Kevin Raymond

Biography

Hi. I'm Kev. Retired printer, reluctant radio presenter, awkward actor and pondering poet of many years. I decided earlier this year... that all these poems I've written... need to be heard by the public... or what was the point of writing them in the first place? So, with that in mind... I thought open mic poetry nights was the way to go about doing that. I've read at four such nights recently... and am looking to expand on that by reading at even more… to build up my confidence and style. I refer to my stuff as draining board drama... as the poems are usually about happenings in our community, or people I both know and grew up with, where I'm from in Pimlico, London. I'm seventy-one years of age... London born and bred of Southern Irish descent. My poetic influences are for the most part as follows. AB (Banjo) Paterson. Sir John Betjeman. Frank O'Connor. Charles Bukowski. Edna St. Vincent Millay. W.H Auden and many others. I initially began writing short stories... that in truth I was never happy with, until one day in a second-hand book shop. I came across a copy of, "Person, Place and Thing", by Karl Jay Shapiro. The first poem in the book, "Scyros", was written in a style that I'd never seen before and knocked me sideways. Since then, most of my work has been written in that same style... it seems to suit the way I'm trying to get my writing across... in that the poems usually have two or three characters in, with plenty to say for themselves! Cheers for reading. Thank You. Peace... in Eastern Europe and in... The Middle East.

Twixt Tombstones… From A Bygone Age… by Kevin Raymond.

We sashayed… t’ward an open grave That blustery mustard after-noon at Kensal Rise The Harrow Road, absolutely choca Block, in suave old lags, and fragrant boxers Keen to bid farewell… in top-notch stolen rides. Our parish priest… in an half-inched Merc Nervously prepared to do Gods work Distracted by… a pair o' right sorts in the rear One perched upon his cassocked lap, Proffering nips o’ Jameson, and the craic Tempting celibate thoughts… to almost disappear. Be-suited Jim-Jim… at the wheel Of a recent top-notch pristine steal Kept a lazy eye out… for nosy local cops Van The Man, purred from the speakers, Jim and me… three good eyes between us Reccied future hoisting opps’… in passing shops. Just passed, had been a shining gem That rare jewel… among iffy shifty men Loyal to long Loved mates… in times of need If say, bailiffs re-possessed your telly? Sustenance, to fortify a youngster’s belly? He’d be there… to rectify what vexed… a.s.a.p. Anyways, enough of all that maudlin crap Tis crystal… majority of the chaps Held in high regard… yer man just passed away? So much so… close mates… spent the past few hours Half-inching; sprays, wreaths, bouquets and flowers From anonymous graves… they passed along the way. Dodgy motors parked; we sparked up fags In between nervous wheezing drags Embracing wizened lags, what chose a rascal’s path The Yard…dispatched a senior Alki copper That in our eyes… seemed pukka… proper After all the nice little drinks partaken… in our shady past? Just then… four publicans, six bookies Armani clad, exuding… hookey Stepped from a Hummer, what plain took our breath away? Or maybe, t'was the gobby stripper driving? As a show of respect, doing the right thing Trying hold her tongue… and quivering décolletage in sway? The troubled priest… read out his words, Barren trees… the sound o’ chirping birds Offered serenity… to a sombre sallow scene We dropped a sod, each on the coffin Pulled out hankies, midst bouts of smokers coughing, Reminisced, what an eighteen karat diamond… he had been. The publicans, though owed a wad of money Thought a Cozzer, being present there right funny Till Jim-Jim marked their card, bout showing some respect I’m told the bookies took a punt, showing up that day Plus la quivering décolletage… held in sway As part o’ their departed punters… penultimate request. Reluctantly, shaking hands with the Alki cop We stood and gawped, as wavering he sped off, “Good o’ him to turn up... blitzed”, our Jim-Jim hissed, ”Still… s'pose, both number plates… allegedly gone missing Two rear tyres... mysteriously hissing… Odds on, being stopped by fellow cops, he’ll be more than pissed?”. As per… the last request… suggested by our mate... the stiff. Peace... in Eastern Europe and in... The Middle East. They Say That Breaking Up Is… Hard To Do. By Kevin Raymond. "Kev… presh… I'm really sorry, we're… breaking up", Was like... was like… the flippant final fatal thrust Of a potato peeler… plunging through my heart I’m on a crumpled bed… staring at our photos Shot in exotic places… couples go to… on the pose Starry eyed… when they can't bear… to be apart. Should a tinny device… convey such awful news Provoking a Saturday morning bout o’ blues? I thought as… I flung the tiny handset at the wall Lying on the rug… in little shattered pieces Portrayed how hard… I'd been hit by this... Crackly… sombre… simple… Love defining call. Dragged myself up… off the bed Orrible thoughts… racing round my head What would I tell me mam... this after… round at hers? "Sure what harm bhoy… plenty more fish… in the sea For a gorgeous dote of mine, like ye That fecking floozie ditching ye… has got some nerve". Turned to drink in deep despair Opened our photo laden Frigidaire To find myself… a cold consoling beer Bit off the top… with snarling teeth My reflection… in our blank living room T.V Disclosed a... where the kcuf… do I go to… from here? How come… I never noticed… Didn't the Dom-Pom… Marks n Sparks… Red Roses Every Valentines Day… mean a bleating thing at all? Said her mates… envied her… my feminine side, "Kev's such a kind… considerate… caring guy Never one… to bore the derrière off of us with... football". Our land-line ringing… made me jump Fortified by drink… with the raging hump I snatch at it… screaming…"Go away, I've died, I'm dead", "Ahh... poor Kev… are you there presh, hello it's me, Good job… I found a BT call box down the street, Poxy mobile phones… are we okay indoors for milk n bread?". Peace in… Eastern Europe and in… The Middle East.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.