Stu Buck- Three Poems

Voices

I open as Sylvia Plath

Awake, Askew

Cock my eye

Morning Dew

By breakfast I am Ginsberg

My cereal howls

Sex and Jazz

Trashcans rust and curl

I leave the house as Wordsworth

And wonder lonely through a crowd

Arrive at the track as Bukowski

Gamble on the lunchtime horses

Smoking a cigarette

While outside

A sparrow sings

As the day wears on

I am Cummings

Los(i)

Ng

A#%l

Lsen

Se;

Of tim(e)

Then I notice the colours of the day

As a tanka master

Grasping at Scarlet,
Umber, Crimson and Auburn
Autumn delivers
A placid melancholy
At odds with its warming hues

I head for home as Angelou

Aint nothing gonna bring me down

Because I am a lion

And you sure gonna hear me roar

I eat my dinner as Robert Frost

At my oaken table

Whilst being able

To rhyme for once

To rhyme for once

But as night time closes

My voice creeps in

As Stuart Buck

Above the din

The doubts and fears

Smash through the voice

And I sympathise

With all those prayers

That go unanswered

But I would say

In His defence

Being creative is tiring.

Lawn

I remember him now and then

When I’m feeling brave enough to recall my childhood

Mr. Strathclyde

He was a welcome break from the ceaseless banality of the suburbs

I’d see him every Saturday morning on my way to work

Damp panatela clamped between his gums

Stained string vest and pyjama bottoms

Smirking like he’d just told a racist joke that no one had heard

‘Morning sport’ he’d yell at me over the thrum and whine of his lawnmower

I hated sport

But I liked him

‘Morning Mr. Strathclyde’

His lawn was immaculate

Set square perfection

He’d tend that lawn until they took him away he used to say

I never saw Mrs. Strathclyde, although I knew she was lame

Sometimes you’d see the curtains twitch in the bedroom upstairs

One Saturday I was walking to work when I noticed a weed growing in the centre of the lawn

Right in the centre, defiling it

The next week there were more weeds

The grass was getting longer

Clover and moss burst through the pristine layer of grass

A crisp packet lounged in the corner, its garish maw gaping obscenely

After that my dad lost his job and we moved to the other side of town

I never saw Mr. Strathclyde’s lawn ever again

Static

When I was younger

Not so very long ago

The best thing I owned was a radio and

A pair of headphones

The ability to block out noise was crucial to my survival

I used to tune the station just out

So that there was always white noise

Static safety

Blocking out the screams

The smashing of plates

The threats

The actions

Classical music was my choice

As the songs were the longest

I guess that’s why I love it so much now

Thanks guys

For at least giving me a good taste

In music

When the lights grew dimmer

And the station played slower music

I used to chance it

Take the headphones off

Listen for any signs of life

If the coast was clear

Id creep down the stairs

Looking for food

And usually finding the house tipped

Upside

Down

Like we were haunted

By a malevolent poltergeist

And not just debt

And bad decisions


Stuart Buck is a 30 year old ex-chef turned poet living in the Valley of the Poets, the Ceiriog Valley in North Wales. He is just starting to perform his poems live and hopes to publish a chapbook by the end of the year. His blog can be found at www.writeoutloud.net/blogs/stubuck