Driving Daljit Nagra His Home!

(In response to ‘Get off my poem, Whitey!’)

Hello, Guvnor, didn’t see you there

in the dark. You’ll be wanting Southall, yeah?

Willesden, you say? Well, hold your chapattis,

that’s a respectable neighbourhood, that is!

You got business there? Well, no offense,

but you must travel miles for ingredients.

I’m sorry? You got the wrong end of the stick —

I was just being friendly, not xenophobic.

You’re a poet, you say? Well, jolly good,

let’s find some jangly ditty from Bollywood

with words you can sing to. Ah, here we go —

it’s the Pussycat Dolls murdering Jai Ho!

Bet that takes you back to when you was a kid

on the cinnamon streets stained with betel quid,

amma haggling with street jalebi sellers,

shokri babes in peacock saris, dark fellers

with mustard-oiled hair and bugger-all arse

in their pants, rolled up prayer mats under their arms,

when every Nissan minicab assembles

outside the doors of the mosques and the temples.

Now if you’d just sign this book for the missus

I’ll drop you right at your door. I’m betting this is

your house, the one with a coriander hedgerow,

an elephant statue and a Shiva fresco!

(c) 2013 Slush Poet

[For the avoidance on doubt, this poem has not only been shown to Daljit, he very kindly offered several tips which have been incorporated into this version. I have the greatest respect for him and great love for his poetry.]

After the fifth day

After the fifth day of days
God in man's image put on
the kettle and rested a while,

for inspiration;

he must have shut his eyes
and nodded off, for when
he woke his tea had cooled

and his creation,

still unfinished, too
had cooled and set rock hard.
'It's spoiled! It's spoiled!'

the Lord told Satan.

'And what's it meant to be?'
Satan asked, smirking,
‘It looks too unstable to rest

your feet on.’

Then Beelzebub raised the globe
and span it on one finger
wherefore God drew forth

baring his teeth.

‘Please put that down!’ he sighed,
‘Or wash your hands at least.’
The Devil wiped it with his

handkerchief.

‘Oh I give up with you,’
God said. ‘Be you banished
to a fiery realm, and call me

when supper’s done.’

And he tossed the tainted globe
carelessly out in the yard
ninety-three million miles from

the closest sun.

The Devil served liver for tea
as a placating treat for the Lord,
but God just pushed it around

his plate with a fork,

and while God sulked the Devil’s
grimy smudges and spittle spread
over the earth and multiplied;

in short,

the primeval slime evolved.
Then on the seventh day
one grimy assemblage spoke

the first word.

And with that word all began,
history at last let unfold,
and soon stories of monsters
and heroes were told.

(c) 2013 Slush Poet

Venn and the art of human contact

He can’t hear the clock ticking

but he’s troubled by the senseless chatter

of its pendulum. He hears

strangers waving from across the Strand,

and at airports the man on the tarmac,

the one with ping pong bats for hands,

is louder than the silently sliding jets.

She could paint you a wordscape

from a thunderclap or a symphony.

She can hear the tap-tap-tap

rising up from a crowded pavement,

but not the cyclist, who’s racing

to beat another changing light,

until that is the Doppler shifts.

So he grabs her arm to keep her

from stepping into the hurtling

silence, but there it ends, for all the world

they hold in common is that one touch.

(c) 2013 Slush Poet

Perfect pet

Horatio Fogg’s mechanical dogs
have lithium batteries and solid brass cogs;
can outrun a greyhound on hurdles or flats;
are harmless to postmen but terrify cats;
don’t moult, don’t mess, don’t scratch, whine or beg;
won’t practice their mating technique on your leg;
have adjustable volume with tone and mute functions;
come complete with easy to follow instructions.

(c) 2013 Slush Poet

The Geordie Crossing

From just outside Jarrow there came a seafarer
who set out to sea in a rusting wheelbarrow;

leaving naught to chance, with a Michelin guide
and sextant in hand he set sail for France.

Upon reaching land the mayor of Boulogne
turned out to greet him with a military band

and I’ve heard it said he was held shoulder high,
hailed as a hero despite being dead.

Now I feel inclined to attest for the record
that there’s none so stout as men raised by the Tyne

for when it occurred that the sea took it’s toll
he expired in silence not saying a word.


(c) 2013 Andy Hickmott

Republica

Tread lightly through this pitted field dear friend.
Do not pretend ambivalence to beauty.
Its preservation is your only duty
as you march towards your worthy godless end.

Do not pretend ambivalence to beauty
when holy covenants lie in scattered shards
and idols fuel the bonfires of the communards,
its preservation is your only duty.

When holy covenants lie in scattered shards
shall we dance beneath the stars in burned out kirks
while cardinals wait in line to see their works
and idols fuel the bonfires of the communards?

Tread lightly through this pitted field dear friend:
you march towards a worthy godless end.