Black Country Poetry: three poems by Marc Carver




When I got on the train
the man was talking
and I knew he would still be talking
when I got off in fifty minutes.
He was mostly talking about Bob.
“Yeah he’s okay, but, you know…”
he said in a way that only people who are used to talking, talk.

He is still talking now
Perhaps he never stops as long as he has someone to listen.
My mother would say
he could talk the hind legs off a donkey.
This guy could talk the legs off of thousands.
As I thought about this, I took another look at him
and pictured him in a field
talking to a donkey with others queued behind
and a big pile of donkeys’ legs all piled up.



Some days there is nothing to write about
not a damn thing
no joy
no hate
nothing but black clouds
and the sound of nothing
no one to talk to
no thing you want to do
no doing
no coming
no going
not even the chance of a little drink to kill the day before it begins
these days
just go on forever
like a leak
from a tap



Two swans
two ducks and a seagull sit on the quay where the two rivers meet.
They don’t talk to each other
but they seem to be saying something
and it seems to be important
but whatever it is
it doesn’t involve me.



Marc Carver is a man who can do very little in life: he has no real gifts; he is not talented in anyway; but just now and again he can find beauty or humour in life or some ironic thing that other people don’t look for… and that is why, just now and again, he gets it right.


Banner image: Thibdx, Wikimedia Commons