I would hurry to the kitchen
with pedipalps a-twitching,
to see what I could get.
And when there I would eat all
the insides of every beetle,
if I had a spinnerette.

And that's only the beginning;
it sets my head a-spinning
to see them in my net.
To the edge I would scarper
where I'd pluck it like a harper
if I had a spinnerette.

Oh, I could catch the fly
that vent...

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This one isn't a poem: it's just to tell you I've set up a Facebook page about my writing. If you like to like, please like it.

https://www.facebook.com/t.j.a.thurman

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My brother's hairy. I'm a smoother man.
I entered by the exit, without knowing,
They told me off, you know, but I began
con-sid-ering: do you know where you're going?
I climbed a hill when I was in my teens,
And my companion vomited on me.
Still, life is rather more like tinned sardines,
And all of us are looking for the key.
Some find the key, they pull the cover wide,
and ea...

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I was asked for a poem for the newsletter the churches here send out to all the houses in the town at Christmastime. This is what I gave them and they printed. I think it's reasonably good, though it could probably still be improved here and there.

I think I see defences start to crack;
this world shall hear, and see that I am right.
The pawns pass round to right the rook's attack
ad...

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Today's the day.  Click "Start", then click "Shut Down",
then order twenty pizzas on their dime,
then (slice in hand) break down this office door
and flip the Chairman's picture one last time.
Then tearing off your clothes, run down the hill,
dig through the woods, bathe naked in the stream,
and when you feel your stress is washed away,
stand up, and facing heaven, scream your scr...

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I've been looking through old school exercise books. This is from June 1986; I was eleven.

Seven standing stones are under the sky,
seven standing stones shall never, ever die.
Clouds blow, grey, white, or black,
and the wind shall blow, blow through the stones,
and memories shall fade and die,
and nobody shall know, know the reason why
seven standing stones are under the sky.
...

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We are delighted to enclose your travelcard
which will grant you entry to

Strap-hanging gymnastics
Competitive carrying of dogs and children
Endurance on the Northern Line
And the forty-metre scramble up the left-hand side of the escalator

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Today we have naming of cats. Yesterday
we had a game of chess. And tomorrow morning,
we shall have how to wear your trousers rolled. But today,
today we have naming of cats. The chessboard
waits, simple like one of our holiday games,
and today we have naming of cats.

This is the use-name. And this
is the particular name, whose use you will see
when you are given a cat. And t...

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Once, a young fresher was reading the rules, and was
        more than perplexed at the place where they state:
"All undergraduates, if they are Anglicans,
       must be in chapel each Sunday at eight."
Racking his brains, he began a small rumour that
       spread through the town on the weekdays that followed; he
was not an Anglican, nor Nonconformist; his
       faith and reli...

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Fury
said to a
fish, "I've a
whim and a wish:
let us both go to war; you shall
fight against ME. Come,
I must make a stand: we shall fight
on the land, and if you insist we shall
fight on the sea." Said the fish to the cat, "The
result of this spat will be nothing but bubbles
to mark where you sank." "I'll be gun, I'll be bomb,"
said the cunning old tom, "and I'll target m...

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The autumn leaves an ill-defined unease
that (while the summer flourished) I’d ignored.
The litany begins. We can’t afford
the oil we need to buy before the freeze;
they’ve forecast snow: we need to fix the tiles
that blew away before the summer came,
fit plastic shrouds on every window-frame;
there isn’t any salt in stock for miles.
       Yet soon I’ll wake, and March will fal...

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Were I a cat, my love, I'd leave each day
a single dying mouse upon your bed;
Yet, human, I must find another way
And honour you by leaving verse instead.

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For a change, I'm not blogging my poetry in this post. Instead, I wanted to share two things I've written about it recently. One was something I said early last year on Eratosphere:

I thought I'd write here about my long flirtation with poetry.

My parents, who both worked in London when I was a toddler, would leave me in the care of my grandfather, who would attempt to teach me reams o...

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In depths of darkness out of doors
in thunderstorms, in pouring rain,
the kisses on my mind are yours.
In depths of darkness, out of doors,
I'll bide my time until it pours
and lose myself in you again
in depths of darkness out of doors
in thunderstorms, in pouring rain.

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This is the poem with something to say
that shows you the human condition.
This is the poem both deep and banal,
a triumph of juxtaposition.

This is the poem they'll write on a plaque
to show I was born somewhere near.
This is the poem that folks will recite
whose minds fill with worry or fear,

a poem to take in a book to the park
and ponder for passing the time.
This is...

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The ones who breathe below the wave
have tales of how I should behave,
but should I sing, or comb my hair
when sleeping deeply in my grave?

There, deep within the murky green
I dreamed a man I've never seen
with trousers rolled and fading hair.
I offered him a nectarine.

Oh, does he take it? Will he eat?
I long to weep upon his feet
and wipe them with my golden hair.
...

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At last we reach examination day
and chewing on my full-of-hope 2B
I sit in silence at my desk and pray
for one last chance of saving my degree,
all work evaporating from my head
as if I’d never done a day’s revision
and spent the time with magazines in bed.
Here’s question one. I make my first decision.
       With A, I say I’m sorry for each action.
       With B, I say I sh...

