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Other Stuff
Ant's Christmas poems.
The Holiday Inn
Northerners. But honest.
Him, hands like shovels,
his eyes brimming and fish-flick.
And her, well.
You get used to not asking.
Any space at all they said.
We’ll take anything.
I gave them the shed
after getting a roasting
for looking a gift horse
in a recession.
A booking’s not what it was.
It’s where I keep the Triumph.
My baby.
I couldn’t help wondering
where I’d put the WD40.
I saw his head crowning,
then there he was,
bruised, not an inch of pink on him.
She never took her eyes off him once.
The sky lit up like Christmas
suddenly – a police chopper
looking for insurgents
some said, or a nutter.
I lost the booking slip in the end.
Got roasted for that, too.
Might have fetched a fortune.
Paperwork was never my strong suit.
Anthony Wilson
December 2008
The Riddle
They say it began
in a bed of straw
under occupation.
That shepherds saw
the sky turn white
with aliens signing
praises to some prince.
Then, nothing.
Years later, a rumour
spread like a wind
across the lake
he’d apparently tamed
by shouting. That if
you even touched him
you got healed.
Demons, cancer, anything.
That he was big,
knew his wine;
hung out with whores,
called himself The Vine;
gave the rich short shrift,
kissed those with Aids;
loved an argument;
forgave;
heaved wood all day
or a man off his feet
with just a look;
hauled friends from beneath
the earth with a word;
had a cousin who lost his head;
likened his body to a loaf;
walked and wept with us. Bled.
Anthony Wilson
December, 2007
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