Tony Gapper was born in London,UK. He resides in Ballinrobe, Co. Mayo. Amongst his other publications: Arrival Press, 1993, 1997; Poetry Now, 1993-1995, 1997; Enfield Friends of the Earth, 1995; North West London Newspapers, 1994 and Writing.ie, 2014-2015. In October 2014, he recited poetry: Over the Edge Open Reading; poetry/short story: Books Are My Bag event. He is undertaking an M.A. (Writing) at NUI, Galway.
rear up in callous spit-burns.
Oil-heat rises from the pan.
Loose fingers rotate the switch
turning and reshaping,
burning and aching.
The contents of the pan
stirs and kneads the senses.
A tantalising splay of
fruity-skinned tomato pips,
not unlike unsweetened strawberry
bursting out a cascade.
Mouth-watering, lush succulence
trembles in ooze on the tongue,
relishing interlocking morsels
of delicately-lined mushroom-stacks,
stalky, silky miniature buttons,
black and slate-grey-brown.
a pulpy-soft crispness.
“Bacon? Oh no Sir!”
Irish voice affirms,
“you mean rashers?”
Well-done, reddish-pink twists,
slim sleeve of rind.
Wafting odours of sausage, bacon and tomato.
In the pan, a tender nestling:
fingers of finely chopped, seasoned meats,
cocooned within skin-tight casing,
above, steam vapours gently disperse.
Uninspiring black tea
stewed and bothersome,
fused with antioxidants,
in delicate china-cup.
fortified with hen-whites.
of pristine, doughy, moist-laden
into fickle, fried crispness.
back of the throat,
savouring eddy explosions
that disappear into swallow!
My Rocking Horse
Such dreamy days, staring at my horse,
always wondering, never sure of course,
whether his eyes could capture the joy
I had experienced, when I was a boy.
My horse, a weathered-slate white,
gallantly led into a battlefield fight.
Leathery reins, well-trodden hooves,
won at a fair’s rifle-range booths.
Reins tug at head, from left to right
we gorge upon apples, anxious to bite,
knobbly carrots with freshly-cut hay,
canters in woodland on summer days.
Bridle pulls gently at the bit in-between,
and his teeth have a pearl-yellow sheen,
slits for ears on a horse’s large head,
a flowing mane worn down to a thread.
My horse could rock for quite some time,
like poets cast out their beats to a rhyme.
His saddle made from a canvas with lace,
large, beady eyes on a sunken old face.
I wondered if I would own a real horse,
trotting slowly past thistle and gorse!
Smiling, I brushed my horse so pristine,
then off to bed to capture a dream.
Now it’s my children’s turn, to have a sneak look
at his tail, which is broken, and hangs on a hook.
Sadly outgrown, stuffed behind our shed door,
It’s Facebook, and X-Box the youth now adore.
From an upstairs
hotel room with a view,
the poet’s vantage point
unveils a chilly Monday dawn.
He observes a gradually lifting, ghostly ice-blue
almost breathless fog vapour.
Overhead, electrically-charged rumble
from murky slate-grey thunderclouds
grind out pulsing lightning flashes.
Ground-frost on the grass, spongy to the touch.
Condensation from the nearby fences
lifts in steamy whisps
from the rising morning heat.
A farmer, cap in hand
troughs out a corn dinner for his old Shire horse.
He herds the sheep
moving on randy rams who gorge on clover shoots,
his wailing Collie snaps at an old Transit van
that darts along a back country lane.
From an upstairs
hotel room with a view
glisten like jellies.
Bleak woodland firs thaw
their skeletal branches
gnawed and hard-boned.
Migrating winter geese splash,
scoff at slow earthworms –
a stone’s throw from a shallow, undetailed glaze of stream,
where a couple, walking their Great Dane,
unlatch a cabin door,
ease into cosy armchairs,
warming their chapped hands
stoke the open-fire.