I was reading a story by Kevin Barry when without warning, the central character eats a sausage roll.
It a Madeleine moment.
I had not eaten a sausage roll for decades. Not since I was a kid. We had them at picnics, children’s parties, celebrations. Even my 21st. Oh, they were glorious.
But I was taught they were decadent things, like pies and pasties.
Suddenly this urge for a sausage roll overtook me. It was all I wanted.
Have you ever had an urge for something so badly you could think of nothing else?
Well these sausage rolls were like this.
I could feel them in my mouth, my stomach, the rich pastry, the minced meat, the tomato sauce, the sheer unhealthy wholesomeness of it all.
I had to go out and get one. No, a whole packet of them
But then I remembered I’m going to my daughter’s for a BBQ in just over an hour’s time.
It’s a big hope, I know, but maybe they’ll have sausage rolls on offer to complement the rib-eye steak.
Look at that little light of Faith
At the bottom of the bowl
Like a light at the bottom
Of a deep well
In that vast ruby immensity
& I guess
Hope must be like this too
That it never has much to go on
But something still fuels it
That it keeps on burning
In a naughty world
Long after everyone has called it
I was walking along the beach, between the two jetties, when I looked up and saw this giant bird, like a navy plane, coming in to land:
Bulgy bird, big winged
coming in to land, such
I feel my poems are getting lighter.
Once they had the heft of metal.
Now they feel more like balsa wood.
I suppose there is merit in lightness.
At least my poems can fly.
And even if they are at times full of hot air.
they give people a lift.
Frissons are what you get when you ride the ghost train
Or rush out wheeling in the sudden summer rain
Or whenever an idea hits you high in the brain.
Frissons almost always go against the grain.
It’s the feeling you get when you take a big chance
And it pays off; or in the hey-days of a romance.
It’s the feeling you aim for when you write a poem.
Frissons are what keep readers turned on.
The mornings are still cold.
I like to walk around in my dressing gown with my hands
Buried in my pockets
But my dressing gown has only one pocket.
What use is a one-pocket dressing gown for a two-handed man?
What is one supposed to do with the other hand?
The same for cargo pants, chinos, shorts.
Two hands. Two pockets.
It doesn’t get much simpler than that.
I’ve heard that shrouds have no pockets.
I don’t intend dying anytime soon.