Poetry Spiv

dt poem

A dubious character once haunted the streets of London. Wearing a trilby with the brim turned down, a pencil thin moustache and a long camel hair overcoat he would lurk in shop doorways and hiss at passers-by. Having attracted some attention he would then open his coat to display rows of the latest ball-pens, American cigarettes, small bottles of French perfume and the latest nylon stockings.

                         The fellow in this piece however, is rather unusual in that he is flogging poetry.


Want to buy a poem?

Well-hung lines of sumptuous words

Each worth its weight in gold or pearls.

Fine examples here abound

Of mystic landscapes

O’erhung with moonful skies

Or windswept heaths

Where hardy thorns lean

To winds from the seas of the world.

Want to buy a poem?

Wherein lush and perfect fruits abound

To juice each line

And irrigate the arid mind

All going for a song

Going, going, going…

Fire-throated lizards from the land of myth

To haunt the skies and dwell in caverns hollowed from the cliff

For here be dragons guarding hordes of fabled gems

Emeralds, rubies, sapphires

Heaped within the palm to o’erspill and grace the earth around.

How much is bid for this ode to raging winds

That fling great sea-green waves

To dash themselves against the black escarp of a rocky and desolate shore?

Or with a zephyr breeze to gently sway the grasslands of a southern clime

Where sweet high song of lark and solemn hoot of owl

Echo through the lines of words

Invoking from within a stream of visions

Such as cannot be purchased

At the local cinematograph

Or purveyed from the tv screen.

Want to buy a poem

Where blue descends to touch each river, lake and pond.

Where green predominates among the myriad leaves of countless trees

And spends itself among the grassy reaches of the field?

And here a sudden poppy, rose or berry coloured red

And there a peeping eye of primrose rears its yellow head

Free gold for the listening

In blossom wreathed lines

Woven from the finest words

By the song of a pen

For the last time

Going, going, going,


Dave Tomlin
Pic: Nick Victor

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