01 February 2012


Since my favourite sonnet is Ozymandias
I'm starting with an Egyptology theme.

Like archaeologists in tombs of old
And long dead kings, I search the dark –
A Raider seeking out his fabled Ark.
But nothing here awaits me: no untold
And hidden riches, nor no pots of gold:
Just dust and fluff and little worth remark.
I cry with stymied anguish, clear and stark:
“O Hoover Bag! What secrets do you hold?”
With voice of fuzz and lint, the Bag replies:
“You’re really pretty witless for a poet –
You think you’re Howard Carter, but you’re not.
My guts hold nothing for you, no surprise;
Admit the reason why you’re here – you know it!
You’re here because you think I ate your pot”.


1 comment:

  1. All your poems have such a strong sense of voice and character, and this is no exception. The unreliable narrator is executed perfectly. Hoovers are a menace!