Entry - MAG Poetry Prize 2011

These Days

by John Keenan

These days
My head is full.
Nothing makes sense.
My porridge pot won’t bang,
The kettle won’t whistle:
It bubbles dribble down its spout.
My teaspoon’s made of fur
And the post flutters softly to the mat.
These days
I’m lost in thought.
I can’t enjoy my walk to work.
The green parakeets wheel too high
For me to hear their rasping squawk.
The wind steals through the trees,
A hunter, bending branches silently
And thick autumn mist mops up the dog’s yap.
These days
I’m all at sea.
The only music I can hear is me:
The timber-creak of bones,
The persistent clanking of my heart,
Wet rope against a metal mast all night,
The sough of thoughts, cast up,
Dragged back, across the spitting shingle.

Added: 18.04.2011

Judges' comments on this poem


for some reason i liked this take on alienation, its quirkyness, and use of the banal.