Being Transported

—Poetry by Neil Fullwood, Nottingham, UK
—Public Domain Photos

WRITING EXERCISE

Take a blank sheet: let it fill
with scribbles and crossings out.
You will have achieved nothing.
You will have expended time

and energy to no purpose. Repeat.

 

 

 

 

THE ART OF EDITING

Take a sheet of paper criss-crossed
with erasures: crumple it, compact it,
arc it across the vastness of space
between desk and waste paper basket.

Repeat until your aim is perfect.

 

 

 

 

 

BUS STOP

The woman in the advert is remaking the city centre
in her own image. I’m all in favour. Ethnic, stunning,
eyes shimmering with intelligence, she has stolen
herself back from advertising agency, client
and photographer. Every bus stop is her vindication.

The man at the stop on Ilkeston Road has raised
his mid-morning can of lager, just as he has raised
his eyes and made her the centre of his world.
The arrangement of his limbs is autobiography.
The can spills as he gesticulates. He is penitent

and saint, the sinner forgiven, the eye of the camel
forbidding the rich man’s entry to Heaven.
He is emptying his heart to the woman in the advert.
I slow my bus. Nobody has rung for this stop.
He glances my way, gives a shake of the head.

He doesn’t need me. He has been transported.

 

 

 

 

RESCUE
(for Amy)

And if I heard that you’d gone
on a yoga retreat
or honest-to-God spoken
of realigning your chakras

I would assume you’d been
kidnapped and brainwashed
and I’d do the movie hero thing
and stage a rescue attempt.

And if I heard that you’d stuffed
a backpack full of herbal infusions
and one change of clothes
and set out to find yourself

I’d be waiting there in Lhasa
or Machu Picchu to tell you
that you know perfectly
bloody well who you are.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

ART HOUSE MOVIE
—Neil Fullwood

Pierre can’t express himself to Jeanne.
He’s full of angst though God knows why.
Maybe no-one had a light for his gitane,
maybe he’s just a moody kind of guy.

Silence. Symbolism. A shot of the river
clogged with filth. A grave. It’s drear.
Night. Rain. How long until it’s over?
Jeanne might ask the same about Pierre.

_____________________

Good morning and heaps of thanks to Neil Fullwood from over the sea for sending us Yanks some fine poetry today! Neil has an essential occupation over there (transportation), so he’s out in the thick of COVID. Keep him in your thoughts.

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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