Just Having Fun With a Little Alliteration…

On November 3, 2017 By Mick CanningIn creative writing, Fiction, poetry22 Comments

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Cindy says

Cindy says she’s staying in tonight,

The lipstick lies unopened on the side.

Her dancing dress is hanging in the dark,

And Cindy sits still staring into space.

Cindy says she’s staying in tonight,

Mere men are not enough to tempt her out.

And alcohol alone begins to pall,

So Cindy sets the table just for one.

Cindy says she’s staying in tonight,

Of patronising princes, she’ll have none.

And dirty dancing makes her far too nervous,

Since Cindy’s slippers slip around like glass.

Cindy says she’s staying in tonight,

Shoos Roland Rat’s green taxi from her door.

Her Godmother’s grand schemes come to naught,

As Cindy slings her sling-backs on the floor.

Cindy says she’s staying in tonight,

In crumpled clothes and uncombed, unwashed hair.

Dumb DVDs her only entertainment,

And Cindy sheds a tear alone tonight.

Cindy says she’s staying in tonight,

Her fickle fling now fancies young Snow White.

Walked out on her a week ago last Wednesday.

Sad Cindy sleeps alone again tonight.

Finally, I have got around to updating the ‘My Writing‘ page of this site (link at the top of the page). It was about time!

Refuge

On October 25, 2017 By Mick CanningIn comment, poetry, refugees22 Comments

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The first time she ever set eyes on the sea,

She was forty seven.

It was a long road there.

She set off with little enough,

And arrived with much less.

She had a home, once.

A house,

In a well-to-do area of the city.

Life was good.

But fear came,

In the form of bullets, shells and bombs.

Once, gas.

Her house is rubble, now.

Memories and possessions buried,

Alongside her husband.

Alongside her daughter.

Alongside her middle son.

Her hands are scarred from the digging.

For weeks,

Her palms were raw and bloody,

from blocks of masonry,

Too large to move.

Dust and tears.

The pain came later.

It was bad enough to lose her home,

But when you’re caught in the cross-fire,

And the food runs out,

What else can you do?

Her eldest son paid for the crossing,

With borrowed money.

Somewhere,

He is ‘paying off’ the loan.

A bonded labourer.

A slave.

Her youngest son was washed away.

The dinghy was too small,

The passengers too many.

Fear.

You could smell it,

Alongside the despair.

The panic.

There were fewer of them when the sun rose.

There is shelter here,

Of a sort.

But when the wind blows she shivers,

Drawing near the oil drum blaze.

There is food,

Once a day.

Of a sort.

There was a welcome.

She soon learns what sort.

Now, she walks down to the sea.

She wonders whether she should,

Whether she should just,

Just, slip under,

The waves.

Despair – a poem.

On June 29, 2017July 4, 2017 By Mick CanningIn agriculture, comment, poetry, poverty, writing30 Comments

She counts the tomato flowers:

One, two, three, four,

On the stunted plant.

Forever waiting.

Hoping….still hoping.

Old plastic sheeting and palm fronds.

Dry ground and hot sun.

Stunted children,

One, two, three, four.

With spindle legs,

And hard, round stomachs,

Lie beneath the palm fronds.

Silently.

Flies,

Around dry mouths,

And dull eyes.

A few onions,

Some spinach.

Dry soil.

He was a farmer.

Drought.

Poor harvests.

And debt.

All he grew was hunger.

***

This year, he takes another loan to buy seeds

But this year will be different.

He will keep one tenth of the crop

For the seeds

Next year,

There will be no more debt.

No more hunger.

There is a harvest.

Jubilation.

Next year,

Sterile seeds.

Although he has paid back some money,

The debt has trebled.

***

That land was his,

Over there,

On the other side of the village.

That land covered in waste,

Hope buried under rubbish.

The future smothered with despair.

The land that belongs to someone who lives

In the nearby town.

Someone who has never seen it.

The next day,

She pulls up one onion.

Picks some spinach.

Boils some water for her children.

One, two three…

Her fatherless children.

***

In India every year, large numbers of farmers take their own lives when they become trapped in a cycle of poverty, high-interest debt, and bad harvests. And to compound their problems, certain huge multi-national companies are developing seeds that produce only sterile plants, meaning that the farmer cannot use harvested seed to grow new crops, and has no choice but to buy seed again the following year, sinking further into that hopeless spiral.

The government seems unwilling or unable to do anything to break this cycle.

A Poem – ‘Glamour’

On June 16, 2017 By Mick CanningIn poetry, writing30 Comments

Every time I post a poem I insist I don’t write many; that’s it’s not really my forte. And yet, I still write them, despite my doubts.

Although I consider myself a fiction writer, and a writer of short and long stories to be a little more precise, I love poetry. I love its conciseness, its ability to paint pictures and tell stories without telling stories. I feel it is closer to painting than other forms of creative writing.

So here is another offering, called ‘Glamour’.

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Sun-bed ravaged skin dry flaking and decaying,

Masked by layers of painted make-up.

She sets the wig straight with faltering hands,

Since the bloody thing has slid over her eyes again

For the umpteenth time!

Now takes a deep breath,

Then

Checks herself in the mirror across the room,

Turning her head painfully this way a little,

And then that…

‘Shit, I guess that’ll have to do.’

Both hands shaking, she lights a last, final, cigarette,

And,

Her lips pursed and cracking,

She expels the smoke with a wheezing sigh,

And coughs,

One eye still on her reflection.

Then leans back awkwardly against the pillows,

And turns slowly towards the nurse.

‘Do I look good?’ She rasps.

‘Yeah.’

The nurse nods.

‘You look good.’

Vikings

On May 13, 2017 By Mick CanningIn Fiction, poetry, Vikings, writing18 Comments

I began writing a short story about Vikings last year, which took a totally unexpected turning and ended up as a different story that I had not foreseen at all.

But what was left over, also unexpectedly, became this poem.

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forest dawn detail

It is going to be a busy couple of weeks, now, so I probably won’t be able to post or reply to comments as much as I’d like, but I’ll check in whenever I can.

All the best to you all!

4th February 2017

On February 4, 2017 By Mick CanningIn Bodhgaya, Humanity, India, poetry, travel25 Comments

I was reading through my travel journal for 2005, yesterday.

The Bodhi Tree at the Mahabodhi Temple, Bodhgaya

On 16th March I arrived at Bodhgaya, for my second visit to this lovely small town. Because I was going to be away from England for my eldest daughter’s birthday, she had asked me to write and send her a poem. I wrote this in the evening after visiting the Mahabodhi Temple, and after meeting with Indian friends I had not seen for a year, and thought it entirely suitable to dedicate to her and to send her.

There is a crazy wisdom here;

I am at the heart of all things Buddhist.

Good friends make life bearable.

Gentle people give me hope.

An unexpected friend gives me unlooked-for joy.

I am here,

This is the eye of the hurricane.

The still point in the centre of the universe.

My hope for the world,

My hope for you.

Unquenchable love.

I don’t write a great deal of poetry, because I don’t feel it is really my forte, but in the light of current events around the world, it seems worth posting here. I revised it a little before I sent it, but this was the original draft.

Sending everyone hopes and thoughts of friendship, peace and tolerance.