Erling Haaland climbed
inside a chocolate egg
to see if he could kick
his way out. He could
and he did and he shared
the shards with his coaches
as a thank you
for letting him take
all the glory of existing.

Carl Burkitt 2024

I’ve started swimming three times a week.
I don’t know why – just as much as
I don’t know what I am doing – but thrashing
my legs and punching my arms, lifting
my nose out of the water and back in,
feeling my cells, my heart, my instincts
refuse to drop like a black, rubber brick is
a useful reminder that at least my body thinks
dying might not be a good idea.

Carl Burkitt 2024

Written while listening to ‘Swim Until You Can’t See Land’ by Frightened Rabbit.

so you are one push of a foot
away from corners to explore
filled with streets of friends and gold,
new planets and fresh stars,
temptation dipped in familiarity,
ditches of danger I cannot see
from back here.

Carl Burkitt 2024

I went on the TV show MasterChef and cooked nothing.
Gregg Wallace yelled enthusiasm at my “bold decision”
and John Torode beamed how he’d never seen anything
like it. The other contestants were stunned as I secured
a semi final place. I folded my apron, slipped it into my bag,
and went back to the hotel to tell my family the news
and apologise I couldn’t be home sooner.

Carl Burkitt 2024

I like writing poems in a miniature notepad
in the cinema hoping
people think I’m a movie reviewer.
I put the pen’s end in my mouth
and raise my head slightly
to pretend I’m thinking of a clever metaphor
about the lead actor before writing
something about the foldable seats
looking like gravestones.
When I know someone is looking my way
at a particularly poor moment in the film
I shake my head and mouth “five stars”
while writing how the dropped
popcorn sprayed out across the dark floor
looks like a dying galaxy.

Carl Burkitt 2024

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