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Lewis Wyn Davies Sep 2020
I still think in-sync with the ceremonial intro.
Even though its reduced to unclaimed brick,
I visit naughty corridors and assembly halls
decorated in sports equipment.

After showing off my award,
I ***** out candles
and bolt that horse to a new port village
where clubs buried in earth
begin to dent
my naivity.

But tweed remained fashion.
A collage of uniform, green fields and tennis courts
resembled my life in the trench.
Words like 'posh' and 'snob' were the only examples of difference

until I became a witness.
Discovered homelessness
meant vagrants. They
became as common as a boxed sandwich.

Everybody has their own intoxication of choice.
Bargain of choice, newspaper
of choice, where Brookside
is a crossword answer
filled whilst feeding mallards
white bread in the park.

Writing that
makes me the biggest hypocrite of all.
I grew fond of plays. Began to write poetry.
What would they think of me?
A **** football match where the ref cost us the game
still pumps through my veins,

I assure thee.
That left ventricle breathes here too.
War has never been declared
but the battles have existed since
before Shakespeare wrote Hamlet.

It's estate versus estate.
As much as I'm up for a fight,
history won't change overnight -
especially in an election,
selfie posted
or status shared
with a handful of friends
who actually voted.

Living in the middle of Common-
wealth is a lonely place.
But there will be a hotel monopoly of vacancies
built on my mediocre grave
if I acknowledge the better
or lesser sort
themselves. After all,
I ate processed chicken breast
and ignored politics myself.

Perhaps now,
it's time
to act like the squirrel.
Barks become growls, become
quacks, become
the fool
again.
Poem #30 from my collection 'A Shropshire Grad'. The closing poem tries to explain the class division theme of the collection and how I can move forward.
Lewis Wyn Davies Sep 2020
Alfred Edward Housman wrote about this county from London,
we smoke pipes and drink pints to honour the scholar's story,
which can be checked out the library, former learning quarters
of an explorer named Charles Darwin, who sits in grey outside,
despite leaving town in adolescence, returning from Galapagos
to The Mount, where my parents met in mental health sickness,
gave life to an original species that theories would have hated,
like Robert Clive, who earned his knighthood by looting India,
cried in parliament, now we want his stage ousted, his house is
next to the cottage where I sleep restless because myself and
a few other Shropshire lads failed to escape, even after studying
centurion debates, athletic form and getting serenaded by greats,
where are the names of those who rose from minimum wage?
Poem #29 from my collection 'A Shropshire Grad'. This poem addresses the issues and themes in my collection most directly - namely, the class division.
Lewis Wyn Davies Sep 2020
On the west cheek of a town's unpainted face,
a mole in the shape of an abandoned tower block
stands and surveys all the veins and dead skin
at its base, there's a cycle path system that never tires,
heels stuck in white, blue and gold Converse shoe
marched through, then flew down those tarmac miles,
every number on the clock face must have held a hand
for the times when I ran full pelt, after nights out,
to save cash, but also to stay alive, as the magic
would ***** out once my key found the jagged
and hollow black hole it was designed to enter,
so I danced with horses, sleepwalking all morning.
Poem #28 from my collection 'A Shropshire Grad'. This is a bittersweet poem about my hometown. I have to remind myself of the tough times I spent there whenever I look back at my youth with grandeur and contemplate going back.
Lewis Wyn Davies Sep 2020
Goodbye kiss to the day I'll miss.
Put headphones on and select a song.
Down the cobblestones until further decision.
Division like the very fabric of football.
Could choose my normal route to The Square,
just four corners to take - a simple shape -
see proud flags made of organic thread,
all the colours I like will be on display. Although,
what if I head down Butcher Row instead?
Sure it's steeper down the shuts but
I fancy my luck out there today.

Before the leap, I see a wall
so opposite to my position, it's hostile.
How long have these concrete eyes watched on?
I'm terrified and contemplate calling in sick,
return to rich address and don't overthink.
Then in each direction, groups meet at the centre.
There's pointing and shouting and spit flying
into hair that's in flames and ignites more people
to march out deluxe doors left ajar
as kids peer through windows
above the obscenity.
Hesitate to whisper,
future back in that house,
until I see bricks change angle.

Thinking in pink.
Shout loud about my background.
Grab the handle of both sides.
Point my crooked nose at the stone:
'Let's climb this together.'
'Peace and love forever.'
Those at the back can't hear my speech.
But those really listening cheer and preach.
Reach for ladders or offer cupped palms.
Touch the top layer but get knocked off
by a flare thrown from out of nowhere.
Hunt the culprit while the victim burns.
Bodies clamber to sample some action
like a mound of sugar infested with ants.
Look back at my house in a peaceful daze.
Turn to the melee and see a knife in my face.
Poem #11 from my collection 'A Shropshire Grad'. It's 280 words about a certain social media website.
Lewis Wyn Davies Sep 2020
A single magpie
follows,
mocks my folly
down the silky path.
Watches me pass
old railway stations.
Hops around
mad vegetation.
Trembles like
a rabid dog in dirt.
Stands waiting
above tunnels
and unnamed bridges,
heading straight for
the south coast.

