On Poetry As Flower Arranging
Reading a slim book of poetry
On life and it’s mutability
Poems written from inside of
A safe, cosy, middle class cocoon
The words have no sharp edges
To burst the balloon
Poems about flowers
To while away the hours
Between the visit of the vicar
And the next pot of tea
Not poetry for you and me
Or anything like reality
Poetry as a gentle hobby
Like baking
Or flower arranging
Not poetry from the gut
That comes raging
Like fists planted upon the page
Poems of love, or loss or rage
But tenderly placing
Each word on the page
Like a delicate flower
To be arranged
I don’t hate the woman
Who wrote this stuff
For her, this obviously is enough
I envy her, her easy life
It’s lack of struggle
Lack of strife
Perhaps one day it will be me
Writing of such superficialities
When I’m fat, well fatter
Rich and content
And all of my life-force has been spent
I’ll sit in my garden
And smell the flowers
Then while away my hours
On my hobby, writing poetry
Between the visit of the vicar
And the next pot of tea
A Way To Waste
When the world seems to spin
Much faster than before
Days go by, I just stay in
I daren’t venture through the door
If I do go out, its to the park
To meet some drug dealers runner
And it’s usually after dark
What a way to waste a summer
What a way to waste a life
But it’s what I’ve always done
Wasting time with pipes and powders
Until all of the money’s gone
That’s when I start to really suffer
The pain is so bad I could cry
Life is tough and gets much tougher
Until I feel like I’m going to die
After several weeks, the pain recedes
And I start to feel human again
I can sleep and I can eat
And I forget about the pain
Then someone offers me a smoke or snort
At the time it seems benign
Then once again, in the trap I’m caught
And my life is no longer mine
The Pawn Shop
Gold that glitters under toughened glass
Once gifts of love and all that entails
The love disappointed now, gone like the past
Now just rings awaiting a sale
“MUM ” lettered in gold, to whom was that given ?
What kind of trauma has brought this forth ?
Drugs to get high, or food needed to live on ?
I can’t help but wonder what that money was for
Staring at all of the small velvet boxes unnerves me
A sadness inside me, it twists and it churns
I hear a “Next Please,” so I take off my jewellery
Step to the counter and then it’s my turn
Ian Lewis Copestick is a 45 year old poet from Stoke On Trent, England.
He is currently unemployed and living on £70 per week dole money.
This makes life extremely difficult at times, as well as extremely boring.
But at least he has plenty of time for reading, writing and pondering.