The Sun’s out, that means one thing:
shorts weather.
I don’t know whether I’ll wear shorts though,
I’m still deciding.
Everyday now I can see the sun move across
the sky in its slow creep.
It’s not too bad right now —
still cool enough to sleep,
but the day’s too bright.
So one morning
I walk out and say to the Sun:
‘Hey, you! Up there!
You obnoxious sky-swimmer!
Have you ever tried
just being a bit dimmer?
All this light puts me at unease
I’ve got work to do:
I have to write a press release!’
A momentary pause;
silence across the skies.
Then the gas ball turns,
moves a solar inch
and increases tenfold in size.
The Sun brings one of its eyes towards
the English North West
and says:
‘Don’t pipe off at me, poet!
I’m just trying to do my best.
What is with you poets and complaining?’
I respond:
‘Can you blame me?
My eyes are straining
just looking around you!’
It replies:
‘Listen here, if you want a fight,
I can always move closer
and be more bright.’
I’m feeling nostalgic for the night
The Sun turns its other eye
And looking at me fully, says:
‘Oh fuck me,
Not another white guy!
Really? Why?
On this planet there’s such a range
of poets and peoples,
why can’t I speak to someone else for a change?
I retort:
‘That sounds like a problem with youse!
If you want different poets,
you can choose
not to speak to me, and you know it!’
I tried to look up
at that scowling sun
and thought for a second
I might have won.
But the sun replied again:
‘You’re the one who brought me down!
So don’t put this on me, you clown.
If I’ve got to stay any more,
why don’t you make me some tea!’
Me:
‘That’s a bit twee.’
‘Fuck off!’ snapped the Firey Orb.
‘If you won’t do that,
I’m going, I’m bored!’
I considered provoking it more,
But you find risk of heatstroke
means your insolence is spent.
So I relent:
‘Sit down, luminary,
If you’ll be like that, I’ll make some tea.’
The sun moved lightyears in seconds
and planted itself in my yard.
Bit of a pain, but also a relief,
throwing tea at it would have been hard.
Sitting on the grass,
Apparently unexhausted by the trip
I handed the Sun some Yorkshire tea,
which it drank in small, careful sips.
‘That hits the spot,’ it says.
‘Though I’m more of a fan of PG tips.’
I sat down,
not getting too close to them
for fear of burning.
I wondered if this star had heard my poems.
As if by some sixth sense:
‘Yeah, they’re alright.
Though you probably shouldn’t stay up all night.
You don’t need to do that to write.
And maybe don’t treat everything like a fight.
But other than that? You’re okay.
You might even be good one day.’
‘You’re sure?’ I say.
‘Maybe.
You could be a little less crude.
Mayakovsky and O’Hara weren’t this rude.
You might lean too much into Rhetoric,
and your most recent lines don’t really stick.
But you’ve got good rhythm,
even for a prick.’
I say:
‘Do you have any advice?
For what I should do with my lines.’
It replies:
‘Sure thing, kidder.
Just do as I do — shine.’
And then it got up and left.
So there you go -
Shout at the sun,
and you’ll get some advice,
(and nothing else to show).
I guess that’s fine.
There’s not much I can do with my voice,
(not that I had a choice)
but at the very least it’s mine.
It’s late now,
the press release is on its umpteenth draft.
I’m not the best at my craft -
how many weeks did this poem take?
(I think it was seven)
The sun sets on open air,
lighting up chemtrails in the heavens,
where planes break through the blue like tears.
Empty space,
like the clouds are on strike.
Maybe not the go to image,
but that’s how I write.
So say whatever you like.
