Tuesday, 27 January 2015


I started with the little stuff
a wren that flew into the glass.
I skinned it, stuffed it, stitched it up. 
Less Jenny Wren - and more pig's arse!
But soon I got the hang of it
and so went on to bigger things.
Ginger hamsters, fluffy rabbits,
a farmyard hen with outstretched wings.
Neighbour's cats, a runaway pooch,
( oh - desist! They're never missed for long; 
posters on poles a week or two.
then people buy another one!).

I did a road killed ram last year,
a badger that I hit in Spring
- I've stuffed a stoat, a goat, a deer, 
a messed up fox and other things.
But I don't intend stopping there.
I have a more ambitious plan.
Here's a little clue: Burke and Hare...
Yes! I will kill and stuff a MAN!
I'll have him sitting in a chair
so he can watch TV with me.
We'll eat our tea together there
- and chat away most amiably!
It's very seldom any body
ever comes to visit me.
I think that my menagerie
of strange beasts, my taxidermy,
rather puts them off. Which suits me
because my 'friend' and I can be
undisturbed; we can 'rest in peace'
without fear of killjoy bobbies
saying: "Can we ask some questions Sir?"
And you know the nosey type they mean.
I might even keep a handy bear fur
so he isn't accidentally seen
- I'll zip it up tightly round him
if someone rings the front door bell,
so he's neatly concealed within
a weird shaped bear - they'll never tell!
And while I'm out at work all day
I'll make him wear a keeper's hat
so he can watch my zoo at play
and keep some order in my flat.
I've thought of everything, I hope...
I've waited for a moonless sky;
truncheon, chloroform, gag and rope,
ten litres of formaldehyde!
Here's the bit that tickles me:
I've made my car look like a cab
so when my prey shouts "Taxi!"
he'll get a ride, a sleep, a stab -
then, like Pharaohs from antiquity,
for whom life itself was not enough- 
he'll attain immortality
through being well and truly stuffed!

Sunday, 18 January 2015


When wolves move out to hunt the hare
and stars burn coldly through the spheres,
dark forests fill with whispered prayer
where snow falls thick and drifts are sheer
and those that can stay in their lair
for night is full of hungered fear;
Old owls heed all who shiver there:
the stag horn beetle, stealthy deer,
flame eyed vixen and hulking bear,
yet always hold their knowledge near:
Who? Who?
                    The only words they'll share;
Who? Who?
                    Their questions ringing clear -
through bronze hung beeches, freezing air
- are falling trees that none would hear.

Wednesday, 14 January 2015


Below the power line macramé
in a Delhi alley doorway,
a woman is grinding cumin
with green palms of coriander
while a slim bellied singing man
is frying meat and dancing round her.

Two days later on a sun spilled
clay road through wooded foothills,
three young women stroll in saris 
of kingfisher, cerise and turquoise.
Perhaps they'd texted at sunrise
to synchronise their colour choice?

(In Epsom, Wells and Pershore, 
godless, calorie-counting wives 
are shepherding big Mercedes 
to their local Waitrose store.
Earlier, from behind curtains,
they watched the sweating gardener,
now they're wondering if he saw).

In Parahganj a young goat bleats
tethered for the cooking pot.
Observing all with ancient eyes 
it's seen great empires fall and rise.
Change has many flavours on these streets,
old and new. Some cool, some hot.
And change will soon arrive.
Sure as the goat's  and gods' demise.

Tuesday, 6 January 2015

What the moon said

Slip my luminescence 
and you will find other light. 
You may thrill to the violence
of song bird's wings in flight.

Still, please notice the flatness 
of the overrated midday sun;
how, with afternoon's progress
a sharper vision comes.

See the Earth's relief glide
into high contrast and know
that brighter lights may hide
as much as they may show.

Then as my orbit swings 
us back together we will lie 
in the courtly light I bring
and you can softly sing 
me postcards from your eyes.

Monday, 5 January 2015

The Christmas Gift

They walked beside the river,
swollen from heavy sleet.
He felt the matted grass
crunch beneath his feet.
In his pocket he knew
a secret, terrible and raw.
She said that she was "freezin'
and what'd they come 'ere for?"

Her white throat, silly heels
puffer jacket, trinkets gold,
she said that she was going back;
his fingers tightened on the cold
blade, eager in his coat.
They'd come a little way now
he could maybe do it here:
he'd already worked out how.

There were no angels singing
a church bell didn't ring,
he felt no warm compassion,
(he never felt a thing).
But he eased up on the handle,
said "Yeah, you're right, let's go"
and as they walked towards the road
the sky began to snow.

