Tuesday, 27 October 2009

When my son sings

he’s a drunk, symmetrically wailing,

an Am-Dram soloist missing a note,

he’s lashing it, belting it out for the Tempest

in Prospero’s coat.

Seldom polite but full of himself;

upstaging, rampaging, a gravity pull

and his mouth is more open that any old sorcerer

or Titanic’s hull.

But open your eyes, look out at a dawning;

into soft-belly forces, even a taste

of whale-song, tree-root, hyena laughing,

a heart in a race …

… and embrace.


  1. came by to read.

  2. Great! Best poem I've read online in a long time.

    (Think there may be a typo - I read "than" for "that" in second stanza, third line.)

  3. Glad I stopped by. thank you.

  4. Enjoyed this-a lot. Wonder whether you might enjoy this one? http://philipparees.wordpress.com/2012/11/10/the-poetic-definition-of-love/

  5. Just dropped by from Twitter.
    I'm glad I did.
    Very nice.