CORNER by Ralph Pomeroy WHAT IS THE POET SAYING? WHAT ...

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CORNER by Ralph Pomeroy WHAT IS THE POET SAYING? WHAT ...

CORNER by Ralph Pomeroy WHAT IS THE POET SAYING? WHAT DEVICES DOES THE POET USE TO SAY IT?

The cop slumps alertly on his motorcycle,

Supported by one leg like a leather stork.

His glance accuses me of loitering.

I can see his eyes moving like a fish

In the green depths of his green goggles.

His ease is fake. I can tell.

My ease is fake. And he can tell.

The fingers armoured by his gloves

splaying and clenching, itching to change something.

As if he were my enemy or my death,

I just standing there watching.

I spit out my gum which has gone stale.

I knock out a new cigarette -

which is my bravery.

It is all imperceptible:

The way I shift my weight,

The way he creaks in his saddle.

The traffic is specific though constant.

The sun surrounds me, divides the street between us.

His crash helmet is whiter in the shade.

It is like a bull ring as they say it is just before the fighting.

I cannot back down. I am there.


Everything holds me back.

I am in danger of disappearing into the sunny dust.

My Levis bake and my T shirt sweats.

My cigarette makes my eyes burn.

But I don’t dare drop it.

Who made him my enemy?

Prince of coolness. King of fear.

Why do I lean here waiting?

Why does he lounge there watching?

I am becoming sunlight.

My hair is on fire. My boots run like tar.

I am hung-up by the bright air.

Something breaks through all of a sudden,

And he blasts off, quick as a craver,

Smug in his power; watching me watch.


LEATHER-JACKETS, BIKES AND BIRDS by Robert Davies WHAT IS THE POET SAYING? WHAT DEVICES DOES THE POET USE TO SAY IT?

The streets are noisy

with the movement of passing motors.

The coffee bars get fuller.

The leather-jacket groups begin to gather,

stand, and listen, pretending they are

looking for trouble.

The juke box plays its continuous

tune, music appreciated by Most.

The aroma of Espresso

coffee fill the nostrils and

the night.

Motorbikes pull up.

Riders dismount and join

their friends in the gang.

They stand, smoking, swearing,

playing with the girls;

making a teenage row.

They pretend not to notice the drizzle

falling out of the dark,

because you’re got to be hard to be a leather-jacket.

A couple

in a corner, snogging,

hope the motor lights will not be


dipped too much,

so that the others will see them.

They must all have recognition;

there must always be enough

leather-jackets around them,

the same as theirs.

The street lamp on the side

of the street shows the rain

for what it is – wet and cold.

But it does not show their faces

for what they are.

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