Olivetti
in the future when the electricity stops
the electronic screens into the world have shutdown
in a darkened room which is sauna hot
where candlelight casts dancing shadows about the wall
I will take my old Olivetti from the cupboard
its old ribbon re-inked with a home made concoction
I will type a poem like this, about the end of civilisation
my window will be my last remaining screen
looking out over the encroaching salt marshes
the snaking sea grasses and rushes that rise like spears
the sun, red as a blood orange, will float on the horizon
menacing, as the mouth of a smelter, from my days in the foundry
the reds, oranges and whites of liquid metal
poured spitting anger and fury into a crucible
I will wonder what creature will dominate after man
a quivering biological blob, resembling a children’s toy
or some dextrous anthropoidal crustacean, of sharp intelligence
either will do better than man, whose intelligence
became peacock feathers for decorative display, who
unable to adapt, tried to adapt the world to his needs
is now victim of his own evolutionary flaws
my poem in a bottle, I will cast into the marshes
where it will survive for countless aeons
until a spidery hand plucks it from the marsh
or maybe digs it up while foraging, eyeballs it in wonder
that what the creature had discovered
looked like the work of some primitive intelligence
a message or maybe a warning, out of the distant past
I will sigh and look up at the seemingly permanent stars
which once had a beauty that filled a man with awe
are now mocking him with their indifference
as the tide begins to lap about my feet
the end is no biblical revelation, there is no indignant god
smiting sinners and sparing the righteous
just incremental disintegration and decay
my poem already on its journey into the future
I will open my last bottle of whisky and watch
silver clouds frothing up like boiling mercury
billowing and belching from the underworld
orange-read flames fanned across the swamps and marshes
as a new and yet unknown creature scurries
comfortable in its habitat, across the swamp
Rebecca
she was sat upon a suburban garden wall
a wholesome girl selling unwholesome thoughts
nature gives a man little choice in this
he can raise his behaviour to a higher level
but his imagination remains firmly in the gutter
I heard her speak before she spoke
educated, home counties, fully formed vowels
no thees and thas or wat’s thy on abowts
the sort of girl a mother hopes her son brings home
someone who could give her boasting rights
with hands on hips, in haughty pose
splendid breasts and her pelvis thrust
presenting herself as she might for a lover
no mother would want this for her son
but every son would want this wildest dream
she’s sex, with Wittgenstein on her side
she has diplomas to prove it and a head full of ideas
a mind that is sharp as a blade and a tongue
with whimsical convolutions that put you at ease
then you’re sliced and diced, in the nicest possible way
so what a man gets is not what the man sees
the delicate damsel in need of his protection
is tough as a nut, hustling from job to job
clear eyed and sharply focused, she pitches
confident in the quality of her goods
but you remain a sucker for her charms
the thought, if there were less years between
if somehow youth had not been betrayed by age
still, you have her photo and thoughts of what might have been
if only the fates and chronology, had been on your side
Muse
Muse is a drama written in poetry from the point of view of an artist's Muse, after which the collection of poems is titled. The poems in the collection are both experience and fictions but it is difficult to say where experience ends and fiction begins. Celebratory, lusty, cynical and love weary, these poems are sexual relationships with daggers.
sample poem: Maggie
€10 + €2.50 postage and package
The Dead Centre Of The Universe And Other Places
This collection begins with a small series of poems about when the poet moved to and arrived in Leeuwarden. The other poems are poems that were written over the years and never fitted into a project, places visited, experiences experienced and musings.
(sample) Old Fart
€10 + €2.50 postage and package
Explaining women
A collection of poems are based on a mixture of fact, fiction, memory, gossip and myth. Where reality end and the imagination begins? Kow towing to political correctness has no place in this collection, a rake's progress of poems.
€10 + €2.50 postage and package
email me for any purchase. keithbrighouse@yahoo.com