Fred is reliably informed that today is National Poetry Day. Yes! That day when we can all stake a claim to living, breathing and just being the language of all those greats who, through the ages, filtered or fuddled meaning from the course of the everyday and wrote it down in a way quite like no other could, can or will. Teachers pontificate to their students that we’re all poets deep down, we’ve all got a story to tell, you’ve just got to open your mind and be creative. And so, up and down the land, trees are cut down, the wood is pulped, the pulp is dried, processed, retailed and eventually written on. Fortunately, as folk become more conscious of their compartmentalised bins, there is a greater chance now than at any other point in history that their daubed-on paper will actually be put to good use, before eventually finding its way to the sea. Toilet roll is my first thought here.

And so, without further ado, let me unveil to you Fred’s Five-Point Poetry Day Plan:

• Close your eyes and take a deep breath. Go on!
• You feel that? You’ve just breathed in the same air as that which William Shakespeare did, this very day, albeit 400 years ago!
• Inspiration gained. Now think of something really sententious. Pretentious will do. As long as it’s pretty short. In fact, let’s say five syllables. Struggling? OK, let’s make this a bit easier. You can count the syllables on your fingers if needs be.
• Got something but not sure it’s all that? Don’t panic! Have another go at a five syllable one. People tend to get a seven quite easily, but those fives sure are tricky.
• OK, we’re there. Stick the five on top, whack the seven in the middle, and place the second lot of five on the bottom. No, it’s not a syllable sandwich; it’s your very own haiku, and you your very own poet!
  
  Here ends the Five-Point Plan. If you’re feeling really good, go and share your wares! People will really warm to you. But whatever you do, make sure you put the recycling out for Monday morning.

ENDS

Buckets and spades. Bank holiday Sunday.
Windbreaks, deckchairs, pink candy floss.
Fish and chips, plastic cartons, Cardiff City football shirt.

Dragon tattoos and sunnies.
Penny floaters, sandcastles, squawks of seagulls,
Names in the sand.

Donkey rides, dodgem cars, high tide,
Sea breeze, water slides.
Sugary tea, powdery milk, 99s.

Plastic tub filled with coppers,
David Bowie’s ‘Ashes to Ashes’,
A man pinned down by four security staff.

Kites, trackie bottoms, holding hands.
A Doberman. Two Dalmations.
Flipflops, rucksacks, pushchairs, bikinis.

Rolled-up trousers, white toes, mild sunburn.
Spraytan, highlights, disposable cameras.
Whiffs of seaweed, West Country acents.

Parasols, pot bellies, zimmer frames, wheelchairs.
Carers, vendors, pinball machines,
A cross-dressing karaoke star at the railway bar.

A bike with stabilisers tearing across the sand
A sign for ½ price rides, a trio of Union flags.
Socks and sandals, Lambretta bikes.

The handwritten licence above the pub door.
Echoes of cheers pouring onto the street.
A child screaming. A father chuckling.

Team GB t-shirts, carousels, waltzers.
A misjudged throw, mint choc chip.
Chimneys in Wales. A saree.

Apologies,

Weston-super-Mare

The sunlight on the garden
Hardens and grows cold,
We cannot cage the minute
Within its nets of gold,
When all is told
We cannot beg for pardon.

Our freedom as free lances
Advances towards its end;
The earth compels, upon it
Sonnets and birds descend;
And soon, my friend,
We shall have no time for dances.

The sky was good for flying
Defying the church bells
And every evil iron
Siren and what it tells:
The earth compels,
We are dying, Egypt, dying

And not expecting pardon,
Hardened in heart anew,
But glad to have sat under
Thunder and rain with you,
And grateful too
For sunlight on the garden.



A poem by Louis MacNeice