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Best Poems Written by Ken Colonsay

Below are the all-time best Ken Colonsay poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Beatrix Potter

A good old duck, a mother hen, 
a friend of Peter Rabbit; chased 
Mr. McGregor out of the garden: 
the Flopsy Bunnies survive again.  

She knew her ewes from her rams, 
meticulous, house-proud in her way. 
A hedgehog, a Mrs. Tiggy Winkle 
every field mouse allowed to stay. 

Cumbria and the Lake District 
will never see her like again: 
North country girl, illustrator, 
storyteller with brush and pen.

Details | Ken Colonsay Poem

British Politics

BRITISH POLITICS



I did well not to get involved with politics;
I saw through local councillors
With their holiday homes in the Highlands.
I gave New Labour the slip and went canvassing
For the Love Spirit.
Like Big Ben, I looked down on Westminster
Politicians; I wouldn't give them the time of day.
I didn't complain when the Tories
Lost all their seats in Scotland
I didn't take the matter up with the Ombudsman.

I didn't get into a hansom cab with Disraeli,
I passed the House of Commons obliviously.
Like the monarch, I took no part in constitutional affairs.

I didn't read Politics, brothers! I read mystics:
St Theresa of Avalon, St Francis of Assisi;

Wind in trees
Moss on stones
Herbs in pots

I found a writer's hut, a path to the fairy dell;
I have fairy wings I won't give up.
The Fair Ones made me Clairvoyant Laureate for 2003.
I was awarded The Diamond Talisman,
A hidden gem of rare beauty.

Now the Green Party are after me!

I didn't go on the Peace March in Glasgow,
I just pushed through the crowd to Borders bookstore
And had a coffee with Hans Christian Andersen.

I've done well not to go into politics,
I'd only make a fool of it
Like Screaming Lord Sutch;
I dropped a poem into a ballot box once,
A vote for Robert Burns - I did that much!

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The Thousand Ships

A THOUSAND SHIPS 


Is this the face, this old hulk in the salt marsh? 
Is this my lady with creaking timbers
 and peeling skin? 

 A mere figurehead, a turkey prow, 
missing one oar, grandiloquent, vainglorious, 
still fighting the old sea-battles
with the wind and waves

the thousand ships
 that lie at the bottom of the sea.

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The Sunflower

Sunflower! glorious plate
 from a king's larder,
sprinkle your seeds
in my common little garden.

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Sit Down Like Matisse

SIT DOWN LIKE MATISSE 


Sit down like Matisse 
with coloured paper and scissors 
and cut a red Eastern poppy - 
papaver orientale! 

Stare at goldfish in a bowl, 
consider your life in art; 
what it's done for your soul: 
luxe, calme et volupte.

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Goth Girl

GOTH GIRL


Sitting beside two Goth girls;
Black hair, black clothes,
Black eyelashes,
silver studs in the knee-length boots,
pale daughters-of-Dracula complexions.

I could be in Whitby for a Goth convention,
standing on a crag
looking out on the cold North sea,
but I'm having a coffee break
from learning Swedish,
and the blonde thread running
through my thoughts
has been momentarily lost,
a shadow darkens the sun.

Sneaking a glance at her chill loveliness; 
no fangs or love bite from the master
blemish her ivory neck,
and I laugh behind my newspaper,
laugh at the adult restraint
I have to honour,
laugh at the sentence,
Welcome to my castle!

She turns to look my way
but I have to get going
- Age before Beauty -
before the light of those eyes
makes me break
my thousand-year silence.

Details | Ken Colonsay Poem

Radio Voices

RADIO VOICES 


Thirty-three and a half minutes listening to the static; 
I'm one big ear! hoping to hear a message 
from the other side... 

Beethoven has an unfinished symphony he wants completed, 
Arthur Conan Doyle complains fiction today is all detective work, 
Joan of Arc loves Mel Brooks. 

Thirty-four and a half minutes and my patience snaps; 
I turn to RTE, the writer Derek Mahon 
Is being discussed by a panel. 
They've detected importance in his poem 
'A Disused Shed in Co. Wexford'. 

Mushrooms decaying in the dark, 
Holy Joes adrift in a Godless cellar, 
Sweethearts who've missed the boat, 
Bollards moored in misery, 
Death-pale and ghostly. 

I would store this poem in a cool dark place 
and only bring it out into the light of day 
for a bookish friend, a literature hound; 
it merits close inspection.

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Jenny Free Verse

JENNY FREE VERSE
 

Balaclava over my head,
I nipped into the John Hewitt 
and went nervously up to the bar. 
'Are you a poet?' a woman's voice inquired. 
I dreaded the question, so embarrassed. It was a key moment. 
'I'm ... I play with words on paper!' 
I fumbled in my pocket for a pen and notebook. 
'I'm having fun with the language!' 
I laughed - I felt a great weight 
lift from my shoulders 
as she slipped the balaclava
off my head and kissed me. 

'Can I buy you a drink?' the lady 
bought me a Pernod, and hey presto! 
we were off to the races, 
talking passionately 
About Heaney, Mahon and Longley. 

Jenny Free Verse 
gave me her number, 
promised to have a look at my notebook 
and give me some feedback. 
'Cheers!' 

I waltzed down the street, 
got back to the house in ¾ time, 
got my Italian leather, hand-crafted, 
writing journal out from the tall boy 
and wrote, ‘I just met Jenny Free Verse!'

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The Vintner

His stock is rosy red, his nose
Blood-hound sensitive;
Cabernets, Chardonnay, 
Muscadet; Bacchus of the industry! 

Rolling the names around his tongue,
leaving no Chateau or wine unsung:
 Chateau Lafite, Chateau Latour, 
Chateau Mouton, Chateau Margaux.

Details | Ken Colonsay Poem

Burns V Kavanagh

If Robert Burns met Patrick Kavanagh
who would smile who would look away
across a field of barley or potatoes
kindred spirits or in each other's way?

The ploughmen poets would adjourn
to the local pub and order single malts
and after a few glasses had been taken
tell tall tales of sowing wild oats.