Poems / poetry / verse

actual lol..

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With a thrill in my head and a pill on my tongue
Dissolve the nerves that have just begun
Listening to Marvin (All night long)
This is the sound of my soul
This is the sound

Always slipping from my hands
Sand's a time of its own
Take your seaside arms and write the next line
Oh, I want the truth to be known

-- Kemp

Well I haven't been in here for a long time. This one-time fixie skidder is also spoken word artist, and I have a few dates coming up for anyone who's interested. Essentially I read gloomy poems for laughs, full details here http://www.williamwyld.com/

I only love you when you're sad

I only love you when you're sad
when you're hopeless, when you've had
enough of life and it's just
me, and only me you trust

I like it when you're crushed, weak willed
it puts me in control. I filled
with heartfelt words, your broken cup
I hope it didn't cheer you up

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I like this. I'd come see if I was in London. Good luck

Una Maud Victoria Marson
‘Little Brown Girl’, 1937

Little brown girl,
Why do you wander alone
About the streets
Of the great city
Of London?

Why do you start and wince
When white folk stare at you?
Don’t you think they wonder

Why a little brown girl
Should roam about their city
Their white, white city?

Little brown girl,
Why did you leave
Your little sunlit land
Where we sometimes go
To rest and get brown
So we may look healthy?

What are you seeking
What would you have?
In London town
There are no laughing faces,
People frown if one really laughs,
Everyone is quiet,
That is respectable;
There’s nothing picturesque
To be seen in the streets,
Nothing but people clad
In coats, coats, coats,
Coats in Autumn, Winter and Spring,
And often in the Summer-
A city of coated people
But little to charm the eye.

And the folks are all white-
White, white, white,
And they all seem the same
As they say that Negroes seem.
No pretty copper-coloured skins,
No black and bronze and brown girls
Clad in smart colours
To blend with the complexion
And wearing delicate
Dainty shoes on dainty feet
That one can admire.
No friendly countryfolk
Parading the city
With bare feet,
Bright attractive bandanas,
Black faces, pearly teeth
And flashing eyes.
No heavy-laden donkeys
And weary, laden women
Balancing huge baskets
So cleverly on their heads
While they greet each other
And tell of little things
That mean so much to them.


Little brown girl,
Do you like the shops
And all the lovely things
In the show windows?
Wouldn’t you like a coat
With a fifty-pound tag on it,
Or one of those little hats
In Bond Street?


Little brown girl,
Why do you look so hard
At the Bobbies
And the bookstalls
And the city lights?
Why do you stop and look
At all the pictures
Outside the theatres?
Do you like shows?
Have you theatres
In your country,
And from whence are you,

Little brown girl?
I guess Africa, or India,
Ah no, from some Island,
In the West Indies,
But isn’t that India
All the same?

I hear you speak,
To the Bobby,
You speak good English,

Little brown girl;
How is it that you speak
English as though it belonged
To you?

Would you like to be white,
Little brown girl?
I don’t think you would,
For you toss your head
As though you are proud
To be brown.


Little brown girl,
Don’t you feel very strange
To be so often alone
In a crowd of whites?
Do you remember you are brown
Or do you forget?
Or do people staring at you
Remind you of your colour?


Little brown girl,
You are exotic,
And you make me wonder
All sorts of things
When you stroll about London
Seeking, seeking, seeking
What are you seeking
To discover in this dismal
City of ours?
From the look in your eyes,
Little brown girl,
I know it is something
That does not really exist

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Una_Marson

Subscribing, because I had forgotten this was here.

@William. you are an excellent poet.

Thoroughly, exquisitely, sometimes casually, miserable; please take that as the admiration it is. I have quickly read the last few pages, and a lot of what stood out to me was yours - Reminiscing 9 years ago with your father about how you met, sleeping on the floor, or even in the garden, and an impromptu but excellent “me myself and I”request.

I had read the sleeping on the floor poem before. It feels like last year, maybe the year before at a stretch, but I probably read it when it was new and I was young.

