WHAT A TAIMEN IS

 Yesterday there was a cold grey sky

And I stayed indoors hoping

That winter was dying,

Or at least, starting to die

Because I saw a magpie fly by

With a stick in its beak.

It was staring to build a new nest

In time to rob other nests,

Whilst I coughed and wheezed,

Snivelled and spat

As I sat in a cold flat.

But at least I learned something new.

So now I know without a doubt

That a taimen is

A large carnivorous Siberian trout.

 

 

 

Semi-detached vans

There are people living on this street,

Who are not living in this street.

Which at first glance

Seems like a neat street,

Lined with houses that are discreet,

Semi-detached almost identical

Painted white or cream,

Gable ends ornamented

With pseudo-Tudor beams.

And plenty of shiny new cars

And four by fours

Parked outside or on driveways.

And then there are the second-hand vans,

With old, faded logos on the side

Left over from when these vans

Were used to deliver

Bread or jam or glue or shoes.

Vans parked in different places

On different days.

Homes outside houses

But one small step up

From a cardboard box shack

In a shop doorway;

Or a tent under the motorway.

But anyway,

A cold and lonely way to get by

Semi-detached from the semi-detached

Semi-detached from society

By an inhuman human economy.

DODO MODERN VIDPOETS 13

 VIRTUAL DODO 13

 WELCOME TO VIRTUAL DODO THIRTEEN - JANUARY 2025

Welcome to the 13th virtual show from Dodo Modern Poets. This programme takes our tally to around 320 performances and contributions since launching in April 2020. We thank everyone who has supported and enjoyed the project along the way.

Our featured  acts this month are Heather Moulson and Steve Tasane, both excellent and entertaining exponents of the spoken and printed word. We are delighted to introduce Virtual Dodo 13 with their fine readings. 

https://dodomodernvidpoets2022.blogspot.com/

VIDEOS

Zolan Quobble

Sue Johns 

PR Murry

 Julie Stevens

Patric Cunnane

Pauline Sewards

Graham Buchan

Frank Crocker

Nick Goodall

Kevin Morris

Joolz Sparkes

TEXT

Joseph Healy 

Max Fishel

John Sephton

MALINGERER?

Framed in a toilet doorway,

A ragged man stands

He wears old shoes,

Sand stained,

Salvaged from a builder’s skip.

He watches the traffic of people

Scurrying along

The hospital corridors.

One hobbles on crutches

Another walks with a frame,

Some are pushed by porters

Riding prone in beds

Or seated in wheelchairs.

The ragged man waits

For doctors and nurses.

When they pass

He staggers

But does not quite fall

He shakes his arms

And head convulsively.

Doctors and nurses

Hold and support him

Place him in a chair

Cover him with a blanket

Cause sandwiches to appear

The ragged man eats the sandwiches

And begs for more.

He rests for several hours

But doctors and nurses

Eventually decide

That he must return to the cold

Outside the warm hospital

Where he wants to stay

As more and more people

Limp, hobble, stagger,

Or are pushed and  carried in

Wishing they could be

Somewhere else

Wishing they weren’t here

Where the ragged man

Wants to stay warm and fed .

DOWN AND OUT IN DOLLIS HILL

 It doesn’t take much

To crack a bone,

I realised, lying prone;

Bathing in waves of pain,

Beside the dustbin

With the blue lid

For plastic, glass and tins,

Which I was about to

Put stuff in

Until I slipped and tripped

And could not regain

A standing stance.

So, I advanced down,

Shoulder first

Into some hard, hard ground.

Then I wondered how this was

Happening to me now

When once I had ascended

Vikren,

The highest mountain in Bulgaria

When once I had run

Over boulder fields,

Cycled across France,

And it might not quite be

‘Attack ships off the

Shoulders of Orion’,

But I’d seen a great bustard,

An imperial eagle

And a red kite.

Now I grovel on a concrete floor,

And cannot regain my feet.

I must be grateful that it’s summer

So, I can involuntarily sunbathe

Whilst waiting in pain

For an ambulance to arrive

At my suburban driveway.

Bones can break

Bones can break, snap, fracture or crack.

The calcium and collagen scaffold,

That keeps our mortal flesh mostly vertical,

Is vulnerable if smacked

By sudden hard impacts

And the fact that these

Are relatively rare

Is due to trust, fear, luck and care,

And the navigations

That we everyday apply

As we go through

Our physical situations

Using memorised maps

Stored in squishy on-board computers,

Contained in sometimes hairy

Bone domes balanced on

Spinal columns made of bone,

At the centre of our skeletal bone homes.

So, we are very inflexible.

We can’t squeeze through

Small holes or cracks

Or minute apertures

Like other creatures

Who lose their shapes

And get them back.

If octopuses could laugh,

Oh, how they would chortle

At such silly rigid mortals

And their submarine cephalopod merriment

At the results of this terrestrial experiment

Would echo around

Oceans and seas

As humans stumble around

On the ground

Breaking arms, legs, necks,

Fingers, ribs, toes and knees.

LAUNDRY

 I am enraged

That I am not engaged

In writing a magnificent poetic work

Of incredible lyricism and

Transcendental significance.

Instead I am hanging up wet washing

Underwear of the sort

That nobody knows I wear.

But these damp textile tubes

Have got to go somewhere to dry

In what passes for air here

So I sigh, ‘Why do I

Have to deal with their placement?

It’s a disgracement and a wastement

Of my time

Which every day seeps away

Like waste water from a washing machine.

And I thank Ford for that

Bit of kit.

Because back in history

Poets could be

Cranking clothes

Through mangles

And inevitably getting entangled.

Or, if we go back

Seriously older

Thumping garments

On streamside boulders

Instead of scrawling scrawls

On firelit cave walls.