Poems for HLT

John Feakins, UK

John Feakins was born UK, brought up London, attended Goldsmiths' College and worked in EFL for 37 years in Europe and Middle East. He is Director of Studies and Head of Business English. He has written courses and done teacher training. He hold a BA in English, Certificates in German, EFL and Business English, also DELTA. Now retired and pursuing career in poetry. Summer teaching on Sussex Coast. E-mail:johnfeakins@hotmail.com

A policeman’s lot

During the day I patrol
the pavements, watching
the parked cars, the traffic,
noting the angles, the speed,
the number of passengers.

In the afternoon I stand
out of the rain, in a doorway,
idly observing the derelicts,
the four o’clock drunks.

Come the evening I watch the corners
of shadowy streets, the oblique
entrances to alley-ways, listening
for hurrying or dragging footsteps.

At night I keep my eyes open
for slumped figures on benches,
a lurking hood behind a tree,
straining for the sound of a scream.

When I get back to the station
I sit at my desk and write
this poem for your inspection.

My visitor

Wake up, dear, you have a visitor.
Mother shook me gently, and leaving
a cup of tea at my bedside, padded
away downstairs back to the kitchen.

I drank my tea thoughtfully and sloped
across to the bathroom, washed, brushed
my teeth, pausing to stare for a moment
at my sleepy eyes, pulled a face

and strode back to my bedroom, dressed
and drew back the curtains, saw, blinked,
shouted “Mum!” and opened the window,
stared, gawped, my jaws frozen open.

I rushed downstairs, jumping from the landing,
barely touching the carpet and bannister,
hurtled towards the front-door, yelling,
my hands clutching at the door handle,

ripped the door open, stood paralysed
for an eternity on the steps, speechless,
yes, dear, a voice said behind me,
your elephant’s arrived from the zoo.

He’s been here since 8 o’clock.
Now, say hello and for goodness’ sake,
stop him eating the daffodils,
dad’ll be furious when he gets home.

Winter perils

It was bad enough with slush
and tumble everywhere,
but now there’s icebergs
on the edge of pavements.

Penguins, not normally
a big deal, crowding
people out in the already
sour, stale air of packed buses.

Polar bears lurking in the parks,
harmless if you offer them doughnuts
during daylight hours: avoid
tree-lined avenues after dusk.

There have been several cases
of schoolchildren and old ladies
vanishing from the edge of town
and open spaces after dark,

only a scattering of mangled bone
and the odd ringing mobile phone
found the next day; the police,
aware of the problem, are baffled.

Poetry – forbidden pleasures

Poetry’s so hard to find in any shop
hidden well away at the back of the rooms
beyond the other bigger, brighter publications,
don’t even pause at the entrance, don’t stop.

Sweep past the novels, bestselling paperbacks,
the cookery encyclopaedia and the tourist maps;
even history has a better spot, and children’s books,
cd’s and dvd’s stand out like peacocks in a fog.

Philosophy and God get in first,
what’s worse there’s DIY and Law.
Perhaps beyond the gardening and the crime
the poetry’s on the upper floor.

So you creep along a narrow aisle
where she’s hidden in a dim-lit corner,
clutching your wallet hopefully,
but putting on a smile.

You enter at your peril, for,
as you know, the others here think
she’s rather low, an outcast,
a pariah, even – God forbid- a whore.

Please check the Creative Methodology for the Classroom course at Pilgrims website.
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