What It Says On The Tin

I sometimes wonder whether this blog is in breach of the Trades Descriptions Act. It’s billed as ‘Phil The Bard’ but there’s often very little ‘bardic’ on it – (‘I am Taliesin ...’).

Even the header photo is misleading. My daughter set it up and took it. Much as I appreciated her trouble, there are inaccuracies.

For a kick-off I never, ever, ever, ever (did I say ‘ever’?) drink beer from a can. It’d more likely to be a bottle-conditioned ale. My daughter, bless her, found an empty bottle of Stout that my wife had used in cooking. She did drink Stout from cans, my wife, when the kids were babies. It helped with the lactation. But that’s too much information. If I’m going to drink Stout I’ll have it from hand-pumps down at my local or else from a bottle. Never from a can. Same goes for other ales.

So, this is a misleading blog. A bardic blog with few poems on it. Well, I’m about to rectify that as I’ve had seven poems published in recent weeks. It’s like buses. You don’t get one for ages and then they all come at once. I’m pleased to say that I’ve had six in the latest edition of Iota (Iota 91) and one in Planet, the Welsh Internationalist Magazine. This is the first time I’ve made it into Iota and to have all six submissions accepted is very gratifying. It’s the second time I’ve been in Planet. What a great magazine it is.

What I’ll do is reproduce one of the published poems here and put it along with the rest on one of the side links should anyone be kind enough to want to read them.

Or you can read them here and here.

If you do, then pray let me know what you think. We bardic types like that. We’re all ego. We’d like to think it’s art.

The Gas Fridge

What else in 1980s bedsit land

but 1960s furniture? Earlier even.

Items I had not seen since pre-fab

parlours, great aunts' kitchens.

Then, unexpectedly,

where I prepared for finals

and for unemployment, a gas fridge.

Half the height of ours at home,

it fed, like cooker and gas fire,

on the 50p coins I pressed and turned

into the meter every second day.

It showed its life by a pilot-light,

blue and awkward behind its back.

To ignite it I would stoop and drop

match after lighted match

down its fissured tube, hope

that they would reach and catch

before they fizzled out.

I could waste half a precious box

before I found the knack.

Who would have thought

that Einstein patented the spell

that drove ammonia around

those cooling pipes without a sound?

A pity then no patent way

to keep the pilot light from going out

in Mrs Hossey's redbrick bedsits.

'No blacks, lovey, no coloureds.'

Just two pints of Stones

in The Little Park on my 21st

birthday. The Sheffield drifting

in the South Atlantic, charred

and stricken. Boys my own age

between her decks, burning.

--

If you've enjoyed that (and even if you didn't) have a look at the page on the right with the rest of the poems. Why not visit the Iota and Planet websites. Take out a subscription too, if you are so inclined. The good people there would be very grateful. These magazines deserve our support.