Carpenters Cento

A poem created from the first lines of Carpenters Songs

Day after day I must face a world of strangers,

every night, every day,

you tell me that your leaving.

I've been so many places in my life and time

like sailin' on a sailin' ship to nowhere.

Talkin’ to myself and feeling old,

love, look at the two of us,

maybe I'm old fashioned feeling as I do.

The hardest thing I’ve ever done

I’ll say goodbye to love.

In your mind you have capacities you know,

are you really happy with

no-one in the world?

Day after day I must face a world of strangers.

A Hardy Cento

A poem created from the first lines of selected poems by Thomas Hardy

‘Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me.’

You did not come.

Why did you give no hint that night?

You did not walk with me,

-       it was your way my dear.

When you slowly emerged from the den of Time

where we made the fire,

we stood by a pond that winter’s day.

Well World you kept faith with me.

We sat at the window looking out

(it faces west, and round the back and sides

the swallows flew in the curves of an eight)

on afternoons of drowsy calm;

there floated the sounds of church chiming.

The Ides

eight point nine

Lucky; two hundred and fifty miles offshore, fifteen underground.

Thousands missed; the dead cry.

Floated on the wave; fires burn. Whirlpools sucked

apple bobbed cars while the surge tossed boats to their deaths.

The ring of fire burned, land shifted. All points warning

North to South; walls of water leave salt soaked land.

This happened to the Best, the well prepared, today

all communication crashed.

The biggest for one hundred years.

Remember the Luck; two hundred and fifty miles offshore,

fifteen underground.

The earth moved

A shout and legs ran, pumped fast, got closer,

a voice, (mine?) said ‘no, don’t touch.’

Blood waterfalled over bounced land locked glasses

kicked by the feet of a Samaritan,

First Aid Angels administered, green knees hugged.

A woman walked past as was her right, neck craned;

another turned back without a rubber neck.

Was it only that morning I had rubber necked Japan’s disaster?

A journey flat backed and codiened.

Speed bumps and pot holes

shot sharp chilli’d grass into my shoulder.

Hurry and wait. Cubicled, twice morphined,

x-rayed, super-glued, collared and cuffed,

sent home. Hurry and wait. Tomorrow it began again.

To May days

Scooped up, rescued, jailed in an open prison

subjected to gingered grass cuts and red fire ants,

surrounded by alternate walls of silence and noise,

wanted and in the way, bone aligns.

Bounced on buses, hospital appointments kept.

Stop start, hurry wait; Fear stood in shadows

while Progress was monitored by the Boys.

Tortured by Physio; bone knits.

The instruction ‘bad arm first’, simply said became

a daily measure of success. Day fourteen salt water poured,

the arm hidden. Week eight and t-shirt toyed

into position. Bone heals.

Daily, baby-like achievements turned into tiny parcels of joy

contrasted with the media’s dementia; nuclear devastation gloried

as factories slowed, water-logged, mud-logged, salt-logged,

and people remained un-homed. Bone mends.

Note: Getting by

Buried in work from morning until night,

slipped into shadows to keep out of sight.

Helpful to everyone, there on demand

busied constantly, with pity banned.

Scurry, flurry, don’t stand still, must hurry.

Hide in plain sight; avoid all and any fights,

don’t let the buggers grind you down,

prevent voices, prevent the entrance

of that sound, your voice echoed, bounced off walls

‘It’s not you, you’ve not let me down.’

Bustle, hustle, don’t stand still, no hassle

just avoid radios and nineteen thirties musicals.

Be practical, keep a pocketful of excuses

alongside havfever tablets and paper tissues.

I am not in love, I have not been discarded.

Your voices edges in ‘You’re highly regarded.’

Pity banned, busy is the answer, run

to stand still, yet every night my clichéd heart pays

the extortionate bill.