Poetry and Creative Writing for All

Kevin Raymond

Winner of our Top 5 Poets of November 2005 Online Competition

Hi Folks.

've been writing poetry for about five or six years now, Its been really exciting to see some of my stuff published by the Forward Press on their site and in some of the many compilations that they put out.
Poetry is a hobby that I use to relieve work stress and I find it works as
great therapy for me after a long hard day at the small printing works I
own in partnership with my wife in the East End of London.  I try wherever I can to use my writing to describe events and places that I've been to and seen, to the best of my ability.

I've written, printed and put together, a non-profit book of poetry, that we sold in return for donations for a homeless charity in London's Camden Town called The Aisling Return to Ireland Project.  We sold a 600 books with donations coming from all over the world.  It was so successful and with so many requests for more that a second book is about to be launched, bigger and better than the last!!

The majority of my work has a strong Irish feel and flavor to it as I'm of Irish descent and have vivid re-collections of growing up here in London, Cork and Limerick which is where my parents are from.

I've had my work produced in newspapers, fanzines, websites, poetry compilations, which has been really cool because a lot of my work started out as essays which I wasn't very happy about, so I then decided to try them as poems, to see how they worked that way. After showing them to a few people and getting very positive feedback - I was off and running.

I like the idea that through poetry and verse you can have a voice and an opinion that makes people sit up and take notice of what you've got to say, whether they like it or not is another story!

My poetic influences are very varied and include some people who I found so different from the main stream, that they appealed to me such as Linton Kwesi Johnson, Adrian Mitchell, Gil Scott-Heron, W.H Auden, Edna St Vincent Millay, Ogden Nash, Sir John Betjamin, Stephen Spender and Louis MacNeice.

I'm a Londoner by birth, married with two grown up children, my wife and the kids have been great supporters of my stuff right from the start and have been very helpful in sorting out my grammar and computer skills which were very rusty, to say the least!

I hope you enjoy reading my work as much as I have writing it!

Peace.

Kevin

In another time, a voice like mine, would disappear without a trace
I'm what you'd call a nobody, a useless waste of space
Every man shall have his day, his fiftheen minutes of fame
I'm stood in line, so where is mine, I want it now, I'm game

I want it now, so much and how, it hurts with such regret
Where is it, this thing called fame, that one and all covets
Is it in a darkened place, or maybe its a lie
Why is no-one saying, can anyone tell me why?

This thing that I desire, the be all that is fame
Can you sell your soul for it, or ask for it by name?
Why is it so desirable, that you would give your all
For fifteen minutes of such a thing, to me, seems pretty cool

Is it like the drug of love, addictive at first sight
That you desire, with a fire, of passion burning bright
Will it leave you bent and spent, rotten to the core
This game called fame seems moorish, you'll just want more and more

Will I get in glossy magazines with cute names like Hello
Will I snort cocaine with d list names who nobody seems to know
Will life become much easier than it was before?
It wont? Then as a nobody, I fancy I'll endure!

As the singing of hymns, brings tears to your eyes
Now's not the place, to be cocky and wise
All of the family are here to say prayers
Do you know that cute blonde one, in the choir upstairs?

As dark looks and dresses meet black suits and ties
Pre-Raphaelite tresses hide eyes that have cried
Young boys wear shirts that are baggy and creased
As sickly cologne, dries on hair, that is greased

As lapsed catholics, mumble through prayers they've forgot
They discreetly run check's on who's here and who's not
Then tug on their ties to make sure that they're straight
Then they genuflect and acknowledge, people they hate

The coffin is bought in, everyone stands
The sign of the cross made by hard calloused hands
Past lovers cry as the box passes by
The incense floats up as the priest breathes a sigh

The noise from the seats as the mourners kneel down
Echo's through out as the coffins set down
Brown varnished floors reflect all the light
As the ushers depart for a quiet smoke outside

There's crocodile tears from those in the know
Wheezes and sneezes into hankies they blow
Yer man was a pig, if the truth's to be known
He beat up the quare one, sat there on her own

As you look at the candles that flicker and sway
Is anyone bothered what's the priest's got to say?
He never knew him anyway, at least, that's what's said
Such fine lines of solace, they make up for the dead

As stories are told, of what a great man he was
You smile to yourself as you force out a cough
They asked you read, but you had to decline
You will not lie, then take water and wine

As the kids of yer man, make up nice things to say
Strangers are fooled to think he was okay
Six kids he had, its been said it was more
But no one can prove it, so nobody's sure

The plate is passed round, everyone chats
The things they are saying? Jaysus its cat!
As long lost relations twiddle their thumbs
The now happy widow, makes out she's glum

As queue's form politely for water and wine
Those still hung-over politely decline
The mourners shake hands as the mass nears its end
As you greet those, you can't stand, you have to pretend

As fine holy water is sprinkled and sprayed
Over a expensive casket, you wonder who's paid?
The undertaker was knocked, when yer mans mother died
I hope he's not taken again, for a ride!

The ushers come back in, to lift up the box
As the whole congregation bless themselves and watch
The widow seems grand as the mourners all stand
Life now looks good, as she's rid of yer man

' I'm sorry for your trouble, missus', you say
She gives you a smile that says, its okay
She knows, that you know, that her man was a pig
Is she bothered? Not likely, she knows she's well rid!

