As my friend Meredith used to say
before she got bit,
The grass is a dog in green costume, praying for release.
(Her words, not mine.)
Each of Meredith’s words is a dog –
you’d agree if you knew Meredith.
So that makes twelve dogs so far.
Three stones thrown at a fence go Arf, Arf, Arf –
that’s another three right there.
The ground is the last dog – if you throw
that dog a stick it will catch it every time.
Having pulled the stick down
to its enormous mouth
it will wait patiently
for you to throw the stick again. It will never tire.
Sometimes I have wished my dong
were an impossible leviathan
that protruded, with a person’s girth
from my loins where we’d be
as conjoined twins conjoined.
It would rise to my head height,
so that I might, each morning
as I lay in bed, reach my arms around it,
hug it tight, pressed against my belly
and my chest, rest my cheek against
its helmet-sized helmet, and with my
eyes squeezed shut, hold it thus
so that we might buttress one another
against this world’s stuffy opprobrium.
Angry with Trees
What shameless cheats
the trees are.
How poker-faced with
hands of identical cards,
an uncountable flush
thrown down on the baize
with an obnoxious flourish
just as each card
with its oft-repeated green
turns red and brown
and yellow and orange,
and the trees gather up
their winnings by sucking
the poor ordinary ground as
they get ready to play again.
Well fuck you, trees.
I never met a blasted tree
that didn’t have my taste
stuffed in its
an ace in the hole.
Las Aves Vacías
All the new birds
are made of nothing.
They have nothing inside
and those insides
in an outside nothing
which has its own
in the nothing trees,
or on nothing roofs
under a nothing sky.
They ﬂy of course,
but what is flying
if not nothing?
Sweet, like Rinky-Dink
My sweet me is not like an igloo, not like a canoe
or a crocodile. No, she’s like a canoodle.
I love her so much, she is ding-dong-dishy, she is a song,
a song-ditty you can lick to the tip of.
I kiss her in a way that alludes to kissing.
I hug her in a way that refers to hugging.
I bite her in a way that references biting.
We fandangle in a way that connotes fandangling and so on.
Good heavens, we allude in a way that alludes to alluding,
but I suck my me as a leech might –
to get me off you’ll have to burn me with cigars.
You’ll have to lop my head off.
13 I wish I loved lawnmowers
15 Brute Creation
16 Sixteen Found Dogs
17 The Take-Off
18 Las Aves Vacías
19 Sarouk Mohajeran
21 Your Face
22 Diving for Pearls
23 Sweet, like Rinky-Dink
24 The Stick
25 Light that falls
26 WW1 Marcie
28 What are things
29 The body is a kind of home,
33 Hobnobbing with Elephants
34 A Scabbarding
36 A Drip
37 Oh no,
38 Coming Through!
41 How to Get a Gibbet through the Small Hole
42 Poor light,
43 Angry with Trees
44 The Dragonﬂy and Berries
46 My Hopeless Marcie
47 Ice Cream for I Scream
48 As Though Begat, but Not
49 How scrubbed-up clean
50 The first time I came upon him,
52 How to Tap a Field Mushroom
53 A Closed Sandwich
54 The main event
57 No wonder
58 A Flying Visit
59 Ordinary People, We Just Don’t See Them
60 The Wild West
61 Even now that we live exclusively
63 What are you doing taking the air
64 My God, my Marcie’s got
65 My brain likes fish,
66 My brain is a fool,
67 My boneheaded brain
69 The words you sweat,
70 The Lighthouse Keeper
73 Even when
74 Trees, Breeze and Rabbits
‘Waldron’s poems are good at building a world, scaling out from close-ups of small objects to galactic constellations that absorb and skew their more recognizable scenes and references’. – John McAuliffe, The Poetry Review [on Meanwhile, Trees]
‘Mark Waldron’s Meanwhile, Trees surrounds the reader in a cyclonic blur of humour hiding a manic urge towards self-destruction. The tone of these poems is deceptively light; glee edged with darkness is the main flavour of this book.’ – Bethany W. Pope, Magma
‘… nobody does a controlled explosion quite like Mark Waldron. Under his inimitable eye events and emotions are slowed to a state of near-stasis, to be scrutinized, schematized, and dazzlingly animated. Meanwhile, Trees, his third collection, presents a rich emulsion of languor and anxiety that I found riotously enjoyable.’ – Abigail Parry, Poetry London
‘This quite astonishing collection should certainly be placed in the library, but carefully, with the most quizzical, ironical and independently-minded of older students directed towards it with glee: they will never have read anything quite like it before.’ – Frank Startup, The School Librarian [on Meanwhile, Trees]
BLOODAXE BOOKS LTD Registered Office: Eastburn, South Park, Hexham, Northumberland NE46 1BS, UK Registered Number 1656254 England VAT No 414 4062 89