Poetry

Anna’s collection of poetry — Reaching for my Gnu — is finally out as an eBook at Amazon. You can buy it here.

You can check out Anna’s live performance dates here.

Now for a poetic interlude …

 
 
 
 
 

Poetry on May Day 2013:
I am Rich and You are Poor
Margaret Thatcher Died at the Ritz
Credit Crunch Suicide

POEM: Copper Comes A Cropper

POEM: Ode To A Detox On Returning From St Ives

POEM: Peach

FISH

Hemingway dreams of an old man mastering Mother Nature
Wrestling single-handed with a 200 pound marlin
off the Gulf of Mexico while I tussle
with Ernest and the semi-unconscious of the U. S. of A

Ernest loves a drink, his blood, and a fight, his meat.
He’s got grit ‘n’ spit ‘n’ spunk in his veins
He should’ve been a matador
Bulls are only one vowel away from ‘balls’
And they are built with horns
No prize for guessing what the cat means there

Herman Melville got it on with a cat named Ahab
Fed his leg to a fish called Moby Dick.
What kind of a name is that to give a fish that will be studied in the schools?
Moby Dick was big and he was wild and he thrashed around a lot
Which is kinda funny when you think about it
You may as well give us a story about a killer whale and call it ‘Free Willy’ or somesuch
But now I am being ridiculous

Horatio Hornblower
What kind of a name is that?

All the American heroes
Why’ve these cats all got weird names?
John Wayne was called Marion
He would have preferred Marlin, I bet,
But Brando beat him to it
And became a four hundred pound Marlon

Marion and Marlin
So close and yet so far.

If the U.S. of A. was a land of milk and honey,
Did the early pilgrims in their coastal habitats have too much fish in their diet?
What is fish roe, anyway?
Whatever it is, I think the founding fathers O.D.’d on it

 

BAG FOR LIFE

‘Bag for life,’
So Tescos tell me.
Maybe a bit ropey around the edges but not that bad, surely?
Bag for life.
Well, that is fine for you to say,
Dame Shirley Porter,
Tesco heiress,
Westminster City council supremo
And guilty as sin
Only not half as interesting.
Bag for life
Is not a sentence handed down to ladies who lunch
In between sticking the poor into asbestos-riddled tower blocks
Or who blow 27 million pounds of somebody else’s money
And then abscond abroad with their loot intact.
Have you bagged your plot on the Mount of Olives,
Dame Shirley,
Next to Robert Maxwell,
Honoured among thieves?
Perhaps the headlines should have read,
‘Life for bag’.

 

POE

I’d like to blow
Edgar Allan Poe
On bended knee
Like Annabel Lee

I’d like to snort snow
With Edgar A. Poe
Swing into the pit
Of his infernal wit

I’d like to sink low
As Eddy A. Poe
I’m eager to share
His gloom and despair

Dear Ed can you please
Give me a disease
As cool as the red one
Transmitted by fleas?

 

DADDY FREUD

Daddy Freud was right
My pleasure principle has no scruples.
Elektra on a bar stool
Looking for
DADDY O DADDY O DADDY
Why did you leave me daddy?
Million dollar trust fund Gold card Sorbonne Sugar the pill
Can’t you see you made me ill, daddy?
You You YOU
Daddy Freud speeds to the rescue
But he bites in to my Trust Fund
And my shrink rap won’t take VISA
Why did you give me such pain?
Why did you rip my soul apart?
Daddy place baby on stone and rip little Elektra’s heart out.
YOU BASTARD
You screwed mommy.
I was prettier than her.
And younger.

(c) all copyright Anna Chen