—Poetry by Ian Copestick,
Stoke-on-Trent, England
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
SURROUNDINGS
A dark, damp Sunday evening,
it’s not raining now, but my
coat and shoes still feel soggy
from earlier. These dark nights
may have only just kicked in
for this year, but somehow it
feels like summer was just a
two-minute ad break between
the programmes of darkness.
I roll, then light a cigarette,
at least it’s dry and I’m
able to do that.
I blow out the smoke to
temporarily blur my view of
deep purple sky, dark green
grass, and the ugly grey
concrete of pavement and
road. Never believe people
who’ll tell you that your
surroundings don’t influence
the way that you feel.
I feel like
deep purple,
dark green, and
ugly, ugly grey.
A dark, damp Sunday evening,
it’s not raining now, but my
coat and shoes still feel soggy
from earlier. These dark nights
may have only just kicked in
for this year, but somehow it
feels like summer was just a
two-minute ad break between
the programmes of darkness.
I roll, then light a cigarette,
at least it’s dry and I’m
able to do that.
I blow out the smoke to
temporarily blur my view of
deep purple sky, dark green
grass, and the ugly grey
concrete of pavement and
road. Never believe people
who’ll tell you that your
surroundings don’t influence
the way that you feel.
I feel like
deep purple,
dark green, and
ugly, ugly grey.
PISSING IN THE WIND
I'm pissing In the wind,
farting into a thunderstorm.
I feel like Sisyphus heaving rock.
I'm nearly 50,
and I'm fucked.
Why, oh why does it always
have to be so difficult ?
Just when it feels like things
are running smoothly, God or
some other spoilsport has
to throw a big fucking spanner
right into my works.
Or is it me, subconsciously ?
It's strange how often these
things always happen to me.
But, no, I'm not a masochist,
and the thought that I might
be causing myself so much
pain is enough to make my
head spin.
No, it's just my rotten luck.
If I fell into a barrel of tits,
I'd come out sucking my
thumb.
It's the way it's always been,
and I suppose it always will.
If it wasn't for bad luck,
I'd have no luck at all.
I'm pissing In the wind,
farting into a thunderstorm.
I feel like Sisyphus heaving rock.
I'm nearly 50,
and I'm fucked.
Why, oh why does it always
have to be so difficult ?
Just when it feels like things
are running smoothly, God or
some other spoilsport has
to throw a big fucking spanner
right into my works.
Or is it me, subconsciously ?
It's strange how often these
things always happen to me.
But, no, I'm not a masochist,
and the thought that I might
be causing myself so much
pain is enough to make my
head spin.
No, it's just my rotten luck.
If I fell into a barrel of tits,
I'd come out sucking my
thumb.
It's the way it's always been,
and I suppose it always will.
If it wasn't for bad luck,
I'd have no luck at all.
YESTERDAY
Yesterday would have been Karen's 54th birthday.
Although it's been nearly a year since she died,
the pain shows no signs of going away.
I sit here alone with our pets and my grief.
No-one understands, how could they? How could I even expect them to?
Yes, I sit here alone, drinking and grieving,
Karen is the only person who would understand,
but now she's just ashes, blown away by the wind.
And I sit here, alone.
Completely lost.
No-one understands, how could they?
How could I even expect them to?
Yesterday would have been Karen's 54th birthday.
Although it's been nearly a year since she died,
the pain shows no signs of going away.
I sit here alone with our pets and my grief.
No-one understands, how could they? How could I even expect them to?
Yes, I sit here alone, drinking and grieving,
Karen is the only person who would understand,
but now she's just ashes, blown away by the wind.
And I sit here, alone.
Completely lost.
No-one understands, how could they?
How could I even expect them to?
