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MORE POETRY by EDWARD HUGHES (and some photos)


In an exhalation,
Unnoticed, unbidden,
A breath from the Mountain Gods
Swept down to some ancient sea.
The Ling-Lang it bore crazed us all.
Shotgun French, and mistralling,
We spent precious lead on a fleeting image
We might only ever wing.
Yet, the foolish still gibber,
And only wise men can sing.

Edward Hughes 2008.

Hanging Out The Washing.

I was only saying to Auntie Hegel the other day,
'Auntie', I said, 'You simply cannot adduce the facts of Religion from Historical Science.
There's a stinking canal's breadth deterring any leap of Faith'.
That shut her up, I can tell you,
But I knew she'd pass it on.

Edward Hughes 2008

Aspiring To Silence.

Thank God,
All things,
I mean all things,
Are meaningless.
They wash down the stream,
And miss out on the process.
Experience is a dream,
And Reason is scopeless.
Yet, every pulse sings,
And every rock poses
Awkward questions:
Why do the living scream?
When might they care less?
How springs, but no sources?
Where lies the sea to quench all these noises?

Edward Hughes June 2010.

The Nihilist's Cookbook.

Why fucking bother eating,
It's pointless coddling a meaningless existence, let alone an egg.
Life's too short to toss an idea, never mind a salad.
Roast vegetables? We all are.
Casserole? I can't even cast myself in a role.
Soufflé? My life collapsed long ago.
Flambé? Yeah! Pass me the blowtorch now!

Edward Hughes 2008.

Life is...

'Life is a bird that flies, for a God-instant, through an open window, into a garish lit, and howling, blinks, sings, and flies out the opposite window into comforting, eternal, gloom..'.that's what me Uncle Mick said, anyroad.. 
Edward Hughes

Bugger Frosty's.

Two toads splurged in the yellow mud, and I-
I took the one less gravel-shy,
And that has made no difference.

Edward Hughes June 2007

Andy's Answerphone Message:
          A Plea For Understanding. 

Andy home alone
Is seen as
Mere adjunct to the phone.
If it rings and he doesn't reply,
People imagine something's awry.
In fact, he's probably on the bog,
Or, out walking Eddie's dog.
Please don't presume when you call,
That you have Andy in your thrall.

Edward Hughes.          Jan 2007.

Silence As Music.

If these words were not,
I might ease,
And take me down
To where the absence dwells.

I, the missing piece,
At peace, 'midst Music
Which had, before, eluded me.
An emptiness of song surrounding.
A void of symphony resounding.

The centre gone.
An awe unfolding.
Nought, save fathomless joy, abounding.

If I were not:
And all of them confounding.

Edward Hughes October 2010.

Artless Diatribe

Regeneration is large holes in the City Centre.
Global warming is not appeased by insincere hot air.
Fighting wars is an assymetrical exercise:
We compound our soldiers,
Then bomb their civilians from on high.
Public Health involves blaming the fat,
But subsidising those who make them so.
Aspiration halts at the Celebrity steps leading nowhere.
Capitalism, clapped out as Thatcher's animated corpse,
Somehow lingers on; with addled brain, and rotting teeth.
It survives on bombs, drugs, pimping,and fags.
Politicians are their own Party,
Getting rich on sub-contracting Power for cash.
Art is a currency exchangeable for everything, save meaning.
The Meejah; an Australio-Yankee Goebbels Corp,
Is full of faces bland, cracked only by their spat-out lies.
Sport is a dreary cash-soaked Circus of Mediocrity.
The Mafia is Public School-Oxbridge,
Cornering the market in the tax -raised 'Outdoor Relief'
Showered on the various alleged 'Professions', and,
Of course, the BBC. 
Trades Unions sell shark-loans to their dwindled members.
(Negotiation for mere 'more cash' a distant memory).
Political Parties work for the Politicians' Party from a shameless pitch.
They sell Tax Shelters, Contracts, and pretty baubles, to the avid rich.
And us,
Yes you,
And me.
We're sackless, witless, Capitalism-cattle prodded drones
On mobiles, MP3s, and the Net.
We truly deserve everything we get!.

Edward Hughes      June 2007.

Ecce Homo Sovieticus. 

