Glenn muses on a wide canvas that includes the human condition, the intangible and ephemeral, natural and supernatural, and the fractured moral vacuum of contemporary life. He enjoys supporting the life of the writing community. He is a contributing reviewer to Black Bough Poetry, and a guest host for Twitter/X @TopTweetTuesday.
Poems
Seven Minutes
She asks whether I want to say something at her wedding, a Father of the Bride speech, a few words of thanks and a toast to the occasion. I say yes, of course, but words are tricky; turn against you and let you drop into one of those Just A Minute traps that hide in the fetid corners of your mind. Hesitation, repetition, deviation. The Chimp tells me to write it down, but don’t fluff it, go teary, or mute, and look something of a twat in front of your family, his family, your friends, his friends. Not today, here, now. My daughter looks at me, fixed. A speech bubble flickers nervously: What’s he going to say? I look at her reassuringly. Soften your eyes, you’re safe; I’m not about to betray anything; simply to tell them about marriage, and the faith, hope and love you carry into it, and my joy for you on your wedding day. <<<
Door Jamb
It’s all about doors, isn’t it? Though some are way out of reach, the ones made of glass, in the ceiling. Pushing you aside; telling you to go to the left or right. Not the back; that’s for lock pickers, and tradesmen with mechanical jaws and endless streams of snake lard and word chess. What about the doors marked ‘Private’? That word, about belonging and privilege; I want to look inside, but I don’t wear the right tie. I come from another moral set of chains; The smoke tinge of deference, the silent hand of control, and my awkward fitting blue collar. And the glass doors? A curious mixture of invitation and exclusion; especially the ones with swirls and ripples, and those elastic shapes just beyond. Yet, it’s only a door. There’s no need to nosy parker the glass, resigning yourself to onlooker. Open it; it’s just wood in t’hole to keep out the Yorkshire draughts. Probably. <<<
Field of Dreams
Imagination rooted and flowered me in the fields just beyond home; enough to hide in, to transmute and reappear an imago blush, in the arms of summer-pressed air, where the tarmac ended. The natural world unfolded in the blench of hard gnarled bark, heaven-praying spears of corn, my hands stung and knees grazed in the heat of summer-hewn blue, where the tarmac ended. The water flowed, slow and sickly, brown and blackened, stagnant mud enough to build a dam, fill a shoe, release that pungent methane stink locked under a summer-green canopy, where the tarmac ended. Floating in a dry Sargasso Sea, I flexed the roots of my own soil where my mother couldn’t find me, yielding to the arc of the breeze that teased my summer-cumulus days, where the tarmac ended. <<<
Congestion
he understood now why his chest rattled with the heaviness of machinery his ribs retracted the surgeon had found a stack of unmarked footpaths and junctions and distance markers and a removal van waiting for instructions to deliver the last chapters of his way home bound in boxes of unrehearsed scripts each one carrying a different ending <<<
Brits on the Moon
Where’s the beer, the nightlife? I’ve seen the Instagram images, all very starry and romantic, and I know there’s plenty of moonwalking (not that Michael Jackson thing). But I was expecting so much more than this permanent grey vista. The Sea of Tranquility: it’s not a sea, the sun’s cloudless, full-on all day, and all night for that matter, and it’s bloody freezing in the shade any time. Getting here? Ryanair was a doddle compared to the flight we had. No customs; that’s a bonus, but no alcohol either. Yes, there’s lots of sand and bunkers if you like golf, but where’s the pool? Where’s the All-Day Breakfast? Oh well, I’m off to get changed for a pub crawl with the lads (don’t ask about the time it takes), if we can find one, followed by reconstituted freeze-dried doner kebab. Hmm, can’t wait. Overall, I’m disappointed. I couldn’t afford insurance; the price had rocketed. It’s just not what I imagined at all. OK, the pure oxygen atmosphere is a gas, but otherwise it’s, well, airless. Look out; here comes that timeshare salesman again. I’m not returning next year. I’ll try my luck with Benidorm, yet again. <<<
Body Shopping
My body, a collection of DNA, Battery running low, Act III in play. Board game of risk and random chances, White foam, black ice, delicate dances. Dress to impress, to mimic, to mime, Fashion, colour passion, rhythm and rhyme. Strands of belonging. Snap. Severed strings. Weight of gravity, no feathers or springs. Constantly sorted, shape and size, Fitting out, fitting in, wanting the prize. In the groove with words and phrases, Beauty in poetry and open spaces. Ack! Enough of mirror-glass self-deception, Endless search for karma, redemption. Full up, maxed out, don’t need to know, Life in the matrix, body says no. <<<
Thank you so much for this Mike. And yes, it is an eclectic half dozen.
Although the poems do indeed display the wide canvas I draw on, I'm more often drawn to writing imagist and impressionistic poetry.
All of these poems were written from Spread The Word poetry sessions at Mowbray Gardens Library Rotherham, led by Vic Leeson and funded by the local arts umbrella Flux Rotherham, hence the wide variety of subject prompts!