ON POETRY AS FLOWER ARRANGING
Reading a slim book of poetry
On life and its mutability
Poems written from inside of
A safe, cosy, middle-class cocoon
The words have no sharp edges
To burst the balloon
Poems about flowers
To while away the hours
Between the visit of the vicar
And the next pot of tea
Not poetry for you and me
Or anything like reality
Poetry as a gentle hobby
Like baking
Or flower arranging
Not poetry from the gut
That comes raging
Like fists planted upon the page
Poems of loss, or love, or rage
But tenderly placing
Each word on the page
Like a delicate flower
To be arranged
I don't hate the woman
Who wrote this stuff
For her this obviously is enough
I envy her easy life
Its lack of struggle
Its lack of strife
Perhaps one day it will be me
Writing of such superficialities
When I'm fat, well, fatter
Rich and content
And all of my life force has been spent
I'll sit in my garden
And smell the flowers
Then while away my hours
In my hobby, writing poetry
Between the visit of the vicar
And the next pot of tea
Reading a slim book of poetry
On life and its mutability
Poems written from inside of
A safe, cosy, middle-class cocoon
The words have no sharp edges
To burst the balloon
Poems about flowers
To while away the hours
Between the visit of the vicar
And the next pot of tea
Not poetry for you and me
Or anything like reality
Poetry as a gentle hobby
Like baking
Or flower arranging
Not poetry from the gut
That comes raging
Like fists planted upon the page
Poems of loss, or love, or rage
But tenderly placing
Each word on the page
Like a delicate flower
To be arranged
I don't hate the woman
Who wrote this stuff
For her this obviously is enough
I envy her easy life
Its lack of struggle
Its lack of strife
Perhaps one day it will be me
Writing of such superficialities
When I'm fat, well, fatter
Rich and content
And all of my life force has been spent
I'll sit in my garden
And smell the flowers
Then while away my hours
In my hobby, writing poetry
Between the visit of the vicar
And the next pot of tea
BUT, SADLY IT NEVER WILL
The middle of the
night, and here I am
half drunk. Feeling
the urge to write,
but not knowing
quite what to do.
I'm not sure what
I want to say.
I feel like I'm halfway
on the way to somewhere.
I'm not totally depressed,
but I'm not O.K. either.
I'm not happy, though,
no way!
Far from it!
Earlier today, I met a woman,
an old friend of mine,
whose partner died a couple
of years ago.
I hadn't seen her for nearly a
year, or so.
So she didn't know that my wife
and father had died within
two months of each other.
When I told her, she got upset,
which made me feel guilty.
But, what can I do ?
If someone asks, "How is
your partner? ", I can't lie,
and say "Fine."
Can I ?
I wouldn't want to, anyway.
It's a very strange thing, but
I've noticed it before;
When someone who you
love, really love, dies,
for a month or two you
feel like grabbing by the
lapels everyone you pass
in the street, screaming
"Don't you fucking get it?
My grandfather/girlfriend/
wife/Dad has died?"
You want it to mean as much to
the rest of the world as it does
to you.
But, sadly, it never will.
The middle of the
night, and here I am
half drunk. Feeling
the urge to write,
but not knowing
quite what to do.
I'm not sure what
I want to say.
I feel like I'm halfway
on the way to somewhere.
I'm not totally depressed,
but I'm not O.K. either.
I'm not happy, though,
no way!
Far from it!
Earlier today, I met a woman,
an old friend of mine,
whose partner died a couple
of years ago.
I hadn't seen her for nearly a
year, or so.
So she didn't know that my wife
and father had died within
two months of each other.
When I told her, she got upset,
which made me feel guilty.
But, what can I do ?
If someone asks, "How is
your partner? ", I can't lie,
and say "Fine."
Can I ?
I wouldn't want to, anyway.
It's a very strange thing, but
I've noticed it before;
When someone who you
love, really love, dies,
for a month or two you
feel like grabbing by the
lapels everyone you pass
in the street, screaming
"Don't you fucking get it?
My grandfather/girlfriend/
wife/Dad has died?"
You want it to mean as much to
the rest of the world as it does
to you.
But, sadly, it never will.
RAIN ON WINDOWPANES
This is one of those
feelings that I really
love, being inside,
warm, and cozy.
