Am I going to be a poet

It’s worrying that when you put up a poem for critique and nobody answers for over a week and nobody posts another poem.

Is it so good everybody gave up or is it so bad everybody is afraid to post their poems because they cringed so much and do t want to risk making other people cringe with their poetry.

Maybe it’s just so meh nobody bothered.

My poor ego.

Thanks Kieran maybe I have got a big middle class these days, most of it comes from memories of my childhood though and things I seen around me. Maybe I’m a middle class person that sees people who started at the same point as me not getting the same shake of dice that I got.
I wanted the start to be simplistic and childlike to start with the youth and just wanting a poem to rhyme then changed it up abit with a wider view.

When you say explore my own feeling about homelessness are you saying I should say

Fella outside shop
Gave me disdain
I couldn’t be arsed to learn his name
I work all day he acts lame?

That sort of stuff?

I appreciate you taking the time to read it. Thanks.

Anyone? Two poems? Anything?

Insect Overlord wrote: »

Wind up merchant

Are they that bad?

If the bag was full of spuds
I’d give it more interest
If the bag was full of spuds
It would have received more attention
If the bag was full of spuds
I’d put it somewhere safe
To keep it from the fella in the bag.



There’s a lad sat on the sub bench ready
Serious
Head moving with the ball and the tackles
Ready to give it everything
Ready to run through walls
Ready to realise he’s just not good enough
Ready to give up.
He could do with a bag of spuds
A bag of people is no use to him.

Thank you berties horse it’s very easy to say bad things but it takes a real hero to say nice things.

Hi windy floating nothing on her way unpress pause when I find remote blanket couch Todd from that thing work to American football noise braces young lad n work wife problems, horsing birds, Fargo Todd from breaking Bemidji Souix falls ted damson Kirstin dunst

Burst and noise and darkness panic, don’t wake anybody in the room and hands like cleavers trying to hit the alarm, don’t wake the wifeher voice at this hour boils a mans brain.




I’m trying a new James Joyce technique.

There is a guy I know who has a charity that can throw me a few hours a week teaching a class but I need to sort my self employed tax stuff, I find that too complicated to bother. Forms make me feel like my privacy is being stripped.

Lightbulbs for the working class


Pushing and grunting and freezing and hurting,
A weary soul from the privilege comes cycling,
Through the slums of the working class red back lightly blinking,
Heading for work like a tax paying citizen.

In each direction the sorrow near blinds him,
May have their blinds up
He couldn’t still see them
For they must get dressed in the dangerous darkness
For theirs no lights on Cept the street lamps that guide him,

Can we get light bulbs for the working classes
They must be putting their jocks on in complete darkness
They may need to protest against some injustice,
Think their children are better off with no other purpose
Except leeching the money we have to pay nurses..



I feel like this one is what I was born to write. It’s an early draft but I’d really appreciate if somebody would help me notice the good and bad in it.

Peaceful is a valley or a peak depending on whether it is about to be kicked up a hill or down a hill.

A skull with a bag for a body,
It won’t survive the winter,
If it got any thinner it might snap if I didn’t step over.

I give it a euro if I’m on a date
Careful not to touch it
Just like I drop money in a bucket on my way to spend my wages on landfill.

One per cent at the top
One per cent in the bag
One per cent of what you spend on christmas decorations
One per cent spent on public service art installations
Find a few quid from somewhere to fix what’s forgotten by welfare
It can’t cope in the world forced upon it,
When they decided you can’t do just what you wanna
Because somebody else likes it peaceful
Spending on anything other than people.



I wrote this because I probably felt a bit guilty, the other day I went to one of the few old school Dublin fry up spots left in a changing city for my lunch.

Tenner for a fry so big I couldn’t eat my dinner 7 hours later. Couldn’t finish my work for the day because I was too bloated.

Anyway this fry shop is on a street that any bus that travelled up the Malahide road to town would stop on but doesn’t anymore. It’s just full of sleeping bags and peoples skulls wrapped in skin. Where I was working there was two tents beside the entrance just off o Connell street. I seen two people shaking a man who looked dead, asleep at a postbox on abbey street. On my way back from breakfast he was trying to get to his feet but couldn’t. They were probably trying to move him from the front of their business or checking if he was ok, who knows.

I didn’t stop, hardly anybody did. In too much of a hurry. Went into the bookies, two lads I work with were putting on accumulators, I don’t bet so I just stood in the middle of the bookies looking at the sad acts in the bookies then I looked out the glass panel in the bookies door and I could see two addicts having a chat, like me ma would have a chat with a neighbour or friend she came across while walking through a super market _ just like real people having a chat and I realised we don’t even see them as humans anymore.

I went back to the job I was working on, it was a public service office we were doing construction in, their canteen had a cool coffee machine and we all sat on the rather comfortable seats and had a coffee before going back to work because we were all too full from the fry. It lashed rain when I finished work I cycled by them all again in my top quality rain gear, on my top quality bike in my top quality country.