toaster on its side
And slid the bread – with cheese on – like letters in the post,
And cheese and goo dripped down and quickly fizzed and fried.
An upward waterfall of smoke flowed out
And flames licked out to scorch the kitchen cabinet
Urging him to throw his orange juice at it
And utter those familiar adolescent words “Oh SHIT!”

No!
I put on the grill instead – the toaster’d failed its test
I put the kettle on for tea, and read
about my winning numbers from Readers’ Digest#
Wondering what I might do with half a million, , , , till
I became aware of that long-forgotten smell
And soon was making that long-forgotten sound
Scraping off the surface like Grandma used to do
To toast that’s “overbrown”.

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Been Here Before

I’ve been here before –
passed the ‘ommers pounding
pounding to bost the eardrums
and shake the ground
high above the deep mines
where pit ponies spent dead dark lives
beneath the dust and gas
pulling half-ton trucks
on dulled metal tracks..

I’ve been here before –
where children sat in joined-up desks
scratching joined-up writing on black slates
reciting, reciting, reciting the twelve-times table
uncomfortably sewn into shabby rags
‘til spring-cleaning urged the cast of clout
and May flowers forced through grime
into the smog-laden sun-free day.

I’ve been here before –
mother scrubbing grit from father’s back
the tin tub warm before the range
scum-ready for each next bather
emptied onto runner beans and potato plots
or trickled to the muddy gutter
under the line of greyed-out shirts and socks
out by the backyard lavvy wall.

I’ve been here before –
fingernail scraping ice from inside
the bedroom window to view the gloom
shivering with a cool water wash
the cold damp towel leaving undried hairs
bristling on goose-pimpled skin.
Watching mother on a Monday wash-day,
proud of her brand new washing machine
churning the darking, soapy water
round and back, round and back,
the rolling-pin rollers of the electric mangle
spring-loaded for when fingers were caught,
those cold, wet, red sausages
at the end of the rolled up working-arms.

I’ve been here before.
This is a nice house, this.

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Day Fourteen

Floating home in a languid morning serenade
Tossing careless glances, unrequited
Driving, driving, steady, second-nature
Mental pictures of an empty home’s embracement
Caterpillar traffic chewing heavy miles
Bees humming under shiny bonnets
Wrinkled skins with sweaty tales encased behind
Painted bodies molten in anticlimax
Plastic water in sidelong swipes and ripples
Sandy crumbs beached in tufts of nylon
And digital downloadable memories.

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Love

Stare at it.

Notice how the shape endures

when you close your eyes –

burned on your pixels.

Look again

the bright red mesmerising colour

turns green when eyes are shut.

How the heart’s great love endures –

a shape that stays

when you stop looking.

How the warm red glow of love

alters from passion’s red

to pastures green.

Open your eyes.

Keep the pixels bright –

maintain their shape

in optical allusion’s gaze.

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