Thursday, 12 October 2017

3 poems by Grant Tarbard

Then Raise the Scarlet Standard High


I'll peel away my skin and be a Trotskyist,
under all the lax brawn I am red meat.

I'll make you proud, Trotsky, I'll decry cereal
and toothpaste, I'll bemoan the bourgeois bakery

making phallic loaves, leading proles by the nose.
I'll steal baskets at the checkout, dumping the contents

into a communal pile, making a vermillion bonfire
out of blue cheese and Highgrove biscuits, now £4.95.

I'll be a pirate of the high streets, raising the scarlet
skull and crossbones high, shoplifting red knickers

and strawberries, sneering from over the pages
of Lessons of October. I'll degrade old ladies in vulgar hats,

kicking their canes out from under them,
spilling their vegetables onto the pavement,

stealing their apples, appropriating them for the cause.
I'll throw bricks through windows with lewd poems attached

and shatter the bourgeois notions of decency.
No fear shall taint our gullet of laughter,

tangled in a tongue of manifestos,
burping through the national anthem. 










Grant Tarbard is an editorial assistant for Three Drops From A Cauldron and a reviewer. His new collection Rosary of Ghosts (Indigo Dreams) was released in 2017.





---
First published on 29/12/2016

The Process of Becoming Smaller


When the days go timid as a blind mouse
my goose flesh will sag like a rice pudding.

Eyebrows of a thousand motions,
as alive as a galvanised corpse.

The reanimated quiver of a left eye,
adjoining muscles contort into an ox jaw grimace.

A morel nose designed to shatter,
fighting the solid shade of it's being.

The cadaverous contraction of a smile
is in the process of becoming smaller,

callous as a rosary
beneath a bistro of greasy hair.





---
First published on 15/12/2015


Winter Garden


The lover, wrapped up in a snug blanket, 
a cocoon she'll prize apart when paper 
cut sheaths of a late dawn break over the 
mechanical tick of the horizon.

Her tangle of eyes, compressed tight into 
the sofa cushion, ignore the chalky 
pigmented powder of a diffracting 
winter, loyal to an image of the 

past. I worry about floating, how long 
do I sit here? I dangle on a string 
of ears listening to your chest rise and 
fall as if its attached to a ballon.

I ignore all sounds but whispers of ghosts, 
thrushes singing in their winter garden.



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