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Perhaps I have forgotten how to read.
I mean, I haven't lost the alphabet
but more and more I'm starting to forget
the way to focus in the form I need
to read a novel; more and more I find
my mental structures seem to fall apart
before the end, before I even start,
with only wrecks remaining in my mind
       that sink, or blow away in gales, or burn;
       I long for clarity...

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My talent (or my curse) is getting lost:
my routes are recondite and esoteric.
Perverted turns on every road I crossed
have dogged my feet from Dover up to Berwick.
My move to London only served to show
what fearful feast of foolishness was mine:
I lost my way from Tower Hill to Bow,
and rode the wrong way round the Circle Line.
       In nameless London lanes I wandered then
...

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Go praise thou the Lord! It's seven o'clock!
You cannot afford to slumber ad hoc.
Five times you've hit snooze, and you've wasted an hour,
Forget your excuse, and go get in the shower.

Go praise thou the Lord! The prayerbook awaits,
its words unexplored, so get on your skates.
It stands on the shelf for the start of the day,
for Jesus himself rose up early to pray.

Go prai...

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Two creatures' eyes have seen the sun,
and now their lids are filled with dust.
But if their eyes were blue, or brown,
I cannot tell, and yet I must.

St Claire's an Amiable Child
who sleeps secure and snug as Grant,
but who can tell me of his eyes?
(The city parks curator can't.)

And Johnson had a cat named Hodge
who fed on oysters, and was fine;
his coat was black, bu...

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Spanyel! Spanyel! Thine embrace
Places Paws upon my Face;
What celestial Factory
Could fill thy doggy Heart with glee?

From what Furnace flowed thy Blood?
Whence proceeded all this Mud?
Was that a Cow thou hidst beneath?
What the Tongue? and what the Teeth?

What the Nose? and what the Jaw?
In what Quagmire was thy Paw?
Hast thou swum the Pond as well?
That perhaps ex...

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For Kit.

Perhaps we lived a night and day away
and never knew the other one was breathing
and so we saw the sunrise stained with grey
but never fully realised we were grieving;
perhaps our eyes or bodies might have met
when on the Northern Line, or on a plane,
and left us cursed, unable to forget
and nursing till our death a treasured pain;
       perhaps you read my story ...

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The world's so queer, and yet you show surprise
to find him solid in the midday light.
He looks at you with strangely laughing eyes.

You told yourself you're sure to recognise
the green-clad arms, the ring upon the right;
the world's so queer, and yet you show surprise?

His name won't pass your lips. You know... those guys.
You know his name. At least you think you might.
He...

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Some folk are born with knowledge of their goal.
I've met them, though I'm not like that myself;
I'm wandering through life, a placid soul,
content to leave adventures on the shelf.
I've loved and lived without a way to know
the field where I should strive to be the best:
to pan for gold, or be a CEO,
or cure disease, or conquer Everest;
        and likewise, you're a Poohstick ...

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Among those born as humans on the earth
within their mind the mirrored planet lies:
the universe contained behind their eyes,
more tangible with every day since birth.
Within, each place you love is held for you
perfected; every friendship dwells therein;
and if you dare, a thousand tales begin,
and if you close your eyes you'll see it's true.
        Within that place a forest ...

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The world is filled with frenzied folk who say I'm incomplete
until I've played some game, or tried their favourite thing to eat,
or read a certain book, or heard some orchestra or band,
or spent a decade living rough in such-and-such a land...
but (most of all experiences) the one that draws my praise
is walking round with nothing on, on hot and sticky days.

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They say my future follows on your past,
commanded not to love you by the wise.
They say he never truly lives who lies
a captive still, and by your charms held fast:
your warmth was torn by chilly morning air,
through daytime heat your image in my eye
would ever grow, would wane, would never die,
and with the night, you’d once again be there.
       You took my life, and took aw...

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This moment, I am God upon this town.
I compass every window spread below:
each pinprick point in total looking down
a pattern only overseers know.
I feel the human flow and ebb each minute
perceiving both with every passing breath;
each lighted room has home and hoping in it,
each darkening a sleeping, or a death.
        And nothing, nothing makes it wait to darken;
        ...

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Dear Sir: This application form,
from one potential employee,
will tell you how I should perform.
I have a first-class BSc,
ten years of writing ANSI C,
some Java; Perl with DBI;
and tendencies to wander free
and gaze, all wordless, at the sky.

I know perhaps it's not the norm
to mention this on one's CV.
I wonder if you'd just transform
the job I'm asking for, to be
...

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(after A. A. Milne, "I often wish I were a King")

I'm often lost in ruminations
On what I'd do if stuck at stations.

If I were stuck at HARRINGAY,
I'd pitch a tent and ask to stay.

If I were stuck at STEVENAGE,
I'd build a campfire, on the bridge.

If I were stuck at FINSBURY PARK,
I'd dance around it, in the dark.

If I were stuck at MORROWGATE, (*)
I'd phone a...

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I have become acquainted with the dawn.
I have observed the evening as it fell.
I closed the careless curtain that had drawn

the charcoal-shaded cityscapes of hell.
I have indwelt a ditch a fathom deep.
I have withdrawn within a concrete shell.

I have grown late to rise and late to sleep.
I have cajoled the air on bended knee
and filled a lack of hunger lest I weep.

I...

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