Nick John Whittle
Nick John Whittle Poems
‘Twas the night before Christmas in the small provincial town, soulless and starless with a dank reputation for brawls, bare bottoms and bakeries.
Not a creature was stirring except Jack the monstrous crow-black cat perched high on La Cuff Hill with a dead mouse in his mouth and small bell under his chin, for good measure. And Mr and Mrs Plum the loneliest of lonely who sit in their car on the very same hill and wait and wait with stirring anticipation for no-name lovers to bring them a small glimpse of windy pleasure. To this end, Mrs Plum hangs her stockings from the rear view mirror.
...
When Granma Mo breathed out her last
With the sun in west descent
My dad he phoned old Prendergast
‘Cause he discounts ten percent.
...
Homesick at all for any Thing, I stand waiting,
carved by despairing commuters to their mould.
I live within my own time but if I lived within someone else's
would they be okay with it?
...
Under my leather I soak with heat
Wearing no helmet or straps on my feet
As bare as a slave, I run Aquila to the fort
Then panting, huddled, fall quiet to the chalk.
...
The Haquarious Twoo is a most wondrous beast
Who loves nothing more than an aqueous feast
In willow pattern dishes made entirely of lint
Laid out on a table of nose-crafted flint.
...
Cuda, mother goddess, in everything we know;
Hallowed is your simplicity, cult of measure and painted justice.
You are the damp currant soil between toes, stars of birthstone blue dust,
The razed warrior sun, mercury flooding moon,
...
Cuda, ācennicge gyden tō ælcuht ðe ic oncnāwan,
Ġehālgod ēower ānfealdnes, hād orgilde metan and salwedre efennes;
Þu bist duguð fūht smītan betwēonum tanede, heofoncandel byrdstā h¯æwen æscegeswāp,
Ðone yppinge burgwígend heaðusigel and mōna begīetende,
...
Some people will always be narcissists,
Bothered not with their sisters or brothers.
To their simple minds they are the majesty
And the world bows to them for one thing or another.
...
Nick John Whittle Biography
A British poet whose style is varied; sometimes confessional, sometimes lyrical, dactylic and more recently modernistic and existential. By profession a screenwriter and film producer, based in the West Midlands. Born in Manchester in 1972 and attended The Glasgow Academy, Napier University, London Film School and finally Gloucestershire University from 1998-2000 receiving an honours degree in Education Studies.)
The Best Poem Of Nick John Whittle
For Whom Christmas Won't Come (Dylan Thomas Parody)
‘Twas the night before Christmas in the small provincial town, soulless and starless with a dank reputation for brawls, bare bottoms and bakeries.
Not a creature was stirring except Jack the monstrous crow-black cat perched high on La Cuff Hill with a dead mouse in his mouth and small bell under his chin, for good measure. And Mr and Mrs Plum the loneliest of lonely who sit in their car on the very same hill and wait and wait with stirring anticipation for no-name lovers to bring them a small glimpse of windy pleasure. To this end, Mrs Plum hangs her stockings from the rear view mirror.
Look. See the houses in the estate sleeping darkest before dawn, with their dead lawns and pushbikes nibbled by foxes. Some children are nestled snug in their beds, in the jelly-filled, wide-hipped certainty that their every whim and wish will soon be served hot and sugary. And in the muffled, dull dreams and kiss-me-quick-resentful-lace-curtained-bedrooms of their parents, single and otherwise, we hear the rustle of the eiderdown and rhythmic peel of the coil sprung mattress as mama in her kerchief is again drenched in disappointment.
Tomorrow she will take out her frustrations on Facebook.
Listen. On Cherry Walk, a baby cries colicky and awakes its red-raw mother who convinces herself that the nighttime wake up is a blessing, yet all the while dreams of tissues from a box infused with Aloe and a sit-down, slap-up meal.
Ivor Mallory, fidget, smoker (retired) chokes on his left lung and dies unseen in the middle of the open-plan, fitted-kitchen-melamine of his 1950s rented semi. A quarter of a million built in one year and not one with a damp proof membrane, he murmurs, before settling down to the final long winter's nap. An Ashman by trade, he leaves behind three salbutamol inhalers and a house fit for refugees. His funeral will be held on Tuesday.
Soon, after the baby is fed and put back to bed we hear above the once more cotton-quilted, silk, black-talcum-covered night a quiet, whispered voice, which can only belong to one not long deceased:
"Remember me, my dears."
And then we watch as Ivor Mallory departs out of sight to the great heave-ho dustbin in the sky leaving us in the dawn twilight with the tick-tocking of the clock of humanity, sounding out for all the other people for whom Christmas will not come this year: The fishers, the farmers, the nurses (not the doctors) , the undertakers, the soldiers in their rat-a-tat bunker, the seamen in their salt deep Davy dark submarine, the sick, the poor, and up on Mill Street, the young policeman's widow, reaching over for her husband, tall-as-the-clock-tower, taken from her all too soon.
Nick John Whittle Comments
Nick John Whittle Quotes
To me, the torture is getting the idea, working the idea out — its general plot, structure and story. But once I know that, I can write a screenplay in two, three weeks. It's the difference between writing it and writing it down. It becomes pleasurable for me and flows easily because I've done all the spade work beforehand.
I flat-lined at the gym then I remembered a great hush descended and they took away my membership.
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4/24/2024 2:55:35 AM # 1.0.0.1119
