Bloody hell
what a horrible day,
I feel like hiding in the basement at my favourite café
Pretending that it’s cold as I sip a latte
pretending that, outside, a bright winter holds sway.

I’ve been in the middle east when it was ten degrees higher
and to hide in a cellar was never my desire.
Perhaps I should explain, lest you call me a liar:
It’s the steam I don’t esteem; I can handle the fire.

For in our green and pleasant land hot weather brings humidity
of a kind the saps the strength with extreme rapidity
until one’s own heat is lost to the land’s fervidity
and my troglodytic longing carries real validity.

At night I lie near-naked with the windows wide.
A fan provides some movement, unlike the air outside
Yet still I can not sleep though I’ve tried and I’ve tried
And I keep running to the loo from all the water I’ve imbibed

So please don’t think me churlish if I don’t come out today
Even though there’s Pimms to drink and there’s croquet to play.
I’ll scurry home, open windows, close the curtains and say
“Bloody hell but someone free me from this horrible day”.

Huddersfield, 8-9th July



Do I
Just want to cry?
My eyes are dry
Yet still I sigh.
Good feelings fly
When gloom stops by.
I know not why
I swing from high

To low.
No tears can flow
Deep down below
I know
There’s no
Person can sew
my wounds and so
On I go.

‘Just Groovy’, Golcar
19th June 2013

Jose Matada

She saved the number of the missed call

No time to call back

On the way to Friday prayer


A few days and she finds it

an English number

calling her Swiss number.

She calls back.

A man she does not know answers.

His muddled tale makes no sense.

A stow-away found dead.

Then, like a blow to the head

the meaning hits her.


She weeps

her horrified tears

falling like stone

onto her phone.



He sits and shivers.

How long has it been?

No matter, he has almost made it.

He thinks back on his life

the life he leaves behind

with all he knows and all he loves.


The soul-destroying horror of the frequent floods

His family endlessly

trying to salvage

what they could.

His boyish hope

under threat

but not washed away.


The dank darkness of the mines

the aching tiredness in his young bones

the determination from somewhere

that he would, again,

see the light.


The day his flesh was marked

with the initials of his name

his childhood nick-name

from his mother

Z.G. now tattooed

into his manly flesh.


The open skies of Cape Town gardens

feeling the sun on his face as he worked

allowing the sprinklers to splash him

and his T-shirt to steam.

Like the plants he tended

life was growing better

yet still it was not good

still he was not free

still he feared and still he dreamed.


Text messages asking for help

largely ignored

he’d go it alone

he had to leave now

so wearing just sneakers,

T-shirt and jeans

he came to the airport

at night.


He remembers

He sleeps

He dreams

of fleeing

of flying

of falling.



At quarter-to-eight I wake

a thud jolts me from my reverie

It did not sound like the postman

but if it was

he can come back later.


An hour passes

we move our arses

down the stairs

as sunlight glares

Jon takes the dog outside

I yawn, mouth open wide.

Granary bread

low fat spread

strong latte

radio chatty

fashion supplement

waking by increments




I yawn again and check my phone

why would Jon call from the road?

“All right, I’m coming”

Exit, humming







Police cars,

An ambulance

Smartly-dressed feet

a body beneath a sheet

the shape all wrong

the ground red-brown

‘Crime scene’ tape all around


By the following morning

more is known

a nameless man

from Angola

stowed away

beneath a plane

passed out through cold

and oxygen starvation


I reach the tube station

My mind still taking it in.


My routine returns.

More facts are learned

as time passes by.

He wanted to fly

to flee

to find a new life.



26 years old.



An unmarked grave.

No family traced.


One day

opposite me on the tube

a corporate-type’s newspaper shouts

that immigrants see England

as an easy ride.


‘Who do they think they are,

coming over here,

dropping out of their planes

cluttering up our streets

with corpses?’


Golcar, 13 June 2013



Immigration poetryJose Matada was a Mozambican who stowed away on a London-bound train from Angola by climbing up into the undercarriage. He would have sat in the dark as the landing gear lifted and the plane accelerated and climbed into the sky. He would have suffered extremes of low temperature before passing out through lack of oxygen. When the plane opened its landing gear to land at Heathrow, he was still alive but probably still unconscious as he fell to his death.

