Poem a Day for April – 8, 9,10

I’ve committed to writing a poem a day for the month of April as part of National Poetry Writing Month.

Previous days’ poems are in the earlier posts.

10th April

Another slightly weird, right brain piece

Desire slinks slyly down suburban streets
slithers between crisp white sheets
leaps brazenly from billboards

bares itself to innocent and sinful alike
surges through high school classrooms
sweeping aside the national curriculum

rushes through university cloisters
pushing aside carefully crafted lectures
hammers at office doors

disrupting the painfully planned agenda
burrows into bars
imbibing sweat and alcohol

slips into shops
shaking the shelves
awakens old men and women on park benches

with memories of lost lust
stands upright
wanton when unwonted

demands attention
demands to be recognised
demands to be sated


9th April

A sad little rhyming poem.

The Girl Who Chucked Me

I saw the girl who chucked me

in the checkout queue today

in her basket were two chicken breasts

and a bottle of Beaujolais

my God she still looked gorgeous

such lustrous hair and skin

her cheeks gave off that special glow

that new love always brings

Perhaps my restraining order

kept me from joining her in the line

or shame of my tinned spaghetti

and my cardboard box of wine

I shot through the express checkout

and shuffled off for home

to eat my processed pasta

and drink my wine alone


8th April

The Corridor of Uncertainty

Tentatively, they inched down the Corridor of Uncertainty. Tempted by the first door: the sign No Entry. But they were unsure whether to comply. Eventually they moved on. At the second door : This way out, they did a double take. Too obvious they decided, dismissed it. At the third door, Authorised Personnel Only, they tried the handle. Locked. The fourth door was green. From under the door came the sound of laughter, glasses clinking, the smell of cigarette smoke. They thought of an old song. To go in might be gatecrashing. They weren’t like that. The next was a heavy oak door. Music came from behind it: Light my Fire. The sound of a bed creaking, low moans. They didn’t want to intrude, and tip-toed on. A pair of steel doors were next. The sign: Automatic Doors. They stood for what felt like an eternity, but the doors did not move. Eventually, they gave up.  A hotel room door was next, with a plastic sign hanging from the knob: Do not disturb. They complied. An office door, announced Meeting in Progress and a list of names. Their names were not on it. They felt rejection. Then a red door, with a glass case embedded in the wall: Break Glass for Key.  Somebody had already broken the glass. Only a frayed piece of string remained. At  the end of the corridor was a dirty, black wall. A sign Wrong Way – Go Back. They etched another mark in the paintwork. There were several hundred similar marks. They turned around, and walked back.

all poems and text copyright Mike Hopkins 2012

10 thoughts on “Poem a Day for April – 8, 9,10

  1. Ooh nice, very dark, MH… I wanted them to find the emergency exit, or a door with their names on it. Maybe they gatecrash the party on the way back! 🙂

    • “Saw an eyeball peepin’ through
      a smokey cloud…
      Wish they’d let me in
      So I could find out what’s
      behind the green door.” – “Behind the Green Door”

  2. That’s a cute one, MH!

    What a sad little ditty indeed, I was very sorry for the narrator – up until the mention of the restraining order! 🙂

  3. I like this one a lot, MH. I don’t think you need to repeat ‘Desire’ in the first sentence; let the heading work it… lovely flow to this, I can imagine a curtain or wave moving through and about all these people and places.

    Well done!

    And you’ve beat me to it this evening. I don’t know what today’s will be yet!

    • Good idea to use the heading. Again, tapped into an idea from my notebooks. Not sure the notebooks will sustain me til the end of the month though. Good luck with yours.

  4. I love the ‘Desire’ piece, Mike; it’s clever and well crafted. I’ve read it a few times and suggest you might not need the last three-line stanza ; to me it’s a redundancy

    • You could be right John. That’s the thing about this poem a day lark. You don’t have time to let the poem sit, to leave it alone for a week or two, and go back to it, before releasing it for public view. But at the end of the month, I’ll have a lot of material to which I can give a severe editing.

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