Saturday, July 11, 2015

Stu Buck- Three Poems


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
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.


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


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
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

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