Morning update & instapoems

As noted in the last post, I had the first Bicalutamide last night. I felt fine; maybe slightly dizzy: if so, it was very subtle. I slept well, and all was normal when I got up. After having hung out and brought in a load of washing, booked the car in for a service, made a phone call, driven down to Maling Road for a coffee and to get some meat, and other miscellaneous fiddling around, it still is. My beloved was going to take the day off today, just in case. However, this morning, I said “no need”. (I reminded her that I am a card-carrying wimp.)

Having thus gained your attention, here are a few instas.


I’m glad I saw
the bust of Nefertiti
how many eyes
have stared at hers
felt her in the room
heart stop
to see her


Connoisseurs of the nature strip
delight in discards
rescue old crap
from lonely landfill
have antennae for what might
one day come in handy
they are optimists
adoption agents
suburban flâneurs
they give the humblest object
a look over
then resume their
eternal rounds.
These old codgers all have
honorary commissions in
the army of utility.


Words prayer flags
moved by hope
fluttered by love
prevailing breeze of habit
leaches colours
do they mean the same
answered or not


Workover I

Anyone remember when contemporary music (as it was then) had titles like Anaconda IV?

The title of my post might seem to recall these sententious times. I meant to allude to the more laboured method I have reverted to with the poem below. (The subterranean metaphor is irrestible.) I have been burying it, digging it up, and worrying away at it like – at least the simile is justified – a dog with a bone. At least it is a change from the Instas! Here it is; fingers crossed. (That would have been a good title, come to think of it.)

After this apologia, what forgiveness? Oh for heaven’s sake, just get on with it!

Present laughter

Cherry blossom bloom
intrinsically pink
individual as pearls
solemn as geisha
lovely in their futility

their self-communing
sleigh bell chatter
like music, about only itself
cadenza that can only end
in the bronze peal of spring
the dragon’s breath of summer

Instapoems III


Min Kym talks to Brahms

he is intense

can the evening

not end?

She takes her leave

walks home;

next day his cigar

haunts her gown


The bones of a sign frame

a rectangle of sky

lost without the words

it sent constant

as a lighthouse


The glittering city

glows like an irradiated snake

river of souls

in unchanging flow

necessity moves gently

to the conclusion

implicit in the cell

all we do stops

along the way

that never rests

the life that takes

us over for itself.


Instapoems II


A tennis ball glows

abandoned on a lawn.


Outside a bungalow

a porch light greets me with

automatic courtesy.


Low sun slants

over the road

jagged cracks

like horizontal lightning.


Two early flowers

camellia and rose

shyly red.


Red is the colour

of hope,

black, of rest.




I have been putting that pen refill to unexpected use writing instapoems. What is an instapoem? I only came across the word recently, in a New Yorker review of The terrible, a memoir by Yrsa Daley-Ward. From what I can make out, an instapoem is more of a concept than a formula. It refers to a first, or early, draft of a poem, usually short. So they are either not edited at all, or if so, only lightly. (I couldn’t help myself here and there.)

I have been enjoying knocking out a few of these. Maybe they will be a sort of warm-up for the memoir that I am supposed to be writing, but which is as yet only notes and a few scraps. Because there are several of these, I have decided to give them titles from the periodic table. The titles are not assigned for any particular reason. I can’t get all the line spacing right, except in the last one, but I’m not going to fiddle with them further.


We hold on

until we can’t

then it can be


to let go.


In love

like a pairing

you need to take place

if your love

doesn’t love you

you can’t be

by yourself.


Man standing on one leg

foot to knee

like a double bass

on a spike

himself the instrument

the universe plays


A paper shop

smells of all the sweet thoughts

we imagine ourselves thinking,

all the marks

we owe it to ourselves

the universe

to make


After Mahler

In the forest

I’m in a clearing

tall trees

the magic hour

seems to stretch out

as if it will last forever

a path leads out

that I have to take

wind in the trees

the grass is cool.


Bubbles fur the bottom

of the saucepan

water seethes

just contained

sauce kisses

the gentle pasta

oh Mommy



Endless manoeuvres

of the glasses

shuttling between

cold and wet

hot and dry

being handled

being alone

shut in the dark



Alexa, I’ve got
a broken heart
how do I get a cure
Hey Google
what’s the meaning of life
should I buy my wife a bracelet
so she knows
I love her
or just tell her