Everyday Poetry

Another notebook find - a poem sketched out two years ago, charting the changes in my radio listening habits over the years.     On teenaged Friday evenings Illicit charts on pirate radio Eased me into a funky disco mood As I teased bubbles into soft peaks. Late nights in digs Contentedly alcohol-hazed,  The Shipping Forecast sailed me away Amongst wave tangled sheets. Afternoons alone in our first house Baby safe with her Nan, I danced to Radio 1, cigarette in hand, Among trestle table, paper and paint. Early morning commutes  Worrying what the day might hold,  Dreaming of a better life  To the honeyed voice of Terry Wogan. These lazy afternoons,  Decaffeinated coffee soothes  As I spend my days in the company Of plays, podcasts, and poetry. © Copyright 2025. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

It's funny how some memories of childhood stay fresh and clear, while others disappear.  I came across this memory in some notes I'd made on childhood during my course, and had to write them up before they disappeared once again.   My nineteen guests sit in a circle Splay-legged on the carpet, Silent, eyes blank, looking straight ahead As if in the company of strangers. A mixed, assorted bunch, From tiny dolls with painted hair,  To blue-eyed, blonde-haired Fiona, Standing half my height, my latest friend. Mixed in between, with no distinction made, The hunched and furry bears, Reaching out their worn and clumsy paws Towards impossible teacup handles. The shaky teapot pours juice into their cups, Red plastic plates are passed around To share the iced ring biscuits politely, Though every one is bitten by my proxy teeth. The party warms up as 'tea' and biscuits disappear, Guests slump in their places, inhibitions lost, As they regain the toy box familiarity  Of li...

We visited Slimbridge last week for my husband to practice his photography skills.  Naturally,  at this time of year there are few birds to be seen from the hides,  as most have migrated to warmer climes. But there are still a few surprises to be had.  Like an excitable audience,  Crows keep up a companionable chatter, A backdrop to the hushed reverence of the hide Where whispered words barely disturb the silent view Of bare-banked, recently dredged ponds. A splay-toed, brown-bronze feathered glossy ibis Struts slowly onto centre stage, jab-jabbing its downcurved bill Through the water, searching the mud between the reeds, Unconconcerned and unaware of its new role As solo performer on a barren stage. All eyes, scopes, binoculars, camera lenses follow close, Capturing its every step and jab as it feels for its invisible prey,  As it disappears back behind the thick reed curtain, without taking a bow. The watchers disperse to catch the next hide's show, And ...

I really love this time of year when the leaves are changing colour, and before they fall to the ground.   The trees bleed slowly from their tips  Deepening to rust and russet  As they seep into the sky. In spring the youthful sap pushed vigorously  Rushing towards each branch's end, Painting each leaf bright green from tip to trunk. Now in autumn the sap retreats towards the core Draining each leaf of green, revealing hidden colours The rubies, bronze and gold, waiting there all along.   © Copyright 2025. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

I woke up a couple of mornings ago with the beginnings of a poem chasing round my head. I was intrigued by how the sounds of the words triggered other words with similar sounds, and just let it play out on the page.  Stories unfurl from the tip of my pen Curl down the page line by line Until they find space, the time to pause, Gather strength, resume their course again. Words race, keeping pace with my mind Running quick; shadows take shape, Become fixed, lead on to the next,  Remaking places, recalling faces from another time. © Copyright 2025. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved