After a chequered career in theatre and education, Carl Heap has settled into his identity as a writer. He has published two volumes of his humorous verse: Tall Tales (2024) and as his comic alter ego, Professor Richard Pickings, Fruit n Veg: the poetry of edible plant life (2023). He appeared as his own warm-up act at last year’s Edinburgh Festival Fringe, and is a regular on the thriving London open mic circuit. He was shortlisted for the King Lear Poetry prize in 2023, and a serious poem Bag for Life was one of the 18 entries accepted for this year’s Poetry Archive. He has had short stories published in Firewords magazine and is a regular contributor to Friends on the Shelf. Current other projects include a children’s novel and a running memoir.
Picasso Square, Malaga
A woman sings softly to herself
as she sweeps outside the bar
below my window as I wake.
She sweeps up last night’s crumbs
bottle tops, cigarette ends, and
broken shells of dreams hatched
on my pillow, fledged, feathered
and fled away, to chirrup now
their nonsense on branches
in the square. She wipes tables
straightens chairs, shares a word
and a laugh with the man inside.
Dream sweeper and table wiper:
brush and cloth have cleared away
the dross and spills of yesterday.
I will get up now and go down
to a table she’s prepared.
She will pluck a sun-warmed loaf
from the sky, set it on a plate.
She will pour a small dark well
into which I’ll stare and then,
thanking her, I’ll break a crust
dip my knife in moon, and spread
idle thoughts like these on bread.
Duty Free
Rhodes – Pilonas
They’ve gone now – listen:
Where wet feet and flip-flops slapped on stone in the Greek heat;
Where sun-ripened bodies splashed and sported,
whooped and cavorted;
Where, at night, the tidal shimmer of a cricket orchestra
Backed the banter and laughter, the platter-clatter
And the chime of wine-filled glasses –
Nothing now but the soft gloops from the blue pool;
The persistent rumours from the housed generator;
The faraway unhappy yaps of kennelled curs;
The raucous honks dredged up from the throat of a tethered donkey
Like the jack-knifing jawbone of a rusty water pump.
Sitting out on their pine-branch verandas,
Crows remark on local affairs with a dry tobacco cough.
Moths, flies, wasps, bees and butterflies flicker and hum –
Go browsing through the groves of rose, lantana,
cactus and bottle-brush.
They’ve gone now – look:
The pool – a freshly prepared slice of sky;
A still blue tile tessellated by the touch of a breeze,
Danced into a dazzling net of light cast
To catch a sun-strewn shoal of tinsel-fish,
And lure the careless insect to its doom.
Parasols droop like skirts, hoarding their shade
By redundant sunbeds, stripped of towels and dripping trunks.
The blousy bougainvillea spills armfuls of magenta blossom.
And up in the pergola, the praying mantis lurks
Among the leaves and pods of the wisteria, a silent assassin.
They’ve gone now – and taken this with them:
Not packed in their trundling cases;
Not wedged into the boot of hire-cars;
Not stuffed into overhead lockers;
But distilled in a hip-flask of memory.
In the chill of an English winter –
They will take an occasional nip.
Fun, on a run, in the sun
OR: Do you like your mistakes rare or well done?
Not a cloud in the sky – that’s becoming the problem.
Trainers, short socks, shorts, black singlet,
Bare legs, bare arms and neck –
No hat.
I was only going to be gone for an hour
Maximum,
Honest.
Why can’t they put signs on their footpaths in Spain?
Why do all these valleys look the same?
Same trees, same vegetation, all the same.
Why is there no one else for me to blame?
There’s no one – let’s be honest.
It’s clear to me I’ve taken a wrong turning
And overhead the Spanish sun is burning.
I’m in this over my head. Prepare for the worst.
Survival calculations: what action first?
Singlet repurposed as a makeshift hood
Over my head
Good
Now what am I going to do about this thirst?
An orange grove lures with overhanging fruit.
Oasis?
A devil alights on my bare shoulder –
“Go on, I know it’s mostly green,” he prompts,
“Just one bite saves your life – honest!”
I pluck the forbidden fruit and bare my teeth
I plunge into pulp and pith – the dry flesh drains
All that remains of moisture in my mouth.
Destructi-fructi-suction.
Here’s a mad-dog Englishman out in the noonday sun
Usually I buy a map first, but this is only day one.
If I go right and right and right I’ll be all right, right?
Wrong.
I set out dressed for 9 o clock. It’s noon.
I’m going to start hallucinating soon.
A road. A petrol station. Toilet. Sink.
I splash my head and arms and drink and drink.
Spain does have road signs. Here’s one points the way.
It’s up that hill, and only a few K.
My hopeful thumb hooks in a passing car
Two guardian angels haul me up the hill
To where
Two anxious families are on the brink
Of calling out the rescue services,
Helicopters,
Sniffer dogs.
What did you think…?!
I’d like to laugh the whole thing off, and yet
There’s one who’ll not allow me to forget.
Before I go and take that shower and nap,
She extracts a promise.
Next time I’ll buy the map –
Honest.
Poetry in this post: © Carl Heap
Published with the permission of Carl Heap