David Subacchi

I am a traditional poet
I write sonnets and villanelles
I’ve got a publisher and an agent
To tell me what kind of stuff sells.

I am a conventional poet
I stick words together in lines
I measure the gaps between them
And make sure that everything rhymes.

Please don’t insult my intelligence
With your scribblings in free verse
And as for spoken word and slams
I can’t think of anything worse.

I am a living dead poet
My biography already released
And my collected works will follow
As soon as I am deceased.

editors note: To ensure acceptable accolades, best write your own. – mh clay

You knew more lyrics
I more chords
We gelled
For a while.

I could sing and remember
You looked good
Let me fill in
The blanks.

We were OK
Or so we thought
A good team
For a while.

You got fed up
Playing covers
Neither of us
Could write our own.

I turned to poetry
Let dust gather
On the fretboard
You went instrumental

Writing in isolation
Recording alone
Mainly
For yourself.

Sometimes I think
We’re happier apart
But so much better
When together.

On Sundays they come
To walk off lunch,
Or linger in coffee shops,
Some to continue last night’s
Unfinished conversations.

For there is a purpose
In every step,
Every spin
Of pram wheel,
And every meeting of eyes

Across the streets
And potholed
Pavements,
Of this seaside
Grid iron town.

A place where waves roll
Lazily across the bay
From the cliffs to the harbour,
Indifferent to any pause
Between one week and another.

We land at Dubrovnik airport
Unfolded wheels scraping tarmac
Rumbling a welcome in the heat.

The pilot’s Manchester accent
Wishes us happy holidays
He sounds too young to fly jet planes.

Fifteen degrees when we took off
Above the Lancashire roof tops
But here the sun burns fiercer

For the destruction that took place
In the war for independence
And for precious lives extinguished.

In the old town the streets are smooth
Stones worn by soldiers’ heavy boots
Causing unexpected hazards

But most things have now been repaired
So tourists are not embarrassed
And can spend their money safely.

We gaze down from fortress like walls
The pleasure boats plying their trade
Give no hint of what occurred here.

Only the endless walking tours
Uncover the true history
That refuses to be disguised.

A door or window opening
If rounded not straight
Is called Italianate.

A sharp, pointed line
Is English Gothic
To be specific.

A dome or upturned
Glass of wine
May be Byzantine.

Pillars and columns
An ornate border
The Classical order.

Concrete, steel
Any brutal structure
Modern architecture.

When you enter another dimension
It’s not like a different room
Or a new country
It’s not like illegal drugs
Or excess alcohol
It’s far more serious

Time is suspended
You are without control
A spectator only
Unable to communicate
With those around you
Your soul hangs in the balance

Most return quickly
To familiar reality
But others struggle hard
To stay where they are
For they have seen angels
And they want to see more

Monsieur if it didn’t sell it went into bins
This is a business, we can’t give food away
Nobody would buy from us again
They’d just hang around outside
Waiting for stores to close
And for the hand outs
We are a country of revolutions
But that would be
Taking things too far

Madame we had to make sure
So we put bleach into the bins
To poison the unsold food
If we didn’t do this
These desperate people
Would steal from us
They would climb
Into the containers
To salvage the contents

Mon Dieu now the stupid government
Has made laws to prohibit all this
How easily they shame us
With their political rhetoric
Caring little for our profits
Worrying only about the votes
Of the weak and sentimental
Whose hunger we must now feed
Breeding our own destruction.

An old man with his books
In serried ranks behind him
Smart, respectable
No open necked collar
Or unshaven countenance

A retired scholar
Professor and Vice-Chancellor
Distinguished, honoured
No years wasted
In idleness

An establishment figure
Fingers still
Clinging tightly
To the crumbling edges
Of his inheritance.

– David Subacchi

A morning when silence clings
To tree trunks in gardens
To traffic lights
That blink apologetically
To paddocks where ponies
Sensing the invisible
Graze distractedly

A morning with no function
But to pass in anticipation
Of the hour
When life ended
Even lawn mowers
Go about their work
Apologetically

A morning of stillness
Bereft of birdsong
The television’s prattle
Halted temporarily
I scribble notes
Recording thoughts
Hesitatingly

A morning with no meaning
Without what follows
A film on freeze frame
One image flickering
Soon it will be time
To dress in dark clothes
And assemble guiltily.