Two tattoos and a mouth of  sinew

crashed through the wicker screen

separating bar from poetry.

 

Battle-black eyes

scrutinised the bardic hopefuls,

quivering pacifists,

gassed by the  grizzled newcomer's brewery breath;

each wondering

which poet

might tackle the intruder.

 

The giant swayed:

two steps forward, one back..

What's yous doin'?

The silence thundered.

What's yous doin'?

P-poetry.

He looked impressed, in a rolling fashion,

reached into the stained pocket

of his lumberjack shirt,

withdrew a piece of paper,

crumpled as his bristled face,

and smoothed it out:

I'll read you a feckin' poem.

'bout the Falklands.

A' right?

 

Without waiting for the signal,

his words charged

into the no-man's land

of our stunned consensus.

The verse hesitated,

before darting forward in a swerving attack

 

Into our ears were lobbed

firecracker images:

death, fear and courage

blood, bile and bravado,

wave after wave,

above and beyond.

Then he stopped,

and stood

four-square to attention

before the back-room fireplace.

Staring out over our heads,

his eyes, suddenly focused

on a lonely lump of rock

in the grim, grey South Atlantic.

 

There was a death-hush,

somewhere between

not-knowing-whether-to-clap

and hold-your-fire-until-I-give-the-order.

Finally, a brave poet broke the silence,

our applause built into a staccato

of relief and appreciation.

 

Unsmiling, our assailant

refolded his dog-eared anthology,

nodded his salute,

and returned to his realm

of men and tattoos, leaving us

To get on with

the real business of poetry.