Showing posts with label Mark Coverdale. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mark Coverdale. Show all posts

Tuesday, 12 March 2019

Lost






Lost

It’s a grey and blue freeze in here
Here it’s deja-vu number two
It’s seven pm
She’s lost her voice again
She’ll go for deja number three
But
There’s a point in here
In this freeze of grey and blue
That lost voices
Are
No longer worth listening to

© Mark Coverdale

Sunday, 20 January 2019

Critical - A Tanka






Critical - A Tanka

There’s a gap in the
Market for some critical
Thinking the problem’s
Not the thought process it’s that
It’s all just market driven

© Mark Coverdale

Wednesday, 3 October 2018

Anchovies






Anchovies

Out pop those willing
Joeys from the prep school purse
White anchovies who
Eyeball each other bet on
Number 10 and who'll go first

© Mark Coverdale

Young Tories' night of shame: Students sport 'f*** the NHS' slogan, Hitler moustache and make dodgy hand gesture

Saturday, 29 September 2018

The Butcher's Son

As the butcher’s son
Is held high
I look to the skies
Where Bacon rolls
Gravely under
Parameters squashed
Of science applied
This life’s eclipsed
Humanity’s lost

Some welcome
Generations of generated
Neutral networks
With arms
Open
Another tool up the sleeve
Of the creative sorcerer
But paint me soul
Paint me passion
Over matters grey
And the truth of beauty
We will take to our grave
Closed

© Mark Coverdale

The Lumen Prize - 2018 Winners

Mark Coverdale Art School Mod Poet. Born in Darlington the year Elvis died. Now in London via Oldham writing and performing socially and politically observational poetry.
Twitter: @cov_art

Friday, 7 September 2018

Ticks in Burning Boxes

They walk with no shoes
Through the Mississippi mud
Of their national pride
Past the sweatshop pyre
Burning with the weakness
Of their rage
This cowards bonfire
Smokes with the ghosts
Of the enslaved

The bullet headed put
Ticks in burning boxes
On voting forms
Their burning crosses
As in the red zone
The ineligible
Information receiver
Cuts off his own jock-strap
To spite his face

They want to talk about
Fought and died
They should
Look to the other side
Where with heads held high
Not fought under stars and stripes
People died trying
Equally qualify

Look to the other side
You see me
You'll see many
Taking a stand
Taking a knee
A more powerful
Display of loyalty to our fellow
Than their ad man's wet dream
Of patriotism
Will ever be

© Mark Coverdale

People pointlessly burn their own Nike gear in response to Kaepernick ad

Mark Coverdale Art School Mod Poet. Born in Darlington the year Elvis died. Now in London via Oldham writing and performing socially and politically observational poetry.
Twitter: @cov_art

Tuesday, 31 July 2018

You Can Paint Me Red White And Green But it’s All Yellow






You Can Paint Me Red White And Green But it’s All Yellow

Sometimes nice guys
Do finish first
For good reason
The push on stages comes with ages
Not dressed in limelight
But yellow
And now
The world all knows
Llongyfarchiadau G
It just goes to show

© Mark Coverdale

Friday, 13 July 2018

It's Not Coming Home...This Time

Buzzword Post-Mortem

On the mortuary slab
This time
There’ll be no
Club v country
Pride v ego
Wherever he goes
So does me go
Ticky tacky jealousies
From tabloid bottom feeders
Why can’t we practice penalties?
Where were all the leaders?
Paid too much
Cared too little
Daft haircuts and
Stupid cards
Not this time
Just
Unlucky lads

© Mark Coverdale


Mark Coverdale Art School Mod Poet. Born in Darlington the year Elvis died. Now in London via Oldham writing and performing socially and politically observational poetry. Twitter: @cov_art


Mirage

I stepped out of my home of thirty years
into a landscape transformed.
My postcode had changed colour.
Gone the cement grey
and the downbeat drab of everyday;
instead,
all red,
and silver white
on flags and banners
that held the light;
hanging from windows, shopfronts, bus-stops,
catching the breeze, and turning streets aglow,
even on top of the old folks bungalow.

It’s the World Cup semi-final.

But tomorrow, what world will I enter
from my home of thirty years?
A place of carnival and celebration,
or one of bleak confusion,
broken dreams and disillusion,
again the home
of monochrome,
flags and banners with no real purpose
sent packing with
the other surplus,
stowed in loft and shed and bin,
the land transformed the old-style way
as if there’d been no red-letter day?

