Three More Days

Mike Watts is a poet and spoken word performer from Hull, Yorkshire. This poem is taken from his book Day and Night in the Damaged Goods Factory. Phil mined this gem of a lament, and he's guest reading today.

Click the title of the poem to listen.

Three More Days

Alone for three weeks

In a bed that has

Crippled me,

Whose sheets have tormented

To the edge of 

Insanity

And tonight,

As bleak northern bursts

Pelt rain at my window,

Wanting nothing more

Than to feel

The warm plump

Of breasts

Soft at my back.

I am here

And she is 250 miles south

Of hands

That would peel

Her like fruit

If she were beside me now.

Heavy as I am,

Sleep touches briefly

And the need 

To piss

Is about to break it

Completely.

There is too much space.

I want

An entanglement of legs,

An arm locked

Around my chest,

I want to close my eyes

Until the point

Of an elbow

Digs a rib

And wakes me.

by Mike Watts

Induction

Phil has been following and contributing to my National Poetry Month project since the first year I did it. He lives in Hull, Yorkshire, which is a city with a great history of gritty, mouthy, sharply brilliant poets. When he discovers something new that he likes, I file it away to share during April. They've been some of my favorite posts over the last few years, and I particularly love this one. Russ Litten is a local Hull poet, and he teaches a creative writing class in a prison (read a little more about that on his website). Phil is guest reading today.

Click the title of the poem to listen.

Induction

Every Monday morning I stand up
before twenty or so disinterested faces
slouched around library tables
and tell them
about the possibilities of poetry
and the prospect of escape.

It's a poor joke, and some mornings
it goes down less well
than others.

Like this morning,
one sullen soul flinging rancour
from the back of the room:
What's that for then?

...

Yeah, but what do you get at the end of it?

...

Do you get paid?

...

So what use is that to me?

...

And I said
(quoting Scargill quoting his Dad)
:

"...the quality of your life depends upon
your ability to manipulate words..."
Does it fuck, he
said,
thus proving
both of
our 
points.

by Russ Litten