He ran out of ideas
so declared this poem his last.
He wrote it standing in a park
watching the geese
strut across the path
telling dogs to get out of the way.
A jogger bends his run
so unnaturally wide of them
that he almost crashes into a tree.
He picks up his pace and escapes.
The geese laugh
and scream at the retiring poet
how they bet he wishes
he had the power to make anything
do what he wanted.

Carl Burkitt 2024

Erling Haaland is watching himself
playing football on TV. He likes his long blonde hair,
the way it is tied as tightly as a wink saying,
“You’re safe with me.” He studies his long legs,
the confident strides only taken when necessary,
the thighs as thick as a life’s work.
He likes how he looks in sky blue
and wonders why his chin is far bigger on screen.
He’s telling himself to score, but he doesn’t score.
The final whistle blows and the TV goes off.
Erling Haaland takes a red plastic football
out of the toy basket and practices passing.

Carl Burkitt 2024

I’ve got a metal screw between my teeth
and I’m drilling another into a bit of wood,
thinking about the men who built me.
My heart is the first microwave to arrive
in a Swindon pub where Burt took Janet
to watch a shepherd’s pie cook for 40 minutes.
The hacksaw in my father-in-law’s shed
has the teeth of the bread knife used
to tell me to hand my teenage bike over.
The tightness in my chest
and patient smile in my mouth
is Dad’s sledgehammer passed to me
when we were allowed to demolish
a garden wall.

Carl Burkitt 2024

The silence of a Sunday
sits in potholes living a tut-free day,
the traffic light green man in no rush,
the red man given a chance to show off,
mopeds in sheds,
exhausted pipes letting babies sleep in,
mopeds in sheds,
mopeds in sheds,
soft soled trainers swapping heaven
for pavements, tip-toeing back to life,
agreeing to stay near home that night,
mopeds in sheds.

Carl Burkitt 2024

He takes a 4% ale off his lips
during a gap in my conversation
to say he reads my monthly poetry
printed in the local beer magazine.

He finds strength in his cheeks to show his teeth
to me and a stranger turned acquaintance
before listing the poets who raised him:
Robert Burns, William Wordsworth, one more.

He says it took him time to get used to
modern styles, themes, a lack of imagery,
but he likes them now. Then he challenged me
to write a poem with ten syllable lines.

Carl Burkitt 2024

Ready Salted Frisbees. Mint E Boys.
I wouldn’t mind having the job of inventing
brand names for products in films and TV shows.
Strawberry Cartwheels. Cherry Bumbags.
The ones that sit at the back of scenes
in supermarkets or train station platforms
to make the fictional world seem richer.
Flat Chocos. Jelly Banjos. Cinnamon Bastards.
I would teach myself how to use design tools
so I could bring the packaging to life
with dreamy fonts and firework colours.
Coconut Rascals. Fudge Eggs. Lemon Danger.
Anything to prevent reality hitting our screens.

Carl Burkitt 2024

I am in a gym changing room
on a television sitcom
as six men, one after the other,
join in for a rendition of Stevie Wonder’s
“Isn’t She Lovely”. Their willies are out.
Bums are being dried with towels,
moisturiser is being rubbed
into stubbled jaws. A seventh man joins in
and it is not me. I am putting my shoes on.
Sara Cox returns to the radio
and I’m hoping the next feature is about confidence.

Carl Burkitt 2024

Susie Dent is on a podcast talking about antipelargy,
the reciprocal love of children to their parents.
She says its origins are Greek and stems from
the way storks look after their ageing parents.
My son is on the toilet, yelling to the kitchen,
telling me to stop cooking his egg and read him a story
because his wee has turned into a “tough poo”.

Carl Burkitt 2024

The drunk boys have started talking
about what toppings they will get
on their pizzas and the dipping sauce
for their triple cooked chips and onion rings
and the way that none of them actually know
what is making them buy another pale ale
or not pull up their Sunday league football socks
or decide not to call their immediate family
when a life changing event happens or
to sit on a park bench dedicated to someone
they will never meet and cry.

Carl Burkitt 2024

Erling Haaland is listening to John Lennon’s
“Beautiful Boy (Darling Boy)” without realising
it was written about him. He’s too busy playing
football in the living to know Daddy has scared
the monster from under his bed and how life is
what happens to you while you’re busy making
other plans.

Carl Burkitt 2024