© Charlie Lambert


Charlie Lambert is a former BBC sports correspondent who began writing poetry in 2016. He lives in Liverpool but is originally from Cumbria and his work is to feature in a new collection by Cumbrian poets, 'This Place I Know,' to be published by Handstand Press in the autumn.

Wednesday, 13 June 2018

“Your body is not a temple, it’s an amusement park” - Anthony Bourdain

Food like music
Is a matter of taste

Before Jamie bored us
(Though he knew all the chords)
With his bland Britpop brand
Before Nigella’s Shania Twain cosy cleavage
Popped the eyes out of Middle Ingerland

Before Ramsey’s parental advisory
Repetitive rap
And Carluccio (RIP)
Plated up that simple opera
We all could grasp

Tony showed us that food was
The Stooges The MC5 Los Explosivos
Where oysters are MDMA
And the Ramones are alive on that plate

Where the kitchen cast
Were Goodfellas
The Three Amigos
And Scarface
Stepping in
As the culinarily crew
Of Battleship Potemkin

Where the kitchen was the spotlight
Where the cooks were the stage show
Where the roadies were as important as the band
Where the collective experience
Could make you cry
Grown man

And the food was the tune
That punched your throat and
Kicked your balls
Made you sit on your arse for hours
Pouring wine and breaking bread

Messed with your mind
Pogue-d your head
Made you fall in love
Again
With something you shouldn’t have
‘Cos you’ll always remember the times you fell
And you’ll never forget love
When it’s cooked that well

© Mark Coverdale

CNN's Anthony Bourdain dead at 61

Mark Coverdale Art School Mod Poet. Born in Darlington the year Elvis died. Now in London via Oldham writing and performing socially and politically observational poetry.
Twitter: @cov_art

Tuesday, 1 May 2018

Kickabout

Picture the scene:
Early fifties,
Lancastrian rows,
All cobbled neat.
Anna-Frid, Bennie,
Agnetha, et al
In a two up, two down
Formation,
‘Avin’ a kick-about
In the street.

Then, from t’ kitchen window
A rollered head pops out
Spreading lavender and fear:

“Where’s Bjorn?!
Yer little bugger!
Time for yer tea!!”

“‘Ere mam! I’m ‘ere!
Mam I’m ‘ere!”

© Mark Coverdale

BREAKING: Abba reform to record first new music for 35 years

Mark Coverdale was born in Darlington, grew up in the hills of Saddleworth. He now lives in London, writing and performing poetry around the subjects of politics, homelessness and social justice. Twitter: @cov_art Blog: www.cov451.com

Wednesday, 28 March 2018

Caught

The red whine sits
Like cricket slips in
It’s amateur hour
At the end of its wick
You’ll always get caught
In the Black River
These days
When the sign in
Away day ledger
Reads Mr. Smith
When the baggy mind
Makes green choices
The flabby heart
Will sink
When the lily-livered
Gets the
Sorcerer’s
Apprentice to
To do the dirty
In the public launderette
It goes without that
However steely
The 45th Dan
On this
Will be pressed
Will be finished

© Mark Coverdale


Mark Coverdale was born in Darlington, grew up in the hills of Saddleworth. He now lives in London, writing and performing poetry around the subjects of politics, homelessness and social justice. Twitter: @cov_art Blog: www.cov451.com

Wednesday, 24 January 2018

Two Touching Tributes

Remembering Hugh Masekela, 1939-2018

Look back to the slum

that was Sophiatown, Johannesburg,

in the bad apartheid days.

Trevor Huddleston, the white priest,

bought a naughty boy a trumpet;

clapped both hands over his ears

as the black boy practised.

Hugh Masekela blew and blew,

his jazz trumpet sounding the joy

injustice tried to suppress,

making them dance in Africa:

I’m Not Afraid, Soweto Blues, 

No Borders; ever expanding

this legacy of love.

© Sue Norton


Sue Norton has had poems published in various magazines. She was a prizewinner in the 2017 Rialto/RSPB Nature Poetry competition.


