Poetry and Creative Writing for All

John G Hall

Winner of our Top 5 Poets of June 2003 Online Competition

My poetry writing was born of the 1970's, drawing mostly on hormones and Rock. Poetry set to music. Later I found out that some poets relied on the music that words made. Then I read William Blake and nothing was ever the same again. Then Ginsberg, then Creeley, then Kerouac.

In 1979 I attended the very first Lancaster Literature Festival and worshiped at the altar of Heaney, Burgess, Moorcock, Adcock.

I attended the South Manchester Poetry Group and read poetry at the 'Why Not?' Pub-Liverpool. Throughout the 80's I was a full time political activist and my poetical stamina was sapped. Since then I have been married, divorced, worked for the government, read Social History at Lancaster University and am now finally reunited with my beloved poetry. Recently having poetry published in the 'Ugly Tree' and Sam Smith's 'The Journal'.

My early childhood was spent in the 60's and images from this period come to the surface of my poems quite often. In 'The Swings' I try to link a mother's love for her child and a small boy's love for his football team. Home or away you always belong to somebody. We speak a colourful language and sometimes I use the whole palette. But I can assure you the odd swear word here and there is meant to convey the character or the times and not cause offence. So, I write about sexual love, passion and love affairs. Even the love affairs of television sets as in 'Since She Turned Remote' or the embrace of two snakes as in 'Snake Sex'. Although you may discern some other meanings. Lazarus is the only one that knows the truth!

However, at the moment I am writing a series about my father's family who lives in the Potteries. I am using archive photos to produce a set of sonnets covering different trades, potters, blacksmiths etc going back a hundred years. My other pet poetry subject is the media and its role in society as seen in 'Glass Beads'. Then there are the love poems and the football poems and the murder mystery poems. That's the great thing about poetry, it lets you hear the music in everything and makes you want to sing along or perhaps write a poem.

The Swings

A mother younger than 
my Colin Bell pennant,
Mexico World Cup 1970,
pushes a blonde boy
in a Hollyhedge park.
Slung between swings
the arc of his life is shot
but never dropped. Here
she puts his heart in her mouth
and stares out of the grey snap
at him and his city scarf 
flying out towards the universe,
she whispers something
as if praying for his safe return
or at least an away win.

Snake Sex

Two curls of flesh,
coils strung tight
by snake grips.
The venom dripping
down our length, we
two preys of sex
drained to death,
sweat like Lazarus
before life bit.

Glass Beads

age died amongst life
bent by our small defeats
resigned on pictures
we sucked on their bones
cheeks bloody glowing
lips locked on sweetness,
the world became a movie
the camera never lying still
beside our restless bodies
a mechanical mating
between the twitching wrist
and the velvet cuffs,
boned down to the back
flaccid beings bending 
in the twisters cracking whip
knees bent before the screen 
glowing in the darkness
now daylight is their dream.

e.e.cummings

I

He jumped 
(from a moving Dodge)
but soon learnt how to fall 
awkward as ice-cream 
(dropped on Mystic beach).
He tripped the purpose
of strides like donkey rides 
(to nowhere special)
dramatics paused 
by thin cups of black
small print written large 
(as any funhouse).

II

Thought 
showed 
a new move
off the top 
of his nib,
like squibs 
of Mozart's ink
flicked from 
a fake baton,
or the tapping 
snaps & crackles
of showering 
meteorites,
as they spit 
into the wind
of watching.
Tricky honey 
plopped 
from the spoon,
my tongue 
still juggles 
for the first 
sweetness,
rolling the lather 
of words into speech,
bubbles popped 
by your sharp lips.

Another Poet On Another Plane

The fumble fisted poet
Full of Peregrine dives,
Plops to earth.
Full of immaculate wrongs,
Weighing his words
With intensive breath,
And desperate concern.
When all he wants
Is to screw the air hostess,
And experience yet more
Significant knowledge,
Before his ink runs dry
And his nib curls.

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