Mr Charon (9 Short English Poems) Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Mr Charon (9 Short English Poems)



1. A Potion to Perk up your Cat

Two co-ordinates of brimstone
A pinch of bum fluff
Bromide of batswallop (one tspoon)
Some magnocartesian of balsam
A liberal sprinkling of nightjar pickles
A shake of powdered feather quills
A smidgeon of linctus of Sodom
A grinding of barn owls' toenails
A soupçon of badger poo essence


2.The Honeymooners

Blackpool was my parents' choice for honeymoon
After a long engagement, strictly observed
My mother's moral compass…N for No

A photo shows them striding out together
Father, forceful and handsome
Mother's perm tucked into her rain mate
A recently deflowered flower

The Tower looms over them,
That monster of Freudian shadows

My brother was conceived here,
A stick of human rock stamped ‘Made in Blackpool'


2. Three Swans Drinking

Three swans drink from a puddle
Unperturbed by crocodiles of tourists

The swans are wearing grey galoshes
Black eye-masks dovetail into their orange beaks

Starred with yellow leaves the puddle's a window
Onto the jet glaze of the tarmac road

Swan-bills snap-lap the water, left to right
Their necks contorting like a tuba's plumbing
Their midnight eyes each hold a spark of fire



3. Mr Charon's Cargo

The hammers of the heart
Continue to thump out the old one-two
Although veins thicken, cells dissolve

Silk stockings, chiffon days
Give way to granny shoes and thermal vests

Ravens croak in the honeysuckle
Bulletins warn of cracks and unsafe architecture
I have become a patch up job
The sour mouth of Winter spits into the wind

Something familiar, warty, whiskery
Is mumbling in the queue
Is biting into a doll
Is unpicking its stitches and stuffing

Mr Charon, the pier is need
Of a clean sweep


4.Hans Christian Anderson

Hans Christian Anderson was born in a slum
With his eyes half-shut he walked
He was thin as a reed with a concave chest
Like a monkey-man he hopped.

Dickens modelled Uriah Heap
On Anderson (always whingin)
An poor old Hans paid sex workers
To talk to him, a virgin
He'd a fear of open spaces
And of being buried alive
He stuffed his chest with newspapers
And wrote stories to survive


5.Isaac Newton
Sir Isaac Newton was said to have an obsessive love of red

Crimson settee
Crimson cushions
Crimson drapes
Crimson curtains
Crimson chairs
Crimson bed
Crimson walls
Seeing red?


6.Delicacies

Aristotle dined upon camel meat
Fried pregnant cicadas he loved to eat

Pliny the Elder, historian
Ate hare-balls laced with the blood of men

Howard Hughes sucked chocolate bars
As he pointed his toenails up to the stars

But models must supper on air slipped in
With a lettuce leaf, to keep them thin


7.Aberdeen 2014

No crocodiles lumber along our river banks
Nobody here walks barefoot, head erect
Bearing a basket of yams beneath dark skies

The sea is a train that always runs on time
In winter, its carriages are cooler

Extinct wolves cannot blow the houses down
Not even the urban fox has got that puff
Forget lush palms, the smell of frangipani
Lampposts bloom like snowdrops through the haar

Exotic saris are buried by mountains coats
Gold sandals set aside for faux-fur boots

Goliath of shipping, oil tankers, glut the harbour
Blond, blue-eyed Euro-citizens chatter in Slav

Ours is a Spartan town, ancient in seats of learning
Its virtue is endurance across time


8.When I am travelling on a train

When I am travelling on a train
Then lists of words come skipping
Like minxes, sphinxes, lynx and jynx
And others, gaily tripping

A daisy chain of verbiage
Words rumble out with ease
Like buttermilk and billygoat
The poetry disease!


9.The Poetry Lesson

‘5 minutes to chat to a friend'
I told them. ‘The theme today is reflection.
On someone with whom you've had a close connection.'

A black eyed boy with Byronic hair
Told of a runaway wheelchair. We had to laugh!
Another, spoke of Husky pups in Alaska.
Teenage banter flew like harvest chaff

So it went on at a tangent until
A tentative hand rose up,
Apologetically. ‘It's a bit deep really
When my friend was two, her father left
She's never seen him since.
She pretends he's there, all the time
Even a made-up father's better than none.'

The thin sun struggled to warm the chilly room
‘Is that what you mean, Miss, by the word reflection? '

I had opened a running sore with a single word
How deep and aching the cut of such rejection.

Saturday, November 15, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: people
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