31. Glenn Barker

A man who muses on a wide canvas

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.

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Poems

Seven Minutes
Door Jamb
Field of Dreams
Congestion
Brits on the Moon
Body Shopping

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.

<<<