Magellan – by Boltini

 

Accounts as they say may vary,
but Magellan I believe was only a toddler
when his father, a rude farmer said:

Hey, how many times do I have to tell you?
Keep away from the duck pond, son,
it’s fucking deep. If you fall in you’ll drown,
here, let this be a reminder

and he gave the lad the benefit of a meaty slap
to the side of the head.

Born a rebel, Magellan took against his old man,
against his vicious determination to wring a profit
from the land regardless of cost or decency.

Magellan aged sixteen, had he been aware of Greek drama,
would have had his father’s head boiled alive and eaten some,
just for the pleasure of hearing his work described by the chorus.

Instead, what he did was, he left home,
and to avenge his mother, who all her life
had to work like a slave milking goats
and sleeping always on the draughty side of the bed,
he set out to explore the vast uncharted oceans of the world.

And with what formidable success! Undreamed of feats
for a man who all his life harboured a fear of ducks.
Ducks erupting in his sleep, the ducks
he must confront and vanquish in a bloodbath nightly
of mangled beaks, webbed feet and feathers,
the hellish quacking.

Undreamed of feats for a man whose ardent member –
so rejected lovers would attest –
was no great towering main-mast
and of less than average girth.

Magellan, a man to command fleets.
Magellan, a man to kindle in our quailing hearts the spark
that might inspire us to wrestle down the demons,
the claws, the hooks, the thorns, the ducks
that would impede us.

 

 

 

I could not pin down Boltini for a bio, but he is a Yorkshire poet with a unique and beguiling voice. His collection Narrow Ruled Feint with Margin is available here from Half Moon Books.

Come the Revolution – by Boltini

 

stale scones
stale scones

take ’em to the bridge
take ’em to the river
take ’em to the bridge over the river

and bomb the swans
bomb the swans

hissing gaping bullyboy swans
doting on their own reflections

snooty swanky puffed-up galleons
they’re big bad buggers non-egalitarian

time to be drastic
be iconoclastic

the river is for all of us
not just the powerful that think they’re gorgeous

so moorhen dabchick coot unite
get the swans, do what’s right

if you’re out of luck
you’ll hit a duck

but it’s very very hard
to sink a mallard

with stale scones
rock buns

take ’em to the bridge
take ’em to the river
take ’em to the bridge over the river

and bomb the swans
bomb swans

 

 

 

I could not pin down Boltini for a bio, but he is a Yorkshire poet with a unique and beguiling voice. His collection Narrow Ruled Feint with Margin is available here from Otley Word Feast Press.

Sex and the Wheelbarrow – by Boltini

 

Not being that smart or lively at thinking
I was never much good at what you might call
the Art of Conversation. Consequently I don’t settle in
and I don’t feel at ease at parties,

so I was just sort of standing there
surrounded by everybody on my own, in the kitchen at Zoe’s
when a woman in the red dress turned to me,
and what is it you do? she said, smiling nicely.

Well I was taken by surprise, but I didn’t let it show,
I’m a gardener, I said. And remembering my manners –
it’s polite to ask – and what about you, I said, what do you do?
She said, I’m a sex therapist.

Oh-my I said, My-my. By Jove that’s interesting,
so you must be a really good fuck then.
There was a pause. She didn’t say anything,

so I went on –

Well, you know, when I say I’m a gardener, what I mean is,
I’m not the sort of fellow who can graft your fruit trees,
bring a lovely bloom to your peaches up against a hothouse wall,
fettle your bromeliads, that sort of thing,
I’m more of a labourer you see, slash and burn,
I spend a lot of time digging and weeding,
going backwards and forwards with my wheelbarrow

and d’you know what, damn and blast it, it was only this morning
I got a flat tyre with a full load on among the viburnums.
It were touch and go I can tell you, a right tricky moment,
a ruddy great thorn from off of floribundas had…
er… had worked its way in…

but the woman in the red dress had gone.
Just goes to show, like I say,
I’m not very good at parties,
not too hot at the Art of Conversation.

 

 

 

I could not pin down Boltini for a bio, but he is a Yorkshire poet with a unique and beguiling voice. His collection Narrow Ruled Feint with Margin is available here from Otley Word Feast Press.

Inadmissible Advice to the Young – by Boltini

 

Now isn’t it the case that when you’re a young man
you always wake up with a hard-on,
and if you’re in a hurry it can get in the way
between you and the sink
as you brush your teeth in the morning but –

if you are not in a hurry –
if you are a student say, of the arts perhaps,
then you might have time to reflect on the difference
between the narrow plastic shaft of the toothbrush
and your own stiff cock, thick and generous,
which you take in your other hand

and back across the landing,
over the arctic lino barefoot,
you may pad back to your bedsit bed
where the girl lies sleeping

and forget Dr Drakakis.
Go hang his tutorial on Spencer’s Faerie Queen,
for in your arms, cleaving to you, drowsy for love,
you hold an enchantress of your own.

And later, yes later, there will be time;
there will be time for study and duty
but today let it be for love and youth
to go dancing down the worried streets,
beyond mortgaged lives and market places
to city parks with wider skies. And wine. Wine aplenty,
laughter and tears, dreams and kisses then, enough for poetry.

When cherries are ripe they must be eaten.
So make no apology – sorry Dr Drakakis –
make no apology, but celebrate. Celebrate.
Consult an artist if in doubt, consult the poet.

 

 

 

 

I could not pin down Boltini for a bio, but he is a Yorkshire poet with a unique and beguiling voice. His collection Narrow Ruled Feint with Margin is available here from Otley Word Feast Press.