Thursday, 22 December 2016

"And What?" A poem by Adam Common, poet

"And what?" we ask, as one more house burns down,
Its occupants pretending that everything is fine,
While others stand unspeaking
Seemingly afraid of the heat.
"And what?"

Heat hot enough to bend the beams, bright enough to blind,
And warm enough to comfort us while things fall apart,
Littering the ground with
The crumbs of our progress.
"And what?"

Calmly, we return to our homes, though the fire starters,
Rabid in their fervent desire for a familiar "real change,"
Continue to stalk the streets.
A half-brick breaks our window.
"And what?"

The bottle follows. I shake my father, my mother, my kin,
But they do as they do while the drapes ignite, waving me off,
Because what can they do?
The world burns despite them.
"And what?"

I lay on the grass, our garden untouched but for the 
Falling embers and ashes of everything I thought I had known,
Cursing the year when it's clear
That the people are to blame.
"And what?"

Sunday, 30 October 2016

A poem, by Adam Common, poet

The words said
That you were the
Other half of me.

I listened to them,
And tried my best
To transcribe.

But the writing is
Uneven, and even
I can't read it,
Or remember 
Exactly what
The voice had said.
But I know the feeling.

It is unspoken,
An undercurrent
To my every breath.

So with no ounce
Of performance,
I act only for love.

Wednesday, 27 January 2016

Down by the river, a poem by Adam Common, poet

Started a writing course recently, and wrote a new poem for the sharings as part of this week's exercises. First line is from "The God of Pockets" by Sue McLeod as a prompt. I'd recommend reading that poem if you can find it. It is fantastic.

On a flat-broke day in Spring,
I skipped sideways down the hillock
To search through the busted back of
A burnt-out stolen Volkswagen,
Once dumped unceremoniously
Down by the river, next to the tree.
I found a wet, old raz-mag,
And a bag with the bones of a dog in it,
Which made me quite upset,
I sold both to some other kids,
And bought myself a "Caramac,"
Which I'd never tried before
And tasted so sickly and vile
That when the company went away,
I celebrated with a Dairy Milk.
Year on year it sank deeper,
Collecting rain, and new tossed treasures
In its spacious, family-sized boot.
Like a time capsule it filled, until
I skipped sideways down the hillock
And found a hole, partly filled
With gravel and river water,
And giant tire tracks leading away
To a place I couldn't follow.

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