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Poetry by Rosemary Dun



There are things not said,
not let out
to spread their raven wings
and whoomph open
unlucky as an umbrella
released indoors.

Those things whisper
in the quiet
of in between times
not filled with parties,
with chatter, and borrowed friends.

They lurk Golem-like
to confirm and harden
that nothing quaking in the dark
with no landing light
to switch on.

Things unsaid skulk,
monsters by the wardrobe.




I Like my poetry gambolling barefoot

across the page

wild and wanton and witty.

Not for me the torture of haiku,

that bonsai tree of Japanese


where words are hacked back,

their vowels and consonants bound

tight as the feet of Chinese concubines

not mine.


I like my words free range, running free –  

Young hearts run free

never be hung up ...

on a sonnet, a villanelle, restricted,


in rhyming couplet hell

forced into marriage so boring and trite

using words that don’t fit, but are wedded


together, forever,

in iambic pentameter rhythm and rhyme.


I like my poems to have a good time.

And I don’t like words academic and haughty,

I like them sensuous, and rather naughty.

All dressed up and spangly,

in their short skirts, stockings and


I like words that go out on a bender

who snog the bad boy poet

and shag against the wall.

I love words who give it their all,

are wayward girls and wicked women

crying all alone at night

being strong in spite of the odds,

words being awkward sods.


And sometimes words can be a puppy,

bounding onto the stage,

knocking over the sound system, the microphone,

then being sent to its basket in the corner

when all words wanted to do

was to lick everyone’s face.

Aah, poor words.


And those words can sure go places.

Words on tours, words as whores,

Its only words, and words are all I have ...

Words stolen, abducted, painted a different

colour as a ringer,

exciting, delighting, a real



Poetry can be as good as a kiss

words are bliss, a touch, a tease, a

poetic squeeze

My words do their very best to

be loved and to please

and then they can be teenager

oh yes, and how

my words can be a stroppy cow

can stomp and flounce and sulk

for Mars

my words can try and sneak in to clubs

and bars.

Yeah?  Whatever.


My words could go on for ever.

And though I might want words to be


still I can’t resist

to catch those words, and tether them

like fluttering birds on

my page.

But I’ll try and make it a gilded cage

and every now and then let words come

out and play.

I’ll open the door, watch words fly away

safe in the knowledge that words will come





(in the style, and to the tune of, Barry Manilow’s Copacabana)


His name was Nigel

He was a plumber

He had the slinkiest hips

And fulsome lips

As he merengued down.


He did the tango

And the lambada

He had a rhythm

That was hip and hot

And outta town.


He whisked me on the floor.

I nearly flew right out the door.

But he caught me

Taught me steps

I’d never

See before.


Yes, I’m a fan of

The Club Cubana

That’s where the singles go

To get down low

And rub their hips.


At Club Cubana

We danced the salsa

It’s the craziest, the hippest,

The hottest, the lovest

At Club Cubana –

We fell in love.




Part 1

Why Poets Make Great Lovers


He said:  “We are poets

and for us,

a single leaf is



Part 2

Why Poets Are Dangerous Lovers


You fall in love

because he reads you

a beautiful poem

which he wrote,

and is dedicated to you.


Only later do you


that its one he’s had

knocking about for

ages and that

he substituted

an old lover’s name

for yours.



Love In The Classifieds


She’d hoped for a man who was handsome and taller

He’d hoped for a girl who was younger and smaller.

She ordered a coke and he ordered a lager

She hoped he was sober, he hoped she was kinder

                                             than the last one.


They sat, swapped life stories in the bar of The Shed

She’d met some disasters.  “I’m sorry,” he said.

She hoped for adventure, a chat and a laugh,

He hoped to find someone to care for his heart,

                                                    maybe more.


“Shall we give it a whirl?” he smiled as he asked her.

She nodded, said:  “Sure, Life’s for taking on chances.”

