Category Archives: My Poems

Airport security in 2041

hedge

A frisker-bush hedge

(Listen to the poem here)

 

The bottle collectors,
the metal detectors,
the boarding pass checks,
the ID inspection.

Past the scanners, the guards,
through the frisker-bush hedges
The trackers, the scopers,
the seven-armed gropers.

Then the dumbstunner pistols
which
make
all your
electronics
electroffics
for the duration of your flight.

The tattoo inferencer,
the Rorschach blot sequencer.
The flocks of pecker pigeons,
and the crazed sniffer-dog packs

which howl at the scent of imaginary moons.
Then the accent locator,
the who-are-you-reelies,
the get-down-and-kneelies,

the just-calm-down-misters,
the testicle twisters.
The yardsticks, the metrics,
the inchers, the ouchers,

The enhanced question-session
when you’re spun centrifugal,
plus the 9-Richter quaker
and the upside-down shaker.

Then the emoji-faced probot
whose five eyes are bloodshot,
but whose smiley gets brighter
the deeper it probes you.

Last, the 50 ml syringe
which puts you to sleep,
(when you checked in you chose from six classes of dream).
Then you’re into
your casket,
the hopper,
the loader,
and your slot in the bunk.

And click, whirr …

Ding …

Ding …

Ding …

Ding …

Ding-ding

(here’s the lock)

CLUNK!

 

Phillip Hill 2017

More often not

(Listen to the poem here)

 

 

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The day comes every day.
It brightly knocks upon your door
Sometimes you answer and
sometimes you don’t.
Sometimes you leave a message
to say that you’re not in for life
right now.

The night comes every night.
It sits upon the ground
and everywhere
it plays its silent flute.
Sometimes you listen
and sometimes you won’t.

The hours come every hour
upon the hour.
They bubble up and.
jostle at your window
looking in.
They’re always there.
And you –
more often not.

 

Phillip Hill – 2014

The Indian boy outside the temple

(Listen to the poem here)

 

 

Swaying in his walking mother’s arms

The two-year old is studiously

Extracting strands of moonlight

From her long and precious hair.

 

Phillip Hill 2017

Hey, History!

 

(Listen to the poem here)

 

 

Some people tell me that

they feel compelledbook-1740519_1920

to read books

to the end, no matter

how brainless and

repetitive the plot,

how many unattractive

characters,

or how nobody ever

seems to learn from

their mistakes.

Me, I’m not like that.

If I’m fed up

(and it could be on

page fourteen or thirty-three

or even four seven six)

well, then I toss

it parabolically into the furthest

corner I can conceive

and that’s the

final end of it for me.

What’s more,

I’ll tell you what,

I’m right, they’re wrong,

And now I’ll show you why –

(excuse me while

I shout a little)

“Hey, history! Stop

turning pages! Go

get yourself another book!”

 

Phillip Hill 2016

Disparitions Mystérieuses des Civilisations Méso-Américaines

(Listen to the poem here)

 

 

Après le repas à Oaxtepec

le patron du restaurant

nous dit d’un air de satisfaction agaçant

que toute sa viande

vient du Texas.

Je trouve que ce n’est pas normal

de manger tellement hormonal.

Au Mexique on trouve

partout des traces

olmèques, toltèques,

aztèques, mixtèques,

mais qu’en est-il

des Bixtèques?

 

Phillip Hill 2008

 

 

(After the meal in Oaxtepec/the owner of the restaurant/tells us with an/ irritating manner/that all his meat/is from Texas./I find that all this hormonality/is somewhat an abnormality./In Mexico everywhere/one finds traces of/Olmecs, Toltecs,/Aztecs, Mixtecs,/but whatever happened to/your Beefxstecs?)

 

2588218_cover2

(This poem is included in my book The Observation Car which is available from

Yaute-no-pec

(Listen to the poem here)



tope.gifThe sticker on the window tells us YAUTEPEC

although the rope-haired lad

who is jutting from

the bus’s door into the foaming crowd,

much like a figurehead in stormy seas,

is shouting, “Yaute, Yaute,

Yaute, Yaute.” Read more…

Recipe no. 1 – Sweet and sour rememboree

(A poem with instructions on how to cook memories)



(Listen to the poem here)


Ruta_graveolens_-_Köhler–s_Medizinal-Pflanzen-259

Rue

Start with the and.
Select a photograph of someone you have
lost or crossed,
shared days then parted ways with
and watch it softly
(think of a gaze on tip-toes),
five minutes for each side,
first at the picture, then
at the picture gone,
turning slowly, clockwise,
like time itself
until you have
a good emulsion in your mind.

Read more…

The Art of Conversation

listen to the poem



The art of conversation isn’t rugby,
I must remind myself at times,
or even shooting grouse, deer, moose or peccaries
If anything it is a bit like dominoes
with tiles you didn’t know you had,
whose shapes do tricks with space and time . Read more…

Baristi d’Italia

(listen to the poem here)




Sometimes arriving time-zonked, tweedle-kneed and nearly dumb
in Frankfurt or in London or in some other airport
where people seem to have been stranded many
months ago on strangely molten furniture,
I stumble into a counter which claims that it provides
espresso. As I go grimly inching up the North Face
of my jet lag I pay for one and then I grimace
through the blizzard in my head for two or three
hundred seconds until I come upon a patch of clearish-
mindedness  from where I see  them frownandfumbling
with the filter basket  and realize my coffee is
beyond the rocks, beyond the trees, beyond  the hairpin bends,
beyond the chiming of regret, among those rainy clouds,
still miles along the path to the slippery future.
Back home in Rome, any barista worth his sugar Read more…