After a day walking in Thoresby Park and a night of live jazz at the Bell Inn, Nottingham.
Jazzed (a.k.a. I’m not even pissed).
Sand in the sandwiches,
Wasps in the tea,
Panini cheese dribble-rush
On relish toast rye.
Not I, café fly,
With my fake plastic eye,
I’m not even pissed.
Too high to climb,
Too low to fall,
Pussy willow forest
Catkins on the floor.
Thoresby lakeside antics,
Budby Tea shop antiques,
I’m not even pissed.
I stopped the drummer on the staircase, to express my admiration. He looked familiar, like someone I’d performed with. Probably not. I also wanted to express my appreciation to the singer, standing at the urinal in gent’s toilet solemnity, but decided it wasn’t the right moment. Later he expressed his own
On mic appreciation
Of my collection glass donation
To his jazz band cornet cause.
And earlier to the barmaid: “Was that you singing and playing piano last Wednesday?” She acknowledged it was, unsure of my intentions. I told her how I’d enjoyed her set, and that I felt she deserved greater respect than she had been shown. And I’m not even pissed.
I’m not here to lie.
I’m here to climb trees,
I’m here to whoop with delight,
I’m here to watch blue-haired torn tights
Drunken nights college girls
Groove to the moves
She didn’t know she knew,
After her misspent childhood of Britney.
But she’s finding it now.
Her body sways,
Oblivious to the room around,
Brass jazz sound surround,
She sways in time,
Discovery sublime,
And her coin in the glass
Lands on mine.
Remember what that was like when you wake tomorrow. Don’t forget.
Sand in the sandwiches,
Wasps in the tea,
Words on the painting
Bo Diddle Eee.
Blues in the garden,
Mandolin Street,
Reds in the relish,
Beat root sweet.
There are no zombies on this bus.
copyright ian g craig
An updated version of this poem would be published in my book "46 Contemporary Poems".
