Poem: There are five poets in my garden
June 11, 2026
There are five poets in my garden
— and they think that they are bulbs.
But the first one smells carcinogenic,
and he is clothed in ancient brown,
as if he stole the mud-flecked jumper
from the very body of a bog-man.
The second is talking about
the fervid dangers of Pokémon,
and how in her day, they looked
for birds, and birds were quite enough.
She has a collection of empty eggs,
pilfered in her day, which lie
in an ancient purloined nest —
a weird eunuch’s severed balls,
placed in a stolen cup of misery.
Number three is being thoughtful.
He never utters a sentence without
a French philosopher’s name —
like a pigeon (of stolen eggs) he says
Bourdieu, Bourdieu, and oui, he bores me.
Number four is addicted to rhyme.
He knows he is somewhat out of time,
but like a tune you know too well,
he is married to the villanelle.
And the fifth? She plants sarcasm
in a weedy succulent garden,
where such thin green tongues
poke like wee prickly dragons.
She’s fully awesome, and awfully sweet.
PS Cottier
I have posted this one before, but I had a sudden urge for poet gardening, before the World Cup takes over.
Belated non-Valentine’s Day haiku
February 20, 2026
Unwashed boxer shorts
unfurled flags on the table
once there were roses
***
They both loved the dog
long treat filled conversations
silence when he died
***
Nineteen-fifties films
lipstick stains on his collar
Rorschach of regrets
***
PS Cottier
These weird little ones came about after a saw details of a competition being run by a well known poetry journal for haiku about not being in love, or non-Valentines Day poems. They wanted haiku written in the slightly rigid 5/7/5 form. After writing three, I saw that the contest was for those who hadn’t had more than one book published, which ruled me out.
I’m glad I didn’t see that before writing this nasty triptych, which was a lot of fun. But, as they say in the classics, read the rules!
Poem: A further squalid thing
January 16, 2026
The spaces between dog’s toes
are gardens of smell
erupting fungus tickles the nose
with a soupçon of shit.
She stores a safe of comfort there
and sniffs the spaces
to remind her of the day, the week,
perhaps the fragrant year.
Her brain is a sommelier’s,
sensing the slightest hint of dead bird,
the one at the street corner,
and comparing it with the cockatoo
whose carcass she pranced through the park.
The mixture of these avian scents
must be a kind of heaven, a menu
of brown and must, tucked between
those neat non-books of toe.
The title refers to Sei Shōnagon The Pillow Book, the section called Squalid Things. Poem first published Womens Ink!, November 2024
Poem: Components (via link)
November 11, 2025
If you go to this link, you’ll find a poem I just had published at the venerable AntipodeanSF, called “Components”. It involves a horse and cart, which allows me to use that wonderful illustration by Phiz, of a scene from Dickens’s David Copperfield.
The poem is about routine and magic, and is rather long, by my standards. But by no means Dickensian.
Poem: The Smell of Heaven
October 16, 2025
To a truck driver
Nullabored,
it may be McDonald’s
The dog combines
bone with noseshadow
of absent master
The writer mixes
new printed book wisp
and any wine
Christ died scented
with sweat and piss
and others’ spit
Only a dead-brave poet
would mention roses
but yes, heaven
will be those too,
and we will turn thrice
and smell that which
we smelt in the womb —
warm blood and love.
As that dog, replete
with his master’s tang,
knows meat and bliss
were always one.
PS Cottier
An old poem, this one, first published in Eureka Street ten years ago.
Our sense of smell is so weak, compared to that of the creature in the photo, but I think it’s an important sense to explore in poetry.
PS Cottier 