Brendan Hawthorne




	Eight of Brendan Hawthorne’s poems: Evensong Hotel Hallucination Old Habits Die Young Dissing the Process of Aging Village Teas and Churchyard Greens Moods Grandad’s Slippers Tradition Facile Distraction The Circle and the Cross Evensong Birds fall from the sky like paper planes parachuting twisting spinning spiralling dark against the bright sky They land as silently as snowflakes thawing into rivers of sound before bedtime so that they can wash upon the banks of our dreams top of page Hotel How many others have rested their heads upon this pillow of dreams lied cried and died in someone else’s arms because anything is better than sleeping alone top of page Hallucination Stale air gets carved by electric motor rotor blades a caged beast gnawing at the comfort zone of absynthe and cigar smoke somewhere between Birmingham and Casablanca top of page Old Habits Die Young I respect the early morning alcoholics the most cheap lager and tabloids mumble through fag-etched lips pressed into the gutter they face their demons early their habits entrenched in guilt and New Times Roman fuelled by a doting mother’s full English breakfast cholesterol-laden crisp back bacon and sunshine eggs and another piece of toast son to get some meat on those bones it’s then she hears her baby son cry out over the soft tones of Saga ‘I’m 45 mother and you’re the only person left who ignores my habits’ top of page Dissing the Process of Aging I cannot close my eyes anymore for fear of seeing the truth but I’m just so tired that I feel ill within myself and I think of when I’m old and all the things I will have done and all the things I’ll do when people underestimate my ability I’ll play a 5 million watt riff on my old electric guitar loud enough to take a small town off the map of the national grid through the process of feedback. I will cause a tidal wave in Eastbourne in a flash past speedboat shaped like a dart, coffin black I’ll sing Pretty Vacant on coach trips wear a torn t-shirt that says ‘never mind the pensioners here’s the reality’ in cut out print that reads like a ransom note I’ll bare my arse at passing motorists and wave my teeth like castanets in restaurants then I’ll tour California on a Harley before the angels take me away top of page Village Teas and Churchyard Greens Crows take tea From Table-top tombstones No sympathy in their tone Just inevitability And bitter tannic irony They comment upon the summer breeze And how it ruffles feathers and Plays havoc with dappled shade instilling change Midges congregate In zig zag migrations Sheltering beneath green umbrellas Waiting for the mouth of Christ To swallow them down whole In an act of holy communion Out on the sacred lake Where crows wait in vigil Taking tea By degrees top of page Moods In reaching for the yellow guitar She picked out flowers for spring In reaching for the green guitar She sang of forest fresh fruits In reaching for the red guitar She forced a sensual passion play But the blue guitar told a different story top of page Grandad’s Slippers Faded mock tartan with a foam sprung soul they look bleached from years of careless fag ash dropped from trembling lips. They look comic, familiar, comically familiar not in the sense that they were my grandads slippers but more like the super spanky slippers in the Beano or Dandy applied to the renegades arse for stealing too many sweets or eating too many meat pies. He never hit me. The Ali Baba curl was created through the miles that he walked, down to the butchers the bakers and the bloody bookmakers. They all still remain except for him, a big man shrunk by age and illness until one day, he disappeared never to return, and those slippers lost their freedom but not their sense of humour. top of page Tradition Rose petal motifs painted in colours of strawberry summer Swirling oil on glass board or metal Applied skilfully with turpentine brushes and nub ends of tobacco the image is re-vitalised using the colour embedded into the palette as grey turret towers share the sky with aimless clouds A fortress of fantasy stands defiantly beneath the curling pennant of red gold and green set amongst rolling hills and static water courses He smoothed his thinning wayward hair as he signed his piece with a final fine-horsehair fanfare and lit up another cigarette with a swan-headed vesta illuminating his world of folk and tradition custom and belief because an Englishmen’s home is, after all, his castle top of page Facile Distraction My eyes caress you Scan you Probe and sense each contour Observing your reactions to nuance But its my mind that undresses you Removing each garment And dropping it to the floor Petals from the flower You want me you want me not you want me Your scent is soothing Angelic Rose and violet Heady Red and blue readily Arousing my imagination into lustful propositions Assured of impact you smile as warm as sunrise sensing you are safe Because any hint at sex Will result in My retreat And a passing remark On how good you look And how busy I am top of page The Circle and The Cross From winter’s cavernous husk and bone-brittle humus surfaces the need to live again Survival instinctively priming the spirit to rise up and challenge a new day a new life a new beginning The cupped handshake shoot of genetic dice forces fateful outcomes and beckons us once more to breathe in the clear spring air of innocence and youth and sense the gentle rain purging dirt and dust from outstretched palms as they climb and unfurl reaching towards the radiant sun as it bursts above a dark horizon The place where resurrections are made complete top of page (Published Issue 121 April 2006 10th Anniversary Edition of Poetry Monthly) All poetry on this web page is copyright © Brendan Hawthorne [PW Home Page] [News] [Poetry Convention] [Publications] [Participants] [Poetry Pages] [Guestbook] [Forum] [Links] [Contact Us] [About PW]

The Circle and The Cross