I exit the wood
with thumbs up.
Pull off my ear defenders
to let lobes
cool off
in oxygen pools.
Enter through the side door.
All rules abandoned
like dog tearing up fox.
We eat white loaves,
eggs poached,
plastic potatoes,
a couple of items off
the children's menu.
My appetite is applauded
and I'm thankful for
such a throwback feast.

Next, drowsiness
lets itself in.
Both chef and beast
access the same dream.
I'm left with
a handful of passions
and tattoos repeated.
Bite off *******.
Still chewing rings
when elder spits out
the only tongue
he's ever taught me
to imitate.

His knowing look
of devilish frenzy,
our cook wakes up
to nod along
with the crazy.
Dog jumps up
and licks master's chin.
Begin to think about
untouched piano keys
hidden behind that
golden mouth.
Hope for the carpet
finally retired.
Look through the
chintzy cabinet
filled with the same
**** since '86.
Imagine knocking out
that wall
my family is so afraid
to see fall.
Street becomes
a magpie nest.
Out of  
the warren's way.
Poem #9 from my collection 'A Shropshire Grad' is about hidden discrimination and coming to terms with seeing it among your own family circles.
Lewis Wyn Davies Sep 2020
Each day, we carry our names through urban terrain.
For every letter laid out and shining atop the cityscape,
a thousand more become garbage scattered in darkness.
Yet I'm courted into thinking I'm on the right street
by algorithms selling dopamine down Sideways Alley.

Too soon after bearing my soul on the infinite scroll,
tourists flock and flap to get at the itch on my back.
Their words cut deep like plastic knives at a banquet.
Their hearts warm like the walls of an empty fridge.
Breadcrumbs left behind only lead to the trapdoor.

Those in luxury estates who threw paint on a throne -
their patches of land fertile and thriving up to the gates -
offer tips on organic growth that can build into empires,
while those packed in high-rise blocks act like bandits,
egos painted loud on knock-off flags hung to balconies.

What am I in this black hole of corrupted competition?
Views above the skyline only provide anxious thoughts.
Occasionally, I find answers in unseen neighbourhoods.
An outstretched hand holds a glass of chilled apple juice.
Now we go round each other's house to share fresh fruit.
Poem #8 from my collection 'A Shropshire Grad' focuses on social media.
Lewis Wyn Davies Sep 2020
There's a spike housed
in this stomach lining

a hideous beast
cracking knuckles

a snake curling
in circles

flush them out
with cups of water

leave them starved
like mediocre starters

avoid all
sudden
movement

block each hole
that could let
a sense explode

and pray to God
the grenade
is just a dud.
Poem #7 from my collection 'A Shropshire Grad' attempts to describe my emetophobia - the fear of *****.
Lewis Wyn Davies Sep 2020
Delivered to us by an optimistic gentleman in a black Stetson cap
who spent his days waving village traffic down with an open hand,
it's been four years since you were sat on the bookshelf in Kath's house.

You stood proud, surveying the fine china made across the border
wrapped up in donated newspaper articles and pristine hand-me-downs,
while my inky fingers welcomed regulars who only ever looked around.

Each weekend we were greeted by bright smiles set in permanent shadow.
Sometimes I declined banknotes on the street for carrying dismantled tables.
I'm still searching for namesakes when perched on local stones above sea level.

Friends like Elvis were divisive figures due to their signature tobacco smells.
Under a green bus shelter, I laughed at his frown about a Midlands town.
Thinking about the rows of vacant church seats still leaves me cold

even now. As I watch needles drop onto rocks and a solitary shell,
your frame shrivels daily and bends you crooked like a question mark.
Oh, Eric - will I ever meet your father again to discuss your burial?
Poem #6 from my collection 'A Shropshire Grad'. This is about eccentrics and how they appear to be dying out, like Eric.
Lewis Wyn Davies Sep 2020
Let's take a dive through my home estate,
a place I've tried to escape since my first brainwave.
I'll show you flat roofs and wayward avenues,
shopping trolleys that become steeds at two in the morning
next to mowed down greenery lying abandoned due to overuse.
I used to deliver newspapers along this route.
This spot, right here, has a great Wrekin view.
Back in my youth, it reminded me of you -
new roads, new horizons, new people to meet.
Let's keep moving to the end of the street
where a house is sent letters from the wicked government,
asking a mother if she's recovered from her own ill head.
Like her bed is four-poster when she can barely pay rent.
Her pathway displays a name written in cement.
Our descent continues with the drop-offs at Maccies.
A clock towers over us while we're waiting for taxis
to take us out of this place and onto higher plains
with house party nights and endless summer days.
But our dreams remain chained like bicycle frames,
The keys are locked away, we pray
in cars under stars, they say
we can be anything we want to be.
Such as royalty, or prime minister of this great country,
if we work as hard as anyone who's born into money.
So we hunt for hidden weaponry, hoping they see our cannon fire
and where spirits only fade, there will one day be a parade.
Poem #1 from my collection 'A Shropshire Grad'. This poem describes some of my experiences growing up poor in the suburb of Donnington, Telford.
Struggling to write the world with words,
my eyes stumble upon the poplar's first
of many coming yellow leaves,
reassuring me that nature's hiding
a trick or two up her seasonal sleeves.
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