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Best Poems Written by Marcus Whitnell

Below are the all-time best Marcus Whitnell poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Fathers Pride

I’m the prince with calloused palms
up at dawn with stifled yawns; pulling on boots
feeding pigs and herding cows - stuck in mud, it’s raining now
and as I plough, I dream of life... not on a farm

of white walled castles crowned in gold (like the tales told of old) 
where beautiful princesses dance and laugh 
(with roaring fires in their hearths) blowing kisses at princes 
brave and bold - none of them shivering, miserably cold

but dreams are dreams, and so I plough
heir to acres; fit and well (and down in the village, there is this girl)
I have no castle, but I’ll ask for her hand 
in time, a son, and new prince of this land

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A Night In Paris

spires stretch heavenward in a twilight sky
crimson hues and nighttime blues do battle
as people lope lazily over a dusky bridge
like cattle with cameras;
snapping the domed limestone giant

below, boatmen skim across a shimmering mirror
reflecting fragmented moments
cast down from the world above
floating like flotsam; lifeblood
coursing through the city’s stone heart

amid those masses, we watched
the shadows grow steadily longer
and balls of soft lamplight glow gently brighter
until, suspended in the darkening air
they floated like no post was there

then, just like that -
the city shrugged off day’s last light
wrapping herself in the mysteries of night
where amorous wishes and twisting seine scenes
led to candlelit kisses and solitaire dreams

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Ghost in the Machine

am I just this fleeting moment
a ripple in time's flow
shackled to one body
must follow when it goes

or is there more to 'being'
an eternal flame that burns
and though my mortal flesh must die
the soul within returns

most now say we have 'one shot'
so live a life that's full
and while, in part, I see their point
I hate to think that's all

with countless years in history's wake
and many yet to come
my impact on the universe
so very close to none

I need to feel there's so much more
some meaning or some goal
a reason why, a wider plan
that paints a bigger 'whole'

so I'll take the path that makes most sense
there's more to life than seems
and maybe I'm just passing through
... a ghost in this machine

Details | Marcus Whitnell Poem

Gone Fishing - Or - There and Back Again Without Any

nestled in the lee of a thick flint wall 
guys taut, grappling to hold firm
our canvas castle shook and shuddered
flimsy but somehow reassuring respite
as mountain giants prowled through the night

inside, hunched low over his stove
blue flames licking around the pan
Pops whistled a calming retort;
his gourmet dish to warm us up 
bangers ‘n beans in a tin camp cup

we ate and we watched through the half closed flap
as lightning struck nearby -
so, while thunder grumbled at the drumming rain 
(still in coats, with hats on heads)
we stretched out on our blow-up beds

father and son fishing had been the plan
on the shores of the lake that weekend
but different memories, caught by different lines
were shaped and set in that storm
as Pops read me ‘The Hobbit,’ all cosy snug and warm

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Regret

time’s sands swirl
the spinners spin, our marionette lines
twisting and entwined
caught upon each other’s lives

loss now stains my mottled 
once proud face, scaffolding 
slack and slipping ever downward 
with fogged eyes failing in their folds

summer’s sun a distant memory
and winter’s icy doorway within reach;
so much I should have said, but
words failed, falling stillborn from my lips

immedicable wounds now fester, layered 
scars purple and puckered accuse
as I hum some dreary dirge 
to the beating wings of carrion birds

no refuge anymore for the damned
time a long way passed such redemption
I stand staring at that frozen hole
muttering prayers in an angry landscape

.. goodbye old friend

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Daily Duties

middle aged and middle class
driving way too fast
on country lanes

drop the kid at school
group yoga then the pool 
prosecco and wealth envy over lunch

on to a manicure and then hair
(you won’t believe who I saw there)
send conspiratorial text or two; update facebook

get some vino, and the kid - shoot back home 
knock back another glass of wine;
have a gossip on the phone

revving engine on the driveway: dinner’s bell
pour a cobra; grab a takeout menu
domestic bliss? suburban hell?

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Karma

know thyself; is your life on the right track
aligned with, refined by, the principles of dharma
refrain, abstain, be kind and be calmer
meditate, seek meaning: find moral momentum
all actions count on this trip to nirvana

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Blank Page

it’s quiet
it’s late
only the humming and gurgling
bubbling and whirring
that go unheard all day
keep me company now
you see, the world
well my world
is asleep
and I’m sat on the floor
by the back double doors
with the sounds of the inside
as they gutter and stutter

I see the outside
but no one sees me
a well hidden voyeur
shutters turned down low
I drink as I wait
for a private peep show
whiskey and darkness
gift me predatorial sight
it’s two in the morning
the middle of the night
and I watch
watch the world beyond that window
whilst my world sleeps inside

I wait and I drink
I drink as I watch
a shaft burst through that darkness
bright as a warship’s beam
and begin poking and probing
disturbing the night
bathing her streets
in a rich silver light
seeking out secrets
which scurry and chide
my attention now focused
what does this night hide?

I clutch my pen tightly
the moment at hand
to capture some outside
not mundane inside -
interminably bland 
but clouds rally quickly
grey fluff plugs the gap
and as the foothold is choked off
the heavens shrink back
back beyond the shutters
leaving me in gloom
sat on the floor 
by the back double doors
ink oozing from my pores

.. it’s quiet
it’s late
but the page still lays naked
I pour another drink
and together
we wait

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Dungeness

copper burns across an endless sky
competing caws claim salt, surf and sand 
sailing high above slowly sagging carcasses 
long forgotten at the edge of the world 

buckled rails swim over a shimmering shingle sea
the largest of its kind, hinting at some other time; 
engines once chugged to billingsgate from this beach
herring bound for the cinque ports

and they say women dragged each boat -
pulled them down to that shore’s faithless embrace;
the muttered prayers of mothers and daughters
casting their men out on fortune’s dark waters

now nets, set for a tide that came and went, lay
mouldering among those collapsing clinkers
as if the fisherfolk just left one night, fled
granting the gulls sole control of that desolate dominion

their toil and trade, the legacy of our fathers’ fathers
still lays there on that beach; haunts that huge cove
rich history, like in so many places, fading away 
rotting, rusting, ruined

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Pathogen

fractured; the angry march
to I’s nexus

red, not gold, tracks.. wired to
perfect black

catastrophic chiroptera
see this cornucopia -

what plenty?