Ditch

FinsburyParkCarrots

Next time I'm in a ditch, I'll look ahead
to see what's caught the water up. Big logs
of wood, or twigs, no doubt. Some dread
ditches. Me, I love them. I like clogs
of mud around my rubber waders. Good
mud, good dirt. I'll trudge through all that brown
sludge. I'll reach the dam, throw out the wood
and fork the water cress that's overgrown
and traps the stinking stream. You see, that's me,
really. I'm no poet. I was born
to shovel dirt and nothing else. I'd be
a fool to make out otherwise. O worn
out heart, rest in real work. Just dig the ditch.
Abandon words. It makes an easy switch.

FinsburyParkCarrots

Patrick stands outside Mandela House
in his neon lightbulb Santa hat
crawing like a kestrel on the Ouse,
"Big Issue, get Big Issue". Christmas tat
in dazzling tinsel windows on the street
frames him. He's a farm back home beyond
in Galway, yet no shoes to hold his feet.
He's slept in car parks, isn't fond
of night time shelters. "Get Big Issue". That
shows you England's "migrant's promise": Pat.

FinsburyParkCarrots

Ballast and sand weight the shovels of men
staring into trenches two feet deep,
the desert prize like fools' golden dust
for those who left Dun Laoghaire harbour
staring at nightfoam water from the deck
full of dreams of shinypenny plenty
under grey concrete, black tarmac,
and open saddle throated drains,
while singing all they knew,
their mother's song about a grave,
lone, overgrown and facing west.

EvilToasterElf

I think people might have some trouble relating to these because they kind of sound like dirges these people would sing, and it's an almost antiquated style, but very powerful at the same time. It's funny how sometimes we feel no remorse about putting thoughts into those small limited people, as if they were simply vessels but if we create characters resembling our own intelligence you can debate yourself over what they would say next.

FinsburyParkCarrots

Well, it's Mayo Hiberno-English. I'm starting thinking about writing something with an authentic voice of my migrant people. Very like song, yes.

Ms. Haiku

Which one do you want me to read first?

FinsburyParkCarrots

Er, they're just sketches at this point. They might end up being part of something and they might not, but I felt like sharing anyway. I'll do some shaping later. Read them in order, I guess.