I was never young.
I was a Communist.
I was never hip-happening.
I was a Communist.
I was never in any know.
I was a Communist.
I was never committed to anyone, place or thing.
I was a Communist.
I mourned when 'C&A' went bust,
Because I was a Communist.
There never was a Goddy-God,
Because I was a Communist.
I wept, but once,
When the Wall came down,
Because I was a Communist.
I loved Europe.
I hated 'Europe'.
I was a Communist.
I was always green.
I was never 'Green'.
I was a Communist.
I cracked a smile,but once,
When the Fundamentalists collided,
Because I was a Communist.
I danced, but once,
On the grave of Hope,
Because I was a Communist.
And now?
I'm the old- bold Leveller in the Western Gulag.
Forever a Communist! 

Comrade Edward Hughes    Oct 2007.


Have you got a crest?
Has it ever fallen?
And, when this ocurred,
Did it make you feel the acme of crushed?
'Like a red red rose'.

Have you ever seen a Panoply?
Was it whole?
What did it contain?
And what criticism is implied?
'My goose is cooked'.

Have you ever experienced complete surprise?
What incident induced it?
In this state, might a feather have threatened your standing?
'Goodness gracious, great balls of fire!'

You inadvertently embarass yourself in company.
Does something fall from your person?
A clanger perhaps?
What is a clanger?
'Send in the clowns.'

You vow to put your all into a project.
How is it your assessment concerns
An insufficient amount of effort for the task?
And why is this gauge so specific?
'The Grand Old Duke Of York'.

When you're eager, and well prepared,
Why have you ascended?
'The only way is up'.

You're disappointed in your apprehension of a thing.
Why do you limit your negative appraisal of it
To aquatic species?
'Better than a pig in a poke'.

You imagine a task to be very easy.
Do you own a gun?
Is there an Emporium nearby which stocks fish in beer kegs?
What might possess you to discharge the said firearm
Into the mechant's Piscean barrel?
Why might you find this extraordinary felony as something
Generically straightforward?
'Gone Fishing'.

Thank you for completing this questionnaire.
It has helped us read between the lines of Poetry. 

June 2007.

So , As It Goes , There It Went.   

The only enjoyable situations are preposterous.
Farragos of gormless goonery.
I'm Seegoon, District Officer,
Overseeing the scheme
To clear the jungle
For the planting of watercress,
Essential ingredient to soggy the
British Rail sandwich,
Complaints against which
Prop up morale back in benighted Blighty.
It's a fantasy.
Right now, I'd settle for answering the front door
Not wearing my trousers,
But I never shall.
To the Health and Safety Committee:
' I resign as Bishop to set up house with the Rural Dean,
  I'll pick up my haddock on the way out..'  
But I'm not ordained, still less consecrated.
To drive to Wales, preposterous Principality, and merely gawp.
But I haven't the transport.
I've tried getting my toe stuck up the bath-tap,
But it doesn't fit.
It would change my life were I but knocked down
On the High Street, by a Circus Bear riding a stolen bike.
It would unleash some ludricous Episodic,
Eclipsing all the banalities, and tragedies in-between:
My head held fast in railings.
Wearing a saucepan helmet in Casualty.
A dog running off with my chain of sausages.
The pool-dive removing my trunks.
Leaving the loo with a bog-roll tail.
Such nonsense precludes a conclusion
Either dolorous, or mundane.
It must end with five shillings,cream-buns, and a stripy sugar cane.

June 2007.

Anglo Saxon Platitudes.

As spake, not writ,
Is venerablebede as t'ills.
Incomers; Kelps, Gales, Romulans,
Phonecian Seamen (Remuns), all the Angles, Jews,
Klaxons, Vile Kings, Coarse Men, and No Men, all,
Were scarce off beach, but on to medium-guttural,
Dryonic, averse to song, and plain.
Words meant nowt, twer' demeener, measure,
That forged our English Treasure.
Whatever 'slava,
It's the language of Pot, not Poets.
Our earthenware, ironstone,
Armitage-Shanks, and Adamant,
Puts power on the spot, shows it
Where it's going wrong, by putting it straight.
It says what it likes, plainly,
And likes what it says, unabash.

At least it did,
Until that bloody Shakespeare
Gave us what for with Metaphor,
'Clouding' Clarity,
Trashing sense,
Scoffing Charity,
Giving Tyranny fine-word defence,
In his language of pretension,
Uttered for pretence.

Edward Hughes November 2009.


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