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The first is a miscellany of poems on different topics which have caught my eye, many of them oddball, which is one reason for the title. Anything from lizards in art galleries, to the perils of Dettol, to Oliver Cromwell's daughter writing to her dad. Some free verse, some in forms - Villanelles are favourite - and the occasional note to explain where I'm coming from.
The striking front cover photo (and its counterpart on the back cover, which you'll have to buy the book to see) is by Robert and Virginia Small. They are both superb wildlife photographers, whose work can be seen at their site, www.eyesinthewild.com.
Goats
‘A Swiss man caught speeding on a Canadian highway
has said he was taking advantage of the ability to go
faster, without the risk of hitting a goat’. BBC News
I can sympathise with him, I really can.
When he saw the road markings, all straight and white
and him from a place where odd animals stand
on bends, in the dark, unphased and off-hand,
so their eyes glint-up in the headlights.
I can sympathise with him, I really can.
I’m sure it was nothing he consciously planned;
to exceed the speed limit on ice and at night,
but raised in a place where odd animals stand
keeps you ever alert to dark creatures and
the way they go bump on the bonnet, in flight.
I can sympathise with him, I really can.
Whether it’s ibex or chamois or something more bland,
like ponies or sheep, they’re none of them bright,
for they live in a place where odd animals stand,
where they hide in the crooks of the road, like bands
of bold robbers, who stop you for spite.
I can sympathise with him, I really can,
as I come from a place where odd animals stand.
The second part of the book is called Biog, as the 20+ poems are autobiographical and chronological. When I started writing them, I thought I hadn't lived a very eventful life. I had a good childhood, so there's little to explore there, come from a middle-class family, so no deprivation to speak of and trained as an Engineer, not on bridges or space craft, but in factories.
As I wrote them, though, over a number of years, I saw there were interesting episodes to mention. I also came to realise how the events you remember are probably the ones that shape you. So, there are poems on trips to the zoo, relationships and early sexual experience, and right up to date with my first grandson, born only weeks ago.
Hanging Over The Fence
A builder and his family moved in next door;
called it Four Limes, because of the trees.
They’re not limes; they’re white poplars,
said my mother.
Their daughter, ten to my eleven,
called across the wattle fence Boy. Come here.
I went, so we could talk.
Hanging over the fence, my mother called it.
Sometimes I went to play at her house,
can’t remember the games. Occasionally, she came
to High Trees; named without commitment
to the species.
Then, one afternoon, she called me over,
to whisper that another boy had come
to stay. They’d played strip poker;
she’d won.
I was never good at cards, but strip sounded
interesting, more daring than Hot Wheels.
It was something forbidden,
like marzipan fruit.
I could imagine her in undies or less,
though perhaps not anatomically exact.
I’d not done much biology, by then.
She said, Of course, we used dolls.
If any of this has intrigued you and you have £8 burning a hole in your pocket, you can buy a copy here. £8 is the cover price, but I'll cover the postage and packing to UK addresses (£2 extra for the rest of the world, sorry).
If you prefer, and live within striking distance of Scorriton, a small village roughly mid-way between Exeter and Plymouth, I'll be having a launch event at 7:30pm on Sunday 16th December in the Village Hall. It'll be combined with my 60th Birthday Party and the Christmas edition of our Trade Winds open mic session. I expect it to be a lot of fun.
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