A poem about a desert island

Just this once, twice, forever.

I’ve been thinking, maybe we could get back together. I know we’ve had our ups and downs, but we’ve been surprisingly happy marooned here on what we’ve named Armadillo Island, because everything that isn’t an armadillo, seems designed to please one, such as the dens and the beetles and the dewy, diggable earth.

The first time we met, you were downing cocktails and skimming cherry stones across the frothy Caribbean sea. “I’m Andrew from Watford,” you said, as you climbed the railings. I followed you because it was dark, no one was watching, and it felt like the sky was going to light up under your immortal feet. We never could agree who fell overboard first.

The armadillos were affectionate from the beginning and nuzzled us safely away from the tide. We acclimatised quickly, building shelters and beds and a makeshift rescue flare. We created basic medicines from plants. I spent a blissful three weeks learning to play the banjo you carved from a log.

It’s been hard at times, of course. I’ve missed butter and pyjamas. Every year, the approach of another winter makes you panic. And then there was last week, when I behaved so badly, you told me it was over, and that shuffling into the forest while you slept, to eat the last of the mangoes by myself, was unforgivable.

But here’s the thing. When you take exploratory trips to the other side of the island and you’re gone for hours, days sometimes, and then you come back and you’re not injured or lost or looking as though everything you once felt for me has gone, and you place a hot, sweet kiss on my forehead and tell me that you missed me, it’s like being caramelised.

So, what do you say, can we give it another shot?

George and Andrew felt the harness tighten and were lifted into the helicopter like marble statues that wept and bled and held all the secrets of the cosmos in their tiny, salty hands.

The title of this poem is a line from Freedom by Wham!

Another poem about snooker

Here is a poem about Graeme Dott, who came second in the snooker World Championship this year. He won it in 2006. He’s a quiet character and so doesn’t always get noticed as much as other players, even when he’s as good. He had depression after his manager, who was also his father-in-law, died. He has a wife called Elaine. The title of the poem is from a line in Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s The Power of Love.

A sky-scraping dove

You are Graeme “Pocket Dynamo” Dott. Even though you were champion of the world for a whole year, the last thing you expect is to be recognised.

There is what politicians would call a “disconnect” between you and your walk-on song, the 1984 hit Two Tribes, which kept Frankie Goes to Hollywood at No.1 for nine weeks. You argued for The Power of Love,

“When the chips are down, I’ll be around
With my undying, death-defying love for you”

but were overruled on the grounds that it suggested you lacked the killer instinct and could be made to cry by mentioning your wedding day.

You are Graeme “Pot the Lot” Dott. If you google yourself you can watch Ronnie O’Sullivan flashing a 147. When asked for your autograph, you anticipate that your primary emotions will be embarrassment and anxiety about your own mortality. Your main source of nutrition is Irn-Bru. You have at least three novels in you, all of which are set in the giant shadows of the Highlands and Islands. In another life, you’ll use your long, fragile neck to create some of the most daring poses the world of ballet has ever seen.

All you ask for from a dressing room is a blow heater.

You are Graeme “Dott the Pot” Dott. You rubbed against grief until the rims of your eyes turned red and it hurt when you tried to sleep. In an interview for the BBC, just before your third World Championship final, you said that time heals everything.

A poem about a person who works in a butterfly house

and gets so addicted to fainting in the humidity that they get the sack.

Butterfly House

I used to work here
my dream job
watering plants in a rubber uniform
dripping in the air that butterflies like.

Initially, I was praised for the careful way
I passed the drinks round
never once spraying an insect
always waiting for the ants to stop cutting and move along.

But I soon aroused concern
with my frequent falls
and it was suggested that a humid environment
was detrimental to my health.

The verbal warning came
when my pockets emptied as I fell
and a key to the thermostat
was found in the gravel.

Not only was my fainting disturbing to the general public
my actions were also in breach of my contract
which clearly states that
horticultural staff must not regulate the temperature of the butterfly house.

I tried to explain
that I just did it for a moment of release
from the relentless motion
and the clots of exhaustion
and the responsibility of turning up on time
to appointments
and social engagements
and thinking of something to say
and listening to the weather forecast
and dressing accordingly
and holding people in my hands
like they were butterflies
that could turn to dust
with the snap of my fist.

And that I only turned the thermostat up a notch
when my body started to acclimatise
and I began to fear losing those few minutes
after you come round
when you think

all of life is like this

Slow. Beautiful. Flying.

But it didn’t help my case.

And after a written warning had no effect
they lifted me out into the street
and I lay there like a log.

So now, I wear a hat and sunglasses
and show my annual season ticket
to a stranger at the desk

and then I walk
in the thick, wet air
just another visitor
cracking in the heat.