Energy

the pile of wood
we went collecting
may not last the night.
the fire consumes
all of it
so we can have some light.
it burns so bright
the heat so much
i almost cannot bear
to sit so close
while we pile on
our wood without a care.

The Clinic by John Stammers

Vivid teenage girls with awkward boys
jig about and giggle; the little radio bleats.
Everything is poster bright:
Free Condoms, Folic Acid.

You are wearing black as usual;
your black hair, your pale skin.

The salmon-red polyprop chairs sit
like strange plastic organs
from a third-form biology lesson:
And this is the oviduct or Fallopian tube,
and this is the placenta, and this is the vagina.

One girl shows a leaflet to her boy,
'That's the coil, it's for rude boys like you!'
She leans, chuckles; he squirms in his trainers,
they seem to be ceaselessly dancing, these kids.

The white of your skin,
the dark rings under you eyes.

The receptionist ticks off
a row of boxes on a sheet,
'First the nurse, then the doctor,
then the nurse and the doctor together,
then we finish off with the counsellor.'

Your eyes are fixed on nothing,
you are thinking of nothing perhaps
or of what nothing is
and when it stops being nothing.

Moon Hymn by Alice Oswald

I will give you one glimpse
a glimpse of the moon's grievance
whose appearance is all pocks and points
that look like frost-glints

I will wave my hand to her
in her first quarter
when the whole world is against her
shadowy exposure of her centre

o the moon loves to wander
I will go clockwise and stare
when she is huge when she is half elsewhere
half naked, in struggle with the air

and growing rounder and rounder
a pert peering creature
I love her sidling and awkward
when she's not quite circular

o criminal and ingrown
skinned animal o moon
carrying inside yourself your own
death's head, your dark one

why do you chop yourself away
piece by piece, to that final trace
of an outline of ice
on a cupful of space?

Blanket Coverage

Everything’s been tipp-exed out
as if the gods were trying to erase
mankind’s afflictions.
The roads, the cars, the shops and bars
all covered over with correction.

In the park the frozen men
stand around while laughing
children throw their souls,
my dog’s piss a vibrant yellow
ink with which he writes hello.

Spilling Out by Jacob Sam-La Rose

What's the half-life of a bright idea?
How deep must it be buried
to prevent it radiating,

like trying to stop a bulb's
insistent light from spilling out
between the fingers or leavening
the enforced blindness
of closed eyelids?

Imagine rolling that hot bulb
on your tongue,
all it's brilliant shining.

Now, try closing your mouth.

New Library.

Confusion appears
on the faces of new
library members
that come in and join up
because of the slick, shiny, sleek,
multi-million pound, industrial-chic
library that's appeared round 'ere.

They walk in and are confronted
not by rows of books
(as one would expect)
but by what is called
a 'quick choice collection'-
a single shelving unit
with a selection of the stock.

"Is this it?"
they ask bemused,
and you have to tell them that more exists upstairs.
In this way
you feel a little like a preacher
or a sunday school teacher
answering your congregations questions about life.

A Little Nut-Tree by Roald Dahl

I had a little nut-tree,
Nothing would it bear.
I searched in all its branches,
But not a nut was there.

"Oh, little tree," I begged,
"Give me just a few."
The little tree looked down at me
And whispered, "Nuts to you."