humour

Publication Day!

News

It’s UK publication day for ‘A Poem for Every Question’, my new collection of poems for children, illustrated by the brilliant Joe Berger. 

This is what it looks like

Inside there are poems to answer all sorts of interesting questions: how many stars in the universe exploded today?; who had the first holiday?; how many times a day do we laugh?; are unicorns real?;  and many more.

I’m really chuffed to see how this book has turned out. A big thanks to the team at Farshore Books for producing such a beautiful object.

If you fancy getting hold of a copy, it should be available through your local bookshop. Alternatively, here’s a page with links to some online booksellers: https://harpercollins.co.uk/products/a-poem-for-every-question-brian-bilston?variant=55115733893499

You Took the Last Bus Home (again)

News

It’s publication day for the new edition of my first poetry collection, You Took the Last Bus Home. It’s been unavailable for nine months, following the demise of its original publisher, Unbound. I’m so delighted that Picador stepped into the breach to bring out this shiny new edition.

Hopefully it will now be back on the shelves of most bookshops – and it’s available to order online from all the usual places. You can find a few links to where to order here: https://www.panmacmillan.com/authors/brian-bilston/you-took-the-last-bus-home/9781035086634

You Took the Last Bus Home

News, Some poems

I took delivery yesterday of some advance copies of the gorgeous new edition of ‘You Took the Last Bus Home’.

In celebration of that, here’s the title poem …

You Took the Last Bus Home

you took
the last bus home
don’t know how
you got it through the door 

you’re always doing amazing stuff 

like the time

you caught that train

The Bad Salad of William Archibald Spooner

Some poems

Why do I always watch my birds?
I know that statement sounds absurd
but today I reached an all-lime toe
when I received a blushing crow.

It’s wetting gorse – and here’s the crunch:
my conversation packs a lunch.
I’m not sure when all this began
but I think I need a plaster man

to help me when my stouth gets muck.
I should sit, perhaps, and bead a rook,
fight a liar, or flick some powers.
No, I think I’ll go and shake a tower.

…………………………………………………………………..

The Reverend William Archibald Spooner was born on this day in 1844. He’s remembered today for his unfortunate habit of getting his words muddled up. Happy Spoonerism Day to all those who belly crate.

A Poem, Strong and Stable

Assorted Poems, Some poems

How blessed am I
to live beneath a strong and stable sky
and the warmth it enables me
from a sun that shines down,
strongly and stably.

Me, with these strong and stable legs,
that take me past the queues
of people – long unable to be fed –
waiting to give thanks
outside the strong and stable food banks,

and beyond where the library once was,
now strongly converted
to stable a private medical centre,
that makes the sick (but financially abler)
stronger and stabler.

And further on, the school
strongly lacking in staple equipment –
whiteboards, books, teachers –
all signs of a strong and stable commitment
to the dismantling of lives.

I thank the government
for such strong and stable times
then wander to the park, alone,
pausing to watch a cricket match.
I bend to sit upon the bench,

and fall through its rotted slats.

Poem, revised draft

Assorted Poems, Some poems

I had to write this poem again.
I left the first draft on the train
and now it doesn’t look the same.

The original was a paean to Love,
to Truth, to Beauty. It soared above
the everyday and all that stuff.

It would have healed estranged lovers’ rifts,
stilled the sands on which time shifts
and stopped the world before it drifts

further into quagmired crisis,
ended famine, toppled ISIS.
Employed ingenious literary devices.

I tried my hardest to recall
its words and rhymes, the rise and fall
of the carefully cadenced crawl

through the English language.
But it caused me pain and anguish
for there was little I could salvage.

It certainly didn’t end with a line like this.

Why the chicken crossed the road

Assorted Poems, Some poems

I saw the chicken cross the road,
deep set in contemplation.
So I put my cap on and followed
to end all the speculation.

He ducked down an alleyway,
then suddenly stopped dead
below a sign that gently swayed,
upon which said The Gag’s Head.

On the door, he went knock-knock
“Who’s there?” “Me. Chicken”
He was quickly ushered in
and the plot began to thicken.

I peered in through the window
to get a better look at the place;
the first thing that caught my eye
was a horse with a long face.

The horse was looking at something
black and white and red all over,
while stroking a dog without a nose
who emitted a terrible odour.

Next to them was a big chimney,
smoking in front of his son,
and Pikachu who had missed the bus
because nobody poked him on.

An Englishman, Irishman and Scotsman
were all standing there in a group,
talking to an elephant in a fridge
and a fly doing breaststroke in soup.

The chicken ordered himself a beer
and began a night of boozing
to escape from a joke of a life
made not of his own choosing.

I looked on sadly for a little more
before deciding I’d better split;
the first rule of joke format club
is nobody talks about it.

Wallycobbles

Assorted Poems, Some poems

i remember the moment
when my collies
began to wobble
as if it were yesterday
which it was
give or take a year
or two

it came as quite a shock
until that point
they had always seemed
of steadfast
and sturdy stock
hardly worthy
of a tremor
or a tremble
but solid
solid as a rock

i presented them
to the doc
parting his paperwork
to let them rest
quivering
and shivering
atop his pock-marked desk
he gave me
the heebie-jeebies
in a jamjar saying
take two before breakfast
with a glass of wine
closely pursued
by two more
during newsnight
but not the bit when
the next day’s papers
get perused

now they’re as good as new