Poems by Steven Waling

GHAZAL: SONGS WI LURNT FROM ‘BIRDS

There’s robins redbreastin’ in trees, mi lass
As a cat spooks itself and sneezes, mi lass

Ghosts of passenger pigeons in squads
Among the spuggies dancing like mad, mi lass

Up from that London the parakeets skrike,
A tribe o’ green rappers ont mike, mi lass

Scrapping the tarmac the maggie’s rasp
Chuckles at jokes I can’t grasp, mi lass

And here comes King Crow, ‘is grey yed
Croakin’ out luv songs, wakin’ ‘dead, mi lass.


FIRST COFFEE RUSH

& steam opening up the pores
hits the brain a rude slap

by the entrance to the park
the hedge is full of song

pour the coffee in the cup
bitter & with a hint of

granny’s house but her rock cakes
pour hot water on all this

nostalgia & they’ve cut the grass
only one side of the street

& the cats start early dashing
over roads before the traffic hits

& the day starts later &
later breath smells of old toothpaste

& a runner runs past phone
strapped to her arm electro pop

in ear buds the coffee makes
you sit straight up the nostrils

clearing the head of last night
& the harsh light of morning

slaps a squid on the table
you have to pull that hard

internal shell right out it’s inedible
as credit cards call it calamari

& everyone wants to eat at
the best Greek restaurant in town

where the word ‘pinny’ still hangs
on the hook at the back

of my brain I can’t see
those birds but they chunner on

of something dark brown add milk
start dreaming about the next cup


SISTERS

whooping it up in the shared bedroom
next to mine all scribble & flap

me at my homework what are they
brewing in there laughter make up laughter

maths & English I’ve enough to do
writing that story about the overwhelming

stink of chip oil on a planet just
north of Pluto anyroad Turner’s

Fighting Temeraire sails off my wall
to re-enact the Battle of the Atlantic

as Dad inserts lines about class war while
the lumpen proletariat Magpie/Blue Peter

slug it out in the living room Mum’s
owls hoot from the front room cabinet

to the tune of Mutually Assured Annoyance
everyone gets on everyone’s wick

in our end of the century end terrace
I’m bored with socialist realism

everything’s black except TV Mum’s
detective magazines drenched in blood

dogs bark at invisible cats and Dad
recites the Maxims of Soviet Weekly