Double apology: this is late because I fell asleep. It’s also about someone I can’t swear (other than on the Bible) definitely existed. Credit to Amy Kinsman for the impromptu theology seminar.

Sorrynotsorry for the blasphemy. Maybe stop reading now if that sort of thing bothers you xxx

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Simon! Do you love me?

Yeah, mate. Like a brother.

You know.

Yeah, but Simon Peter!

Jesus! What?

Do you REEAAAALLY love me?

Yes, fine. You’re my best friend.

We’re pals.

OK?

Nah mate. Nah.

YOU knowworramean.

Lemmetellyaworramean.

Oh Christ. 

This is awkward.

Go on.

Simon Peter, son of Jonas:

Do you love me as a man should love his God?

Deeply and abidingly

Like, like AGAPE, y’know?

Fuckin…  Agape?

Oh Jesus. It’s time to call a taxi.

You’ve had enough wine.

S’my blood, y’know.

OK. Let’s go.

  
We’ll do a song about Stalin

They said.

A song that resonates 

With what is happening 

In our country.

OK, 

I said.

Can I still wear my star hat?

Every sidelong smile

Every slingshot sentence

Always seems to say

That if you’re not wanted

And if you’re not needed

And if you’re not believed,

On any given day,

You could always go back

To hunting the purple buffalo.

But please don’t.

Please stay.

You’re a bit of a cock

You’re a bit of a dick

You’re a bit of a tool

You’re a bit of a prick

You’re not really listening

Don’t really care

Looking at me 

Like I’m not really there

You’re a bit of a wanker

A bit of a jerk

And being around you

Is extremely hard work.

You’re a bit of an arsehole

You’re kind of a shit

I really don’t like you

Not one little bit.

You’re a bit of a prick

You’re a bit of a tool

You’re kind of a cock

You’re an absolute fool.

Jamila
I met you in the first year. you seemed shy 

And diligent, but in a baffled way.

But sometimes, I would see you cut your eye

At people. And you’d shrug as if to say

“This makes no sense. I’ll do it anyway”

The second year your anger seemed to grow.

You’d talk back to the big girls, state your case.

And sometimes, to a teacher, you’d say “no”.

And somehow, it all blew up in your face.

You’d mutter to yourself “I hate this place”.

The third year, you were sneaky, underhand:

Subservient, obsequious. You’d smile

And be the model student on demand

But what you’d say behind their backs was vile.

Quiet, demure, but oh, so full of bile.

The fourth year, you had grown. Suddenly tall,

And confident. But anyone could see

You were determined never to feel small

You terrorised the girls you used to be.

What you became, it made no sense to me.

I was going to write a poem about you.

But at the last minute, I decided
That you don’t deserve a poem:
There are so many  people that I could write a poem about,
And I do not want you to be among them.
So,
Because of the lies you tell about my friends,
Because of the way you mock my siblings,
Because of the way you use your voice to harm,
I have decided to no platform you.
And if you are so vain
As to think this poem is about you,
It is not.

I feel a bit bad about this. I don’t know what this woman’s name was really, but she honestly looked like what I imagine the mythical water witch Peg Powler to look like, if she were doing lengths at Hathersage Outdoor Swimming Pool.
Night is falling by the water;

Air grows cold, the sun is setting,

Midges hover near the surface 

It’s no place for little children.

Peg Powler’s greenish head emerges

– Then submerges, re-emerges –

Up and down Peg Powler’s plowing 

Scowls around at other swimmers.

But she’ll do no harm, Peg Powler’s

Only here to swim this evening.

Up and down, her long hair trailing

Out behind her. She’s not hunting.

But some teenagers are splashing

Thrashing in the cooling water

Shrieking, chasing one another

Chasing, catching, maybe flirting

Peg keeps swimming, mouth set grimly:

Keeps her hands away from ankles

She’s not here to hunt for children

Even ones who should know better.

Not tonight, but maybe later.

In memory of my grandma-in-law.

Folding towels with your daughter

You suddenly asked 

“Which one of them’s the man?”

We were quite surprised 

When, delightedly aghast,

My girlfriend’s aunt recounted this to us.

Because despite the warnings

That you wouldn’t approve of it,

That you’d never understand it,

That your heart couldn’t take it,

You’d been the one who first made me feel like family.  

And yet you puzzled over it. 

It seemed to bother you.

Who was the tallest?

Who had bigger breasts?

Who was making more money?

At last, we heard the reason, second hand:

“My son won’t want his daughter 

To be the man,

But if he is the father of the bride

He has to pay for everything: 

And Stanley won’t like that…”

And we had thought you didn’t understand 

When all the time

You were planning our lives together

Right from the start.

This is for a very little boy in Sharrow, Sheffield whom I saw go through an astonishing range of emotions in about ten seconds. Thanks to some heckling he received from probably his big sister, I know his name.

Abdulnour

Goes down the slide.

At the top, 

His eyes are wide

Halfway down,

He’s terrified 

Feeling like

He’s nearly died

At the bottom

Beams with pride

One more go? 

He can’t decide

Thinks he wants 

Another ride…

Abdulnour 

Goes down the slide.

This one is for Kate Garrett
We don’t open up easily

Except for when we do.

But that’s just us.

We might know somebody, 

Call them friend 

Have plenty to discuss 

And never once a decade

Open our hearts to them.

The way that we imagine

Others must.

The first night I met you

After the poetry

We stood on a Sheffield street

The two of us,

And talked about our mothers,

And our anger,

And Temple Grandin

In the darkening dusk.

Once in a decade

People  like us 

Open up unasked, like rare flowers

Like oysters.

Like people who can trust.