Poetry by Steven Porter


Poets should smoke.
Everybody knows that
and if you meet one who doesn’t
it’s like they’re missing a leg or something.

I was watching this couple at a recital.
They were real nicotine aficionados
drawing in the smoke like it was their last night on earth
and cancer was of no concern.

I expect they had sex after cigarettes.

These bards of the stratosphere
let their thoughts drift silently,
smoking with an ardour
that reeked of poetry.


Flights are stormy and every suitcase
has a grim reaper label
but jets plunge into the sky
and millions survive.

I’d rather stay home at weekends.
Get to know the boxes of history in the corners
take the bus down to Portugal now and then

watch green-fingered people work the land
between eucalyptus intervals,
stop off in small-town banks to join the lunch hour queues…
These are documentaries the airlines never show.

Then, tired of Portugal, I wonder if home is still the same
and worry that ghosts of removal men are busy in my attic,
that’s when I hurry back so fast
my feet hardly touch the ground.

Steve Porter was born in Inverness, Scotland, and lives in A Coruña, Spain. His poems, stories and articles have been published online and in various lit mags in the UK, US & Spain. He devotes most of his time to the badly paid end of journalism and translation. His ebook entitled ‘The Iberian Horseshoe – A Journey’ is available free of charge from Barcelona based http://www.badosa.com


One response to “Poetry by Steven Porter

  1. ‘the boxes of history in the corners’ is a great line, really communicates the fascination of the mundane. Also like the dry humour in both poems.

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