[Additional, the following morning: I published this at two a.m. In the cool light of day I think this might need some work. Certainly I have corrected ‘A hour’ (wince), some plain text that should have been italics and a space between lines that was missing. Two a.m. is late even for me, it seems]

These people don’t just idly stroll in. They take risks, they make sacrifices, and sometimes they die trying to reach ‘the west’. Is it worth it?
For what would you risk your life?

For Hope

I’ve added a note, video link and reply prompt to this fairly mediocre sonnet. That’s better!

Chris Kapot Poetry

I thought I knew how joy and pleasure felt;
my life was not devoid of feelings good.
Yet looking back I know I never could
perceive the lack in what I had been dealt.
Though oftentimes in prayer for more I knelt
and never valued life the way I should
it never did occur that soon I would
find more than what I saw and heard and smelt.
Yet now your hair smells sweet against my face,
your dulcet voice so full of such appeal,
your cheek beside my cheek, I thrill to feel,
all send my spirit soaring into space.
You fill my days with laughter, love and smiles
and I’m so glad you came to be my child.

Golcar, 15th May 2013

Added 11th June 2013

Just in case you think this poem is twee, there’s far worse out there!
This poem is for my daughter…

View original post 49 more words


I’ve added a note, reply prompt and blog links to this poem about sleep deprivation and self-destruction.

Chris Kapot Poetry

Late, I sit.
There is no need to state how late is it
nor how will it my mental state agitate.
Too well I know it, all too well.
Is it too late to rotate
and alter fate, falter at the gate
of another day of self-hate achieving nothing great
irate at my innate inertia?
Perch a while,
and while you search a pile of bilious silage
I nurture trials to alienate my future smiles
and wait to watch. A mile away I take the bait.
Again, too late, I sit and contemplate
will I retain this state until I am finally, truly late?

Golcar, 14th May 2013

Added 11th June.
I think that this largely speaks for itself. So now I’m curious: Why do you stay up late? What self-destructive behaviour do you need to address in your life?

Anyway, here is a post about having…

View original post 26 more words

Mission Accomplished

“I’m going to go and get her”
– my thought on seeing you
up there on stage,
fake-shy, bubbly and giggling.
My cocksure confidence
most uncharacteristic.

Your eighteenth birthday
I dropped by your chalet,
joined the party,
chatted to your friends
and other randoms.
Had a drink,
hung around,
bided my time.

I had decided.
I had no doubt I’d succeed.

Conversation dwindled
as did numbers of people
and available supplies.

The wee small hours
brought a bed-ward move for most.

You and I had more to say
and some things to do.

I asked if you wanted to walk
and you said yes.
I could not
my luck
or my pluck.

We walked through the biting wind
with nowhere to go
yet knowing where we were going;
sooner or later we kissed.

A children’s playground
afforded some shelter
I awkwardly asked
if this was OK.
It was,
and so I touched you.

Your self in my hands
your tongue
and my heart
in my mouth;
my brain
further south.

Nothing was bared
nothing penetrated
yet even these were roads
new to me.
Finally freezing and fatigued
we separated.
A thrilling beginning.
What would morning bring?

“I’m going to go and get her”
Now when I say these words
I am speaking of my daughter
and addressing my wife
and she is not you;
after that week we never met again.

Golcar, 11th June 2013

Snockley and the Slubble-rums

Snockley durbles to the swillik swarf,
Takes off his waistcoat, socks and scarf
Then issuing a brondy squarl
He dives into the mogri twarl.

Six frikes, who all the swarf pass by
Stop to peer and spot and spy
But all they see are bubbydomes
For Snockley slibs in slubble-rums.

Yet slubble-rums as you well know
Can lenchen ‘neath the swillik flow
And urblemen both snand and frip
Can nought but quarl against their grip

So if you durble to the swarf
You might see socks, you might spy scarf
But Snockley you will never spot
For he sleeps in a grunsy plot.

Golcar, 11th June 2013

My first attempt at a nonsense poem.

It tickled me that this should be the first suggested link you see
So I include it, for I want you all to share my ticklement: