Kendo Nagasaki masked mystery man. ‘Oriental’ judo champ from Stoke-on-Trent. Jackie Pallo a dancing bouffant blonde in silver boots. As hard as nails. Mick McManus with cauliflower ears. Small black-buttoned eyes that burned with temporary hate. Johnny ‘ Black’ Kwango from the Ballet Negres. Light and fast and wild as jazz. Deadly as a snake.
Outside Minster Prep.
Behind darkened glass cocooned inside their 4x4 two small children wait. Gucci’s pushed back, a woman (the nanny or their mother?) leans around. A bell rings. It is time. A window glides down. A rear door opens. You notice as they step into the light - these children have the eyes of deer.
If you stood quite still
If you stood quite still right at the edge feet firmly planted about a yard apart breathing steady the sun at your shoulder then leaned out being careful not to fall looked into the water saw someone you half knew looking back. What would you ask of them ?
Old Red Chrysler
It’s in their faces. Drawn to this highly polished car this old red Chrysler sauntering appearing nonchalant as if acutely aware of being watched they take turns to peer through polished windows at the immaculately restored interior nod approvingly stand back to admire the chrome you rarely see these days steal a touch when they think no one’s looking. These men of a certain age of about my age from different walks of life are sharing something. When they leave it is slowly as one might leave a lover smiling or sighing often turning back.
Mock Fighting
We were mock-fighting me and Robbo the hardest kid in school. I made the mistake of kicking his knee to one side of the patella watched him collapse fold in slow-mo agony like Bruce Lee in Enter the Dragon. He hated that the thought of people looking any sign of weakness. They weren’t looking at him. They were looking at me shaking their heads whistling under their breath. They’d seen the film. They knew what happened next.
Airfix
They came in illustrated boxes plastic pieces attached to plastic sprues. Impatient boys snapped off sections of fuselage wings tail planes forgotten pilots slotted in somehow afterthoughts canopied with too much glue. Colour makes things real Khaki drab Quaker grey Duck-egg blue. Dogfights cotton-hung from bedroom ceilings Hurricane Messerschmitt Yakevlov-Yak. Dreams of flying aces high bandits at four o’clock banking in finger on the button juddering in short bursts sun glinted a tilt of wings and gone.
14 word poetry challenge
A friend of mine, a fellow poet, recently set us a challenge to write a 14 word poem. See what you can do? It doesn’t have to be great, but it does make you think about your writing. Try and not take too much time over it.
Here’s what I came up with.
The Brickworks Just fourteen. We found porn in bushes at the brickworks. The blackberries we’re ripening.
The Near Miss
The car hit the forty or so cans we had carefully spaced just over the brow and slid or rather skated down the hill weaving raising sparks brake lights blazing. It made a tearing sound. Somehow it made the bend. We laughed not really laughing and walked home in the dark through fine rain.
It’s complicated
It’s complicated. It’s not as easy as you think. You know when something feels wrong? You have this memory. You’re not sure if its real or if maybe you just dreamed it and it stuck like some dreams do. Changed over time. Became the truth or your version of it. Who knows? Maybe your sister never appeared asking what all the noise was.
Old Tom
He can’t help it of course it’s in his nature deep in the marrow. Wildfire still burns in amber eyes. Muscle memory shudders under fur. Tail-end flicking Old Tom sits mouthing obscenities at invisible birds.
Colin Hopkirk Poetry 