Hearing the rain
hitting the window
pane. I wonder if it’s
something like being
in the womb, there’s such
a feeling of security. The
only thing that is better
is being inside a caravan,
and hearing the weather
batter at your thin walls,
yet knowing you are safe.
It was even better when
(I’m showing my age now)
there wasn’t any electric,
and I could faintly smell the Calor
gas that was powering the
lights. You had to light them
with matches, and if I wanted
to watch T.V. my dad would
hook it up to his car battery.
I know I’m being overly
sentimental, but those times
and the memories mean a
Hell of a lot to me.
They always will.
This is one of those
feelings that I really
love, being inside,
warm, and cozy.
Hearing the rain
hitting the window
pane. I wonder if it’s
something like being
in the womb, there’s such
a feeling of security. The
only thing that is better
is being inside a caravan,
and hearing the weather
batter at your thin walls,
yet knowing you are safe.
It was even better when
(I’m showing my age now)
there wasn’t any electric,
and I could faintly smell the Calor
gas that was powering the
lights. You had to light them
with matches, and if I wanted
to watch T.V. my dad would
hook it up to his car battery.
I know I’m being overly
sentimental, but those times
and the memories mean a
Hell of a lot to me.
They always will.
BLAZING
Daffodils, daisies,
and dandelions, the
colours, yellow, and
white. Blazing against
the green background,
even when wet and
rained upon, is a sight
that gladdens my heart.
After the months of
skeletal, naked trees,
and muddy, churned-up
grass, to see colours
other than grey, and green.
The beautiful pink and
white of the cherry blossoms,
as well as the blaze of yellow,
gold, white, and orange that make
up the flowers of the daffodils,
dandelions, and daisies uplifts
my spirit.
It confirms in me the belief in
something, even if I haven't a
clue of what it could possibly
be.
Consciousness is both
Heaven, and Hell. We're
going through both of them
right now.
Of that I feel quite sure.
I don't know which religion,
if any, suits my needs, but it
doesn't really matter.
As long as I am happy with
myself, and the world.
I can work these things out
later.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
I will not say: do not weep; for not all tears are an evil.
—J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King
____________________
—Medusa, thanking another of our British friends, Ian Copestick, for his poetry today, and sending our thoughts to him in this time of grief. “Surroundings”, “Pissing in the Wind”, “On Poetry As Flower Arranging”, “Rain on Windowpanes”, and “Blazing” are from Ian’s book which will come out later this year from Whiskey City Press.
Be sure to catch the Grass Valley reading tonight, the results of last Monday’s Ekphrastic workshop on “Bad Apples”. See the UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS link at the top of this column for details.
Daffodils, daisies,
and dandelions, the
colours, yellow, and
white. Blazing against
the green background,
even when wet and
rained upon, is a sight
that gladdens my heart.
After the months of
skeletal, naked trees,
and muddy, churned-up
grass, to see colours
other than grey, and green.
The beautiful pink and
white of the cherry blossoms,
as well as the blaze of yellow,
gold, white, and orange that make
up the flowers of the daffodils,
dandelions, and daisies uplifts
my spirit.
It confirms in me the belief in
something, even if I haven't a
clue of what it could possibly
be.
Consciousness is both
Heaven, and Hell. We're
going through both of them
right now.
Of that I feel quite sure.
I don't know which religion,
if any, suits my needs, but it
doesn't really matter.
As long as I am happy with
myself, and the world.
I can work these things out
later.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
I will not say: do not weep; for not all tears are an evil.
—J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King
____________________
—Medusa, thanking another of our British friends, Ian Copestick, for his poetry today, and sending our thoughts to him in this time of grief. “Surroundings”, “Pissing in the Wind”, “On Poetry As Flower Arranging”, “Rain on Windowpanes”, and “Blazing” are from Ian’s book which will come out later this year from Whiskey City Press.
Be sure to catch the Grass Valley reading tonight, the results of last Monday’s Ekphrastic workshop on “Bad Apples”. See the UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS link at the top of this column for details.
For upcoming poetry events in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
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work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