Published on Ink Sweat and Tears 31/12/2013
(12 Days of Christmas)

Friday, 19 December 2014

This Poem (Tears )

can this
                       do this thing?
                                                  Allah would
                                                 sanction this?
                                         at the shame
                                       of all humankind
                          there are no
                        words that can
                    express true sorrow.
                           only tears

Re http://www.theguardian.com/world/live/2014/dec/16/over-100-people-killed-in-pakistan-taliban-school-siege-says-provincial-chief-minister-live-updates

(First published on I Am Not A Silent Poet
http://iamnotasilentpoet.wordpress.com/2014/12/17/this-poem-tears-by-marc-woodward/ )

Monday, 15 December 2014

The Huntsman

Sometimes, eyes closed, I think
of feathers, scales, bloody fur.

Wet woodland gun stands
edging the sweet chestnuts
on Willy Roberts'
rough shooting land.

Or split cane Hardy,
tied flies, hat, tweed;
the paraphernalia
of catch and release.

Rain down the back
of olive waxed jackets;
the whirr of game birds,
propellant pungency,
the kick of twelve bore.

Crawling on river banks,
keeping flat to plop a fly
between overhanging limbs
and bait a limpid pool
where unknown Brownies lie.

levelling a rifle
at a rabbit's eye
to claim a carcass
for the kitchen pot.
Skinned and drawn while hot.

Now I hunt phrases;
trap words on the web,
capture essence.
I chase remembered feelings,
as they carve away
                    like winter hares
                              on an iron day.

Tuesday, 2 December 2014


When I see a millipede
it always makes me wonder:
such a loooong bendy body
with loads of legs down under...

Wednesday, 19 November 2014

The Hands of Power

She had a pair of hands -
she kept them in a box,
the hands were very strong,
she secured them with locks.
But when she took them out
she would play with them at length,
feel their capabilities,
marvel at their strength.
The hands in turn were kind,
they would stroke her in the sun,
flitter on her clitoris,
quickly make her come.

But time passes feelings change,
she grew weary of this toy,
she looked for different pleasures,
sought fruits forbidden to enjoy.
So she took her pair of hands
and she placed them in their keep,
she never said 'farewell, adieu'
she just left them there to sleep.
And in the darkness of their box
the hands grew flabby, limp and pale,
the fingers probed to find the locks,
they ached and twisted in their jail.

She had some guests for dinner,
they spoke of this and talked of that
and as the wine flowed copiously
so lewdness entered in their chat.
"I had a secret love" she said
to a room of widening eyes,
"a pair of hands - and not my own
- that kept me satisfied".
"Who was this love?"
they begged to know,
Was he handsome, was he tall,
was it someone known to them?
Quickly now she must tell all.
She put her finger to her lips,
she left the company,
when she returned the air was thick,
all eyes watched on excitedly.

Her rusty keys were like a jailor's,
she forced and turned the aging clasps,
within the box the hands were flexing,
exercising their mighty grasp.
The lid came up and there they were,
her mouth dropped open at the sight,
instead of tanned and muscled hands,
these looked fat and weak and white.
Nobody spoke, nobody moved,
each beating heart they all could hear,
she touched the hands: they sprang to life;
the watching group recoiled in fear.
They moved as one straight up her arms,
embraced together round her throat,
the company screamed and fell apart,
their hostess rolled her eyes and choked.
She crashed across the crockery,
the hedonists with fright had fled,
the hands squeezed out her gasping life
and left her on the table dead!

Now you may take a point of view,
with vice like hands around her neck,
she died from vice, as addicts do:
I say she died for her neglect.
A good thing left will turn to bad,
the sweetness soons begins to sour,
the strength of love corrupted
turns to evil in....the Hands of Power!

c. Marc Woodward

Tuesday, 18 November 2014

Hairy Arsed Red Cattle

once came here to moo and amble.
Their flat capped, coated men
carried staves and shouted at
the milling cows about them
with their father's calls,
while floral-pinnied wives
brought dawn baked bread
to morning market stalls.

              You can still see photographs
              nailed up on Sports Bar walls
              such as The Farmer's Arms
              and Ye Olde Red Cow,
              all wide screen, fruit machine,
              Wetherspoon houses now.

Those people bought commodities
in musty hardware stores long gone.
Livestock ointments, farm oddities,
coloured bottles with "Poison" on.

            But then, his coat tied up with string,
            I dream a cider orchard boy
            inside the high street Apple Store
            open mouthed, lost; bewildering.

Grid Poem (We need unique things)


Sometimes I think you call to me
from an entirely other place.
A world where red rocks scorch our thoughts;
where you spin at a different pace.

Still I would shower you with gifts.
You want water; I proffer cash
grovelling with impure trinkets:
uncovering my guilt edged trash.

Where I'm from the water untruths.
It hides as ice in vodka, sipped
by totem pussies playing with
weakness on sour painted lips.

We are tricked by roles in this life:
identity ploys. Open  beak,
little birdie. I have no knife.
I came to listen to you speak.

And when the final war erupts
we'll parachute between wagtails
into oceans of sea monsters;
learn how even planets are frail.

Last night I dreamed of high ramparts:
the last castle where we might hide.
My ancestors came from that heart.
Now the sky exhumes their insides.

( contribution to pictorial grid poem project at Poetrycircle.com selected as 'Featured Work' 11/14)