Thanks so much. If you'd like to hear me perform my work, I'm part of the Wandsworth Fringe this June.

https://www.wandsworthfringe.com/whats-on-2023/in-disguise

and also at word slags in Margate on 21st May :)

https://www.instagram.com/wordslags/

My insta for more updates etc https://www.instagram.com/williamwyld_artist/

Thank you. I will put them in my diary, although I think it is unlikely that I will be in Wandsworth or Kent those dates, if I am, I’ll come!

there is no fate
nothing is meant
nothing is designed
man has no soul
there is no future
chaos is joy
nothing is permanent
we create ourselves and the world
anew every day
fear is essential
brakes are death

Autumn has come. The top deck
of the 199 rolls through a black rain, throws me
sideways on the stairs, a yellow bar
greasy in my hand. I wake to a cold sun
from a sleep filled with horrors
a stroke ward, the hard face of a matron
a gentle admonishment in her voice
"Sometimes you do things well
but sometimes you do things very badly"
she rolls the bed away.
I lie numb for a while. The leaves
on the chestnut tree hang limp,
newly yellow, and I thank the world
for beautiful things. The birds that remain.
A new tree that grew this year. A man
backing his tesla into a low wall
with a soft crunch.

Excellent. ending brought me a chuckle

Cheers! I have two performances coming up for Halloween, Bethnal Green on saturday 28th and Angel on Tuesday 31st. More info here https://www.instagram.com/williamwyld_artist/

I wrote my first ever poem. Inspired stylings by my friend and local artist, jock howie and probably Tim Key.

When I was fourteen,
I almost ripped off my penis,
I was trying to make it bigger,
I was doubled over in agony,
I could feel tissues tearing,

It worked.

Bump thread. I have few poems I am proud of, and even fewer that I’m both proud of and willing to share publicly. That would be the goal, but not ready yet.

By way of background to this poem - I am neither a royalist nor a republican (contrast most of this forum who seem to be, with many good reasons, republican). I am monarchgnostic, I don’t look around the world and see many heads of state to envy. I wrote it on the morning of the coronation for a challenge, and submitted it to Private Eye in the hope they’d publish it for the anniversary of Charles’ coronation. I received a curt but polite rejection from “Ed.”, which was pleasing to be acknowledged at least. In any case, safe space and all:

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A Poem for a King: Charles the third, by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of His other Realms and Territories King, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith. Morning Preparations in anticipation of His Crowning Glory.

6 May 2023

————————————

little King Charles, his toes do a dance
as the curtain-draw-backer prepares in advance
to let the royal day anoint the kingly bed
to let the sunshine bless wee willy winky’s head

~

in the royal halls outside the courtesans a’muster
(no one tell the King please that the London sky’s lacklustre)
the royal penis tucker jubilantly practices his moves
folding and unfolding bulging coronation trews

~

the ancient gilded carriage has been newly recommissioned
the sweatless royal brow must be freshly air conditioned
for the short but kingly trip through the park and down the mall
bedecked with flags and plebs and subjects, a thousand soldiers standing tall

~

the king likes soldier-dipping in his runny boiled eggs
crustless please equerry, but don’t chop off their heads
English breakfast tea and Dundee marmalade
Now’s not the time to ponder on the luckless parlourmaid
who was put out upon her arse with the rest of Clarence House
despite years of loyal service and a sheer but buttoned blouse

~

the coronation shoes have been nicely broken in
an honour to have worn them for a trusted royal kin
woollen socks selected from the best sheep in the realm
little comforts tricks and tips so as not to overwhelm

~

climbing up the carriage steps before the palace gates
a hush falls down a silence comes as little England waits
republicans don’t understand there is no rank hypocrisy
if that were so, they stand confused, accused of anthropopathy

~

long live the King let all the peasants cry
pay your true allegiance to your kingly Majesty
and to your heirs and successors according to law
they must pledge their endless toil heretohence and heretofore

~

little King Charles, his toes do a dance
as the carriage-horse-whipper prepares to advance
seventy long years it’s not been said aloud
long live the king, please do your mummy proud.

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Any and all constructive criticism of poetic form welcomed.