Monday, 29 November 2021
Tuesday, 2 November 2021
Sunday, 26 September 2021
Wednesday, 25 August 2021
'It's very sad, Piglet.'
'Indeed it is, Pooh.'
'And to think he wasn't just a drummer.'
'No, he started out in graphic--'
'Discovered the steam kettle, you know.'
'Pooh, I rather think you're rather thinking--'
'And when Benjamin Franklin invented the electric kite, he was first on the scene.'
'Came straight out with "Watt's all this?" Didn't bat an eyelid, just punned himself and coined a unit of power.'
'I think you'll find that Benjamin--'
'Not to mention his swerve into art. 'Course, he called himself Watteau for that.'
'Where on earth did eau come--?'
'Watercolours. Honestly, Piglet...'
'Silly me. Well...a man of many parts.'
'All of which clubbed together to help him...well, club together.'
'And what's your favourite song, Pooh? Of theirs?'
'Oh, has to be Dinky Toy Women. Yours?'
'Mmm...probably Jumpin' Flash Git.'
'D'you know, I always fancied being born in a crossfire hurricane.'
'One to ponder, Pooh.'
'Exactly! Because it strikes me--'
'But not now.'
Tuesday, 29 June 2021
Not a four walls enthusiast.
His were the scarps and highways
of the garden,
the shrubs above him
high as Nordic pines.
Mid-morning by the summer-house
he’d turn from whatever labours
the cat-world confects
and just sit,
then maybe take on a fence-post
or have an unavailing lick
at one of his off-white paws.
Jem, I called him for a bit,
but mostly we settled for Jen.
Jenga was thrown round him
like a kid’s brute embrace
by whoever had him before he arrived,
an RSPCA two-for-one
with a sister who died years ago.
To begin with he stayed a good seven days
in the sideboard’s under-shadow,
fearing the rough-house would simply resume
in this new, just as frightening land.
The evening after his sister died
he patrolled the living room
chair by chair and cover by cover,
sensing that the world now nursed
a black-and-white-shaped absence.
Before much longer
our lonely tabby might search the same,
still hearing in her own way
his morefoodnow plaint.
And maybe she’ll wait in a room’s open country
for the off-white clip round her ear
which he’d deliver at full-bowl time,
and which, in the ether behind her eyes,
he may keep on doling without a care
from whatever pocket Eden
now protects him.
Friday, 9 April 2021
Wednesday, 30 September 2020
I hope that you'll be tempted.
September 2020: Michael’s new poetry collection, Under Smoky Light, is now out from Offa’s Press.
‘Michael W. Thomas’s poems always spring surprises of description, of language and of story’ – David Hart, author of Setting the poem to words, The Crag Inspector and Running Out.
‘Michael W. Thomas’ poems are rich with the details of past and present lives. They explore the wildest possibilities of those lives with passion and humour’ – Alison Brackenbury.
‘Michael W. Thomas tears the traditions of metaphors and similes apart. One feels each word took him hours to select before he cemented it in place; he has complete control of his medium’ – Kirby Congdon, US poet, dramatist, editor and associate of the Beat Poets; author of Selected Poems and Prose Poems and New Mystic, Connecticut, Sixty-Five Years Ago.
In Under Smoky Light, Michael’s poems fully justify such appraisal. Grouped in four sections – ‘A tunnel for the gust of time’, ‘Under smoky light’, ‘Down the road I go’ and ‘All that waits’ – they offer the reader striking landscapes both real and imagined, explorations of lives both present and past and reflections on the future in all its enthralling possibilities. The collection, says Simon Fletcher of Offa’s Press, is ‘first rate.’
Michael W. Thomas, Under