intro to poems by John Dawson

I’ve only written two poems in 30 years. I started last year The poems are in date order with the newest first. The dates on the website reflect when they were posted not when they were written. And in 2018 the organic poetry farmer won the Larkhall festival poetry competition!

An ode to Balsamic Vinegar by John Dawson

If i had a poetry collection, this would be in a chapter called “The Waitrose Years”. inspired by my wife inspecting a bottle of vinegar at a friend’s house and putting it down with a big sigh! I’m still looking for a title that is more playful. Written in January 2019

ode to Balsamic Vinegar

In order to have a supper,
That’s super and proper,
Should balsamic vinegar quickly flow?
No, no, no.
Well, at the very least the flow should be slow

Because you see
The key to
balsamic vinegar glee,
Is the thicky, sticky,
velocity of Viscosity

Balsamic should
creep,

oooze,

seep,

and

dawdle
right to the top of the bottle
But that would cost you a lottle

So if you are a vinegar snob
You may have to rob,
Or give up the raid on a bank vault
and just be happy with malt.

The Organic Poetry Farmer by John Dawson by John Dawson

I misheard the radio news, I thought they said poetry farmer, instead of poultry farmer. So I sat down and wrote this poem over one night. My first poem in 30 years. Written in early 2018.


The Organic Poetry Farmer
Some years ago, we sold our sheep, cows and hens
And bought a herd of words unseen,
They arrived in an envelope,
postmarked Aberdeen,
Hence the cost of shipping.

‘Look at the vowels on them’ we said proudly.
‘Ah, but them consonants could do with a clipping’
We blew those words out onto the land,
I have to say, they’ve turned out fine,

And now, each cold dawn, I stand in my wellies
and milk hundreds of breath steaming words,

And on the foot hills, we round up pauses,
herding them silently, into pens,
whilst my dogs, Gerrel and Stanza scamper around.
‘Til they come to a full stop.

For we are stewards of the natural word,
the gentle guardians of the alphabet,
we don’t spray verbicides, nor force feed our letters,
Our words are not caged,
they are free to

tumble,

rustle,

nudge

and peck,

And when its time for market,
we select the best words,
We brush them down,
and we put them in their best order.

Some poetry farmers will tell you
“Farming, it gets verse as the years go on’
But we are not down hearted
Give us a year and we will grow enough letters to fill our first book,
Then we will publish,
You have my word...