Blackpool Rock

Blackpool rock
The name

Runs right through
Not with garish

Mis-placed pass of thought

That modernity is
But

Humility
Captain
Keep us warm

© Mark Coverdale

Jimmy Armfield: BBC Radio 5 live's John Murray on his friend and colleague

Mark Coverdale was born in Darlington, grew up in the hills of Saddleworth. He now lives in London, writing and performing poetry around the subjects of politics, homelessness and social justice. Twitter: @cov_art Blog: www.cov451.com

Monday, 22 January 2018

The Visit

Carnations fail,
Where winds from pterodactyl wings prevail.

Cast open wasteland shadows,
In which through perished grass,
Thrusts this beak of iron.

The cut up is from seventy two below
To eighty four inch,
Which sticks out a foot,
Over which we still trip.

Beady vultures keen eyed,
From crooked trees,
In Lowry skies, as
Strangle weeds grow round necks
Of ‘quipment collaps’d, done for graft.
We try to revive and oil,
But it runs deep this decay,
It runs deep this past.

The rusted beak juts death
Of industry gears, buried heavy clay,
Looms large size, sleepers rot,
Ropes untwist, steeples plummet,
Stories mist,
Chains still bind though,
Just so you know, just a reminder.

None the new growth dares to poke
From beyond the poisoned ground.
Harrows up, points blade bone.
Marrows ate by dogs dawned
Wi’ gallows humour,
Bark borders,
Frozen for those of skill and brawn.

Paint this scene;
There’s the works’ washed out,
Black and blue,
In devastated grey valleys between,
Where carbon red trickles
Stream-like ‘tween haunted rock.

There’s death wash,
In the gobs of the forgotten,
Because the witch you thought was dead,
Isn’t.

S’ smile now, through blood drained lips.
Sit here this desolate bench.
Pull out your bait, pull out your corks,
Y’ know, for y’ nose
For this stench.

Look below,
Look beneath how we’re judged.
Through the carved up way back home
Is trudged,
While down Whitehall way they can’t see that
All of our dandelion’s heads are missing.

Hide your children, hide the old,
Unfortunate, unable,
Under the yet to be climbed stairs.
And look lively now, the time nears.
The knock’ll come eventually,
For the inherently branded,
Tarred the same, ignored.

Ignored, though known within
Circles uniquely exquisite.
But for now, lights out,
Hush now,
For here comes
The visit.

© Mark Coverdale

Margaret Thatcher Parliament statue blocked over fears left-wing mob will destroy it

Mark Coverdale was born in Darlington, grew up in the hills of Saddleworth. He now lives in London, writing and performing poetry around the subjects of politics, homelessness and social justice. Twitter: @cov_art Blog: www.cov451.com

Thursday, 18 January 2018

Nice One Cyrille

An early early football
Memory sticks
Silver small time screen
When the unfancied
Cup upstarts
Beat the fancy Dans
At the heart and
The head of this team
This fearsome gentleman

I’d no grasp at ten
Of what was black
And what was white
But when
The foul and factious was
Hurled 
Back when
The boos and bananas were
Hurled
The mark of the man
They couldn’t mark was
To take that abuse
Peel the layers
Reveal truths hard
And with a thumbs up
A melting grin
Bite off it’s ugly head
Then from 30 yards
Put any game to bed

To lay the paths
For those
Who had the grasp
All too concrete
Of what was black
And what was white
Against all the hate
For all he’d done
Nice one Cyrille
Nice one

© Mark Coverdale

Cyrille Regis obituary

Mark Coverdale was born in Darlington, grew up in the hills of Saddleworth. He now lives in London, writing and performing poetry around the subjects of politics, homelessness and social justice. Twitter: @cov_art Blog: www.cov451.com

Thursday, 4 January 2018

Two short poems - on the button

Button Moon (a tanka)

We’re off to Button
Moon we’ve followed Mr. Spoon
Button Moon but on
Twitter oh my trending days
Say button it Mr. Spoon

© Mark Coverdale


Mark Coverdale was born in Darlington, grew up in the hills of Saddleworth. He now lives in London, writing and performing poetry around the subjects of politics, homelessness and social justice. Twitter: @cov_art Blog: www.cov451.com


(a senryu)

for ‘button’, read

'penis' – will someone please

take his phone away?

© Mandy Macdonald


Mandy Macdonald lives in Aberdeen, trying to make sense of the 21st century. Music, poetry and gardening keep her sane. Her poems appear here and there in print and online.