And she thought she could like him, he had a sweet face

So they agreed to meet up, for a film, at The Showcase,

                                                      next Monday.


At home, she stared back at her worn out reflection

It’ll be a lark, she decided. This is not desperation,

But a sensible option, a shortcut to love.

We live such isolated lives, sometimes need a shove

                                               in the direction of small ads.


He climbed up the steps leading to his front door.

He stopped, took a breath, knew that he wanted more –

That surely, there must be more excitement, more challenge in life;

Then he turned his latch key and went in to his wife –

                                                             asleep on the sofa.


She was pleased that he had a good sense of humour.

He thought she seemed willing, was sure she’d deliver

Some comfort.  He needed to feel more attractive,

It had been a long time since his wife had been active

                                                                  in bed.


She dressed very carefully on the night of their first date.

They agreed the film “Swingers” had been hip, and was first-rate.

And later in the dark of her small living room

She came quickly and quietly in sad gratitude,

                                                 and without passion.


He kissed her goodbye as she averted her eyes.

“I’ll phone soon,” he promised.  She knew that he lied.

He’d hoped for a girl who was younger and smaller

She’d hoped for a man who was handsome, and who

                                                            would call her.



I’m being followed by David Beckham


David Beckham follows me.

He hangs around the supermarket,

urging me to buy organic.

“Its good, its fresh, all that malarkey.

And did you see me, on TV, last Friday?”


David Beckham’s stalking me

I saw him down the pub.

“Would you like to see my snaps of Brooklyn?

Victoria sends her love.”

He flashes me his very best shy and boyish grin.

Then offers, apropos nothing much:

 “I kicked the ball, it went right in.”


David Beckham sits atop my television,

one leg outstretched, the other dangled.

“Could you shift a little to the left, Dave?

You’re blocking the part in ER

where that lovelorn nurse gets shot.”

“I hate this bit,” says David.  “It makes me want to cry.

“I’m a sensitive, new football kind of guy

who doesn’t mind telling all the world

that I love my kid, and I got the girl.”


David Beckham tucks me up

in bed at night.

“Sweet dreams, don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

Next he slowly disappears,

first his body, then his ears, until his smile

is all that’s left.

A Cheshire Cat with football legs.

I whisper to him “Goodnight Dave.”

That’s all, there’s nothing bestial.

He merely is a top-rate friend,

who’s strangely, somewhat asexual.





I have always


In Integrity.

But for you,

It’s just a


That begins


The letter






You are the guy who didn’t phone

You are the guy who walked me home

You are the guy with wavy hair

You are the guy who didn’t care

About his ex whose name was Claire.


You are the guy who said I’m great

You are the guy who wouldn’t wait

You are the guy said it was me

You are the guy said:  Can't you see?

This has nothing to do with Claire.


You are the guy who took his socks off

You are the guy who got his rocks off

You are the guy who went all night

You are the guy who did it right

Then ruined it by calling me Claire.


You are the guy put in a taxi

You are the guy who tried to fax me

You are the guy said its OK,

You are the guy I said “Hey,

Don't call me Dave, because now

I'm seeing Claire.



Lennon and Lennon

(on collaborating with Helęn Thomas)


You are Morrissey to my Bananarama.

You said you’d rather prance and sing

with gladioli.

I said I’d rather dance and snog

Fun Boy Three.

“That’s fine by me,”

said Morrissey

And anyway, isn’t that Robert De Niro

waiting –

talking Italian.


You’re more Alan Bennett,

while I’m Julie Burchill.

You prefer a cup of tea

to me.

I’m a grande dame who likes

wham bang

toy boys making

lots of noise.

You say: “Julie, is that one lump

or two?”


I’m John Lennon whilst you’re

Paul McCartney.

What’s that?  You’re John Lennon?

OK, we’ll both be Lennon

because no-one wants to be


otherwise one of us would have

to be in an octopus’s garden

in the sea.

Contact Rosemary at