Five Poems by Jonathan Humble

 

Tidy Garden

(unpublished)

 

In an almost tidy garden,
       cold on crazy paving,
       stranded by the shed,
                the dead rat lies:
reluctant penitent at prayer,
       thin paws held stiffly,

eyes shut in death throe rictus,

tail curled,

hugging a frosted abdomen.

 

Exploration driven by hunger,

the tempering of wariness

                leading to a lingering end;

lately drawn from Sunday fields,

before dawn’s broken promise,

        the lure of fat and dried mealworm,

                the scent of calculated temptation,       

breakfasting by an ornate bird table,
            laid by a neat and tidy mind.

 

High on a shelf, locked in the shed, sits a box

from the hardware store that sells everything:

unseen contents, palpably present
       yet failing to raise any spasm of guilt
               or sentiment in a Type A personality,

who, putting away the cruelty of it,
       burying the barbarity along with any empathy
               when confronted with the consequence
                      of a few moments of typical pragmatism,

now looks for a shovel.

 

 

 

One Step Beyond

(published in The Blue Nib May 2020)

 

Thoughts trapped in bubble wrap,
as the wind becomes muffled
and all progress stops.

 

Two thirds so far and no farther;
a shadow rigid against the render.

 

Time frozen, like a seized up mechanism,
as the aching in arches grows
and calves spasm in protest.

 

Panic rises with the pounding in a neck,
with hands gripping aluminium
and legs locked on one rung too far.

 

Along with any feeling in dead fingers,
a fool’s confidence in early steps has gone,
reality dawning in the prospect
of a concrete experience.

 

The ground beckons below:
come fail an impact test, it whispers.

 

Everything lost in an instant,
the truth of one move left;
waiting to kiss the pavement forever.

 

 

 

Derek’s Explanation of Spontaneous Cognition

(unpublished)

 

A Boltzmann Brain popped into existence the other day.

Appeared in the kitchen by the toaster and breadbin,

while I was sorting breakfast for my dog, Derek.

Said it had no idea who or what it was,

that it was feeling somewhat overwhelmed by several sensations

and wondered if the black, hairy, waggy thing was friendly.

 

Derek smiled:

said yes he was friendly and he could explain everything.

Existence and reality are both highly unlikely events,

in a similar way to the idea of a fully formed brain

materialising in a kitchen on a Tuesday

by the toaster just before breakfast

with cognitive functions

which seem real

but are just

a dream …

 

and would it like a bit of toast and butter

with a nice cup of fresh tea

to get over the shock?

 

 

 

A Goole Thing

(published in Another North June 2020)

 

Hello Humber gateway,

you old dock drab,

winking at passing commerce

with your ample warehouse acreage,

welcoming skirts hitched

up the legs of the Ouse and Trent.

 

Under stretched skies,

I am a salmon swimming the sixty-two,

past rotting coal fired corpses,

where orderly pylons queue the lanes,

sturdy girls whispering indiscretions;

gossip from a shabby adolescence.

 

On a three-quarter empty train,

I see the summer poet watching ghosts

play in the cinders of railway sidings,

silhouetted sentinels standing by;

cranes rooted by stagnant water

and gently rusting Tom Pudding hoists.

 

Down breeze block back lanes

and brick pond waste lands,

kids test the friction of bare skin

in the canopies of scaffolding,

while mad dogs howl unseen

from the depths of dark houses.

 

And why am I compelled to return,

revisit this corroded dock salvage,

resurrect this east coast accent

from a time that rips open my chest

and causes these scales to fall?

I wonder if it’s a salmon thing

 

or just a Goole thing.

 

 

 

Early Coffee

(unpublished)

 

A mug steams in a frosty garden.

 

By hedges of hazel and elder,

wisps of gently snaking vapour

rise in the early rays of dawn

and disappear like tired thoughts

out toward fields

under a full autumn moon.

 

Behind jewelled cobwebs

in the corner of a shed window,

grey mirrored shadows scatter

as reflections in glass,

like wraiths caught in the margins

of a low and fading morning mist.

 

Complaints from small birds

burst out and end abruptly

with the ghostly presence

of a late juvenile barn owl,

surprised by its own boldness

on a branch of our old oak.

 

I haven’t moved for ten minutes.

 

My coffee is now cold;

my heart is not.

Jonathan Humble is a retired deputy headteacher who lives in Cumbria and works part-time at Kendal Library. His poems have appeared in a number of anthologies and other publications including Curlew Calling (Numenius Press), Diversifly (Fair Acre Press), This Place I Know (Handstand Press), Greenfields (Maytree Press) and Through The Locking Glass (Inspired By Lakeland). A short collection of his work (Fledge) was published by Maytree Press in 2020. He has had poems for children shortlisted and highly commended in the Caterpillar Poetry Prize and York Mix Poetry Competitions. He edits The Dirigible Balloon website showcasing poetry for children and has edited the anthology Chasing Clouds: Adventures in a Poetry Balloon published by Yorkshire Times Publishing. He writes regularly for the Yorkshire Times, reviewing poetry collections and publishing articles on a range of subjects. He delivers poetry workshops for Wordsworth Grasmere and also appeared as the Poet in a Fridge for the Radio Cumbria Poetry Takeaway during the BBC Contains Strong Language Festival at Tullie House in Carlisle.