They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to, but they do.

They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,

Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.

I'd love to hear what you have to say about the episode including thoughts on the poetry and the topics that were discussed. You can email me at poetdelayed@gmail.com.

My first book of poetry, My Mother Sleeps, is availabe for purchase at

The King's English Bookshop

and

Amazon.com

Special Guest: Tyler Mathis.

At what point is my absence
Inconsequential?

When they’re too young to know the need?
(But that time is gone)

Certainly not now
In the midst of life’s straits
With foamy waves pounding
And hidden reefs lurking
Beneath an angry, fluid surface.
No; Not now.
Now they need a captain
(is that presumptuous?)
Who has already navigated a similar course –
though more Hazelwood than Magellan.
(well, all Hazelwood and no Magellan)

Perhaps that time will be
When they’ve helmed their own ship.
Is my absence inconsequential then?
Can I cross the bar then?
Of course they’ll think of me and perhaps
Want to see my face and
Hear my voice
(or have me hear their voice and see their face)
But would my absence harm them?
in those later years?
That is the question.

But here’s the better question:
Would my absence now
be better than running them aground,
again and again
and taking on salty water to no seeming end?

I’ve given it a go.
But the ship lists endlessly and
The course seems fucked.

Would the idea of me
Be better than the reality?
That is the real question.

No man is an Iland, intire of it selfe; every man is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine; if a Clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe is the lesse, as well as if a Promontorie were, as well as if a Mannor of thy friends or of thine owne were; any mans death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankinde; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.

• John Donne, Meditation XVII (from Devotions Upon Emergent Occassions, 1623)

I'd love to hear any thoughts about the episode including thoughts on the poetry and the topics that were discussed. You can email me at poetdelayed@gmail.com.

If you're interested, I recently published two books of poetry which are available on Amazon.com:

My Mother Sleeps & On Becoming a Black Hole

Special Guest: Jason Langston.

YOUR FATHER’S SON

Your soul was large
It needed to consume newness
again and again
But the Chicago frontier
Hemmed you in
You couldn't expand.
So you crossed the cold,
Impersonal Atlantic
To the hot,
Exploding Italian front
Where death nearly took you.
It was simple, you said
You looked at it and knew
But you consumed it and moved
Gaining immunity, it seemed
For death couldn't take you
On its own- though it tried
again and again
But it couldn't take you –
until Ketchum
Where your father's shadow waited.

If you're interested, I recently published two books of poetry which are available on Amazon

Thank you for listening.

Special Guest: Ryan Thomas.