Paul Hollywood
looks directly
down the lens
when he says it.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
Too thick, too raw
Reply
Chutneys
A funeral wake has walked into the pub,
50 or so legs in black Tuesday trousers
march from the front door to the immediate family
to the bar to an empty chair. I make myself
smaller in the corner, reply to small talk
with the staff about their range of chutneys.
I don’t think scotch bonnet jam existed
when you do. I order a pot and wish
it packed a stronger punch.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
Private
I’m looking through a door
into a pub’s store cupboard.
I can see piles of raring-to-go peanuts,
queues of patient WKD Blues,
rows and rows of lager
not even bothering getting to know each other.
I wonder if the man plonking Budweiser’s
into the plastic green carriers,
the kind that hold 10 bottles at a time,
has ever called the room his pantry.
The fruit ciders are scattered on shelves
like memories of mixed berries
on countryside bushes.
The man plonking Budweiser’s
into the plastic green carriers
kicks the door shut with his heel
to show a sign saying PRIVATE.
Maybe that explains my heart rate
or the ache of feeling uninvited.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
The caterpillar and the penguin
The caterpillar and the penguin
have gone for a walk across the room.
The caterpillar has chosen to go on its side,
feeling the carpet rub against its cheeks.
The penguin is following the rules:
left flipper, right flipper, left flipper, right flipper.
The caterpillar can jump now,
it’s on the bookshelf pretending to eat
a stuffed monkey. The penguin keeps walking.
The two-year-old hand around the caterpillar
spins it 360, tells it to say hello to a fireman,
offers it a vegetable ice cream.
The penguin keeps walking, gets grabbed
off its ageing operator, taken off course,
thrown into the middle of a wooden train set,
forced to adapt and see the world again.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
Subconscious seasoning
In the kitchen, thinking
about the way ducks float,
the strength of ants,
how beard hair knows
not to reach the eyes.
If giraffes need camouflage
it’s a shame they grow so tall.
Lunch has compiled itself.
The hob is off. Am I here?
The hand slips, pepper
sneezes over egg yolks,
changes the course of a day.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
Barn Owl
I will talk about shock and anger and point my finger at you until it breaks. I will talk about pulling socks up, getting on with it, try trying harder. I will talk about distance, unmade phone calls, could’ve tried harder. I will talk about statistics, inevitabilities, didn’t stand a chance. I will talk about wooden beams, tied knots, got to think kinder. I will talk about your record collection, your fluorescent running jacket, the skin on your shoulders. I will talk about souls and selflessness and carrying you in my fingertips.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
Blackbird
You’re in front of me. I can taste battered sausage on your breath. Your shoulders are too wide to see a way out of the school gate. Your chain sits around your neck. I’m close enough to see it is fake gold and not the fallen teeth of other kids in my year group. It doesn’t matter I’m your brother’s mate, I stood too close to him earlier and I should’ve known better. I can’t stop looking at your chest hair. Where did you get them from?
© Carl Burkitt 2022
Sparrowhawk
Her tongue is a beak, pecking at the crumbs of the mistakes she sees. Arrive late. Peck. Forgot my book. Peck. Poor grammar. Peck. Untucked shirt. Peck. Looking the wrong way. Peck. The skin of my torso tightens, ribs forget the are there to protect me. Peck. Talking too much. Peck. I didn’t say anything. Peck. Get out and stay out.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
House Sparrow
There’s a picture of you holding me in your arms. I can’t be bigger than one of your RAF boots, the ones as polished as your Brylcreemed head. It’s nice knowing the baby ears in that photo heard your voice. Perhaps it talked to them about Yorkshire puddings or where made the best beer: Malta, Singapore, or Beverley. Perhaps they told me to stop crying or whispered Everything will be OK.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
Green Woodpecker
There’s a post-box outside my block of flats with two letter holes. It’s the double-width kind like the one you leap frogged with no hands outside my Uni accommodation. You flew over it so easily, the drunk man who bet you couldn’t gave me 20 quid and said, He’s the coolest guy I’ve ever met. Do you remember hiding in the loo at that house party to sellotape our feet to our faces when those women wanted to kiss us?
© Carl Burkitt 2022
Carl tells tales 