Will go you go to the house, there's a bit of a wake?
Maybe a hooley, Guinness and cake
A drop of potion to warm up yer bones
The widow is glowing, her life's now her own!

The night was as warm as it could be
10cc played a number one hit
I had thoughts of us, that maybe we could...?
I doubt you remember it

The sea kept on rolling throughout the night
The noise that it made was sweet
Such a evening of two hearts beating
I doubt you remember it

Along the strand, hand in hand
The moon was all that was lit
Drunks staggered past us, as we just laughed
I doubt you remember it

We sang on the sand to a distant band
You told me 'your singings a gift'
I told you, you were gorgeous
I doubt you remember it

We swam in the sea. just you and me
Naked as the day we were born
Then gave in on the sand to love's pure demands
I doubt you remember it

As we stared at the stars and hummed a few bars
Our bodies a perfect fit
It's how I'll always think of you
I doubt you remember it

As morning approached, we donned wrinkled clothes
Our damp skin made wet by the dew
We stood, laughed and kissed amidst the sea mist
I doubt you remember it

Two weeks in the sun, so free and so young
We spent all our time together, every minute
We'd only eyes for each other
I doubt you remember it

You said that you'd write, then write me you did
Like our country, your words were cold
Yet in a warmer climate, your words of love were bold
We parted as friends, young broken hearts mend
I look back on that time as a gift
As I never got to know your parting thoughts
I doubt you remember it

Those days are long gone, but when I hear that song
In my mind, in and out they do flit
I wonder if she ever thinks of me and that time?
I doubt she remembers it!

I could tell that I loved you
I could tell you, your the one
I would tell you both of the above two lines
But, the cat has got me tongue!

Early Morning New York City 2001

A misty New York morning, its much too soon to rise
No matter how much I twist and turn, sleep won't close my eyes
The travel clock says six fifteen, I may as well get up
No sense in kidding myself, that sleep will come
It doesn't, fair enough.

A shower, a shave, I'm quickly dressed
Breakfast's what I need
I take the lift to the hotel lobby,
Everything's shut, a twenty four hour city? Indeed.

I venture out to the sidewalk, the mist is still on the air
People go about their business, as a city sleeps on, unaware
A coffee shop is open, a neon tells me so
A styrene cup of hot piping stuff, warms my dampened bones.

Its too early to go back to a hotel room
So I stand on the corner of the street
This city fascinates me, with its grid system unique
It reminds me of the London of me youth
Its character and smells, all that seems to be missing
Is Westminster Cathedral's bells

The sound of the traffic is accompanied, by police sirens far away
All day long this music goes on, like an orchestra, it plays
New Yorkers say ' Good Morning' to me, as they make their way to work
I'm fascinated by the whole lot of them, I'm stood staring like a jerk.

Yellow cabs, limousines, buses and motor bikes
Take people all over the city
To their destinations, by first light

I feel, like I'm on a tv set
As I take all of this in
Cop shows start flashing through my mind
As I stupidly stand there and grin

I walk on up to Broadway
Majestically vibrant and bright
As household names and computer games
In darting neon's, take flight

The tourist shops, drunken sops
Are sleeping as I walk
At every set of traffic lights
I listen avidly, whilst local folks talk

I return to the hotel lobby
As daylight is coming is to call
There stood at the lift, is yer man and his quiff
Shane MacGowan says 'Good Morning' to all

He's here to play a gig for St Patrick's Day
That's happening the very next day
He goes up upstairs, then comes down
Has a quick look around
Then its into the limo and away!

The Football

Its a high, its a low, its an ebb and a flow
Its a wonderful forty yard pass
Just when you think you've got it worked out
This result bites yer right in the ....

Its a Ronaldhinio free kick, its a deft Zola flick
Its a save by the worshipped Lev Yashin
Just when you think you've got it worked out
Like a house of cards, yer dreams will come crashing

Its a Belanov volley, its a movement by Totti
Its Swan Lake to those stood in awe
Just when you think you've got it worked out
It punches you right in the jaw

Its a Marco Van Basten goal, its a Ruudi Krol stroll
Its a Johan Cryuff magical turn
Just when you think you've got it worked it out
This football yer fingers will burn

Its Michel Platini's grace, its Zbiggy Boniek's pace
Its Paolo Rossi the Azzuri ace
Just when you think you've got it worked out
It leaves you stood there in a daze

Its Franz Beckenbaur, its Marius Tresor
Its Patrick Battiston's broken neck
Just when you think you've got it worked out
A last minute goal hits the net

Its Hagi, its Stoichkov, its Georgi Asparukov
Its Rivelino's stunning free kicks
Just when you think you've got it worked out
The Brazilians bring out all their tricks

Its Torres, its Eusebio, Its Emilio Butregano
Its Maradona who opened the door
Just when you think you've got it worked out
You watch it and then you want more

Its Gian-Carlo Antognoni. its Giuseppe Bergomi
Its the cool and the calm Bobby Moore
Just when you think you've got it worked out
You cheer and you shout and you roar

Its Gaetano Scirea, its Daniel Passarella
Its Pele the King of them all
Just when you think you've got it worked out
You know why you love "The Football"

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