Ocnarf

Am I James Franco
pretending to be someone
else, trying to write
a pretend James Franco poem?
Because by definition
James Franco is the only person
who cannot actually write
a pretend James Franco poem,
only real James Franco poems,
and so he would have to pretend
to be pretending,
if this is to be read as
a pretend James Franco poem,
and I am James Franco: actor.

We're going on a Brexit hunt

(With apologies to Michael Rosen and Helen Oxenbury)

We're going on a Brexit hunt.
We're going to catch a big one.
What a beautiful day!
We're not scared.

Uh-oh!
A non-tariff barrier.
A long wavy non-tariff barrier.

We can't go over it.
We can't go under it.
Oh no!
We've got to go through it!

Swishy swashy!
Swishy swashy!
Swishy swashy!

We're going on a Brexit hunt.
We're going to catch a big one.
What a beautiful day!
We're not scared.

Uh-oh!
The Irish border!
Its deep, cold history of bloodshed!

We can't go over it.
We can't go under it.
Oh no!
We've got to go through it!

Splash, splosh!
Splash, splosh!
Splash, splosh!

We're going on a Brexit hunt.
We're going to catch a big one.
What a beautiful day!
We're not scared.

Uh-oh!
The European Court of Justice!
Thick, oozy human rights and justice!

We can't go over it.
We can't go under it.
Oh no!
We've got to go through it!

Squelch squerch!
Squelch squerch!
Squelch squerch!

We're going on a Brexit hunt.
We're going to catch a big one.
What a beautiful day!
We're not scared.

Uh-oh!
Deregulation and uncertainty!
A big, dark forest of deregulation and uncertainty!

We can't go over it.
We can't go under it.
Oh no!
We've got to go through it!

Stumble trip!
Stumble trip!
Stumble trip!

We're going on a Brexit hunt.
We're going to catch a big one.
What a beautiful day!
We're not scared.

Uh-oh!
A storm of protest!
A swirling, whirling storm of protest!

We can't go over it.
We can't go under it.
Oh no!
We've got to go through it!

Hooo wooo!
Hooo wooo!
Hooo wooo!

We're going on a Brexit hunt.
We're going to catch a big one.
What a beautiful day!
We're not scared.

Uh-oh!
The future!
The narrow, gloomy future!

We can't go over it.
We can't go under it.
Oh no!
We've got to go through it!

Tiptoe!
Tiptoe!
Tiptoe!

What’s that?

One shiny wet nose!
Two big furry ears!
No NHS anymore to treat
either of these conditions anymore!
Two big googly eyes!
Staring in xenophobic rage!
IT'S BREXIT!!!
It's someone reduced
to living in a cave
because of BREXIT!!!

Quick!
Back through the future!

Tiptoe!
Tiptoe!
Tiptoe!

Back through the protest!

Hoooo woooo!
Hoooo woooo!
Hoooo woooo!

Back through the deregulation and uncertainty!

Stumble trip!
Stumble trip!
Stumble trip!

Back through the European Court of Justice!

Squelch squelch!
Squelch squelch!
Squelch squelch!

Back through the Irish border!

Splash splosh!
Splash splosh!
Splash splosh!

Back through the non-tariff barrier!

Swishy swashy!
Swishy swashy!
Swishy swashy!

Down the road.
Get to our front door.
Open the door.
Up the stairs.

Du-du-du-du-du-du-dup.

Oh no!
We forgot to shut the door.
Back downstairs.

Du-du-du-du-du-du-dup.

Shut the door.
Back upstairs.

Du-du-du-du-du-du-dup.

Along the passage.
Into the bedroom.
Into bed.
Under the covers.

We're not going on a Brexit hunt. Ever. Again!

The hammer

The hammer
falls hard in August.
It is not the jester
who has entertained us
thus far who wields it.
A long hot summer
precedes a winter without end,
and the hammer falls hard.

Skimming stones

Sometimes
we want the same thing
for different reasons
and share a moment of pleasure
that doesn't last.

Sometimes
we want different things
for the same reason
and can be happy
for each other's pleasure
without taking part.

But sometimes
when what we both want
is just to be together
life's pleasures go on
and on and on and on ...

Rise late, and drink strong coffee

Every victory is won against the odds.
The apparent chaos of crowds
merely disguises the perfect formation
in which they march against you:
their indifference,
followed by their incredulity,
then open ridicule,
frustrating your highest aim.
Any cooperation in your great endeavour
is entirely unwitting,
obtained by subtlety and subterfuge.

So rise late, and drink strong coffee.
Be rested and alert. Endure
the debilitation of ten thousand defeats
and still have enough faith in yourself
to outweigh all the world's disdain,
and make that single victory
your faith makes possible,
decisive,

even though it is won
only once vindication is no longer any use,
and everything you held sacred
has become mere curiosity,
every cause a footnote,
all honours posthumous,
and a thousand generations
have sunk into obscurity
since you made the mark
discovered by an amateur's daughter
one day
in the darkness of a cave
in Cantabria.

Rejection letter

"Not a good fit."
"Isn't quite right."
"Not what we're looking for."
Very polite.
Still leaves me thinking
my poems are shite. 

Dog on a beach in Cantabria

Such perfect form,
forelegs reaching into space,
hindlegs propelling you forwards,
a spray of sand leaving a trace
of passing, muscles and sinews taut,
flexing, back arching, body fluid,
shadow flowing over sand,
like the light whose patterns
on the river bed
are refracted by the ripples
on the surface of the water,
and your mistress
as present and remote as the sun,
her satisfaction as complete
and unburdened with meaning
or consequence
as this errand that you run.