Writing 201, day 3


Death came quickly to you,
little pig. Your flesh now spits
and sizzles on glowing coals.

Knowing nothing of foot and mouth
or the fear bred by ministry men,
you died in the hands of your farmer
to take the party’s starring role.

As ash lifts the aroma of charcoal
and laughter, I am dying here. Rotting
from the inside out. Each day less able.
No desire to consume your flesh.

You should have lived, little pig,
I have no need of you.

© Jacqui Thatcher 2015

Ok, I have wrestled endlessly today  attempting to turn this into a shape poem and I have a couple of really good scanned versions but absolutely unreadable on the blog!   So, I offer you the poem, and an image which is my ‘shape’.  The poem responds to the theme of ‘animal’ and I have used some enjambment. 

How did everyone else do today?  I am looking forward to reading the responses from the 201 bloggers!

Writing 201: Trust

His perfectly timed punchline

In back, in black,

the blokes told jokes in the hearse

and what’s worse, I laughed

like a drain

swilling effluent to the sea.

When Peter Mater turned to me to say

“Has anyone told the stiffy joke yet?”

I hid my mouth beneath

the collar of my coat.  Faux fur

tickled my nose, made me sneeze.

Reaching for the tissues, grandma patted my hand.



 At the graveside, my belly vibrated

like a pneumatic drill

When in all seriousness

Alan Smith said,

“God, who digs graves?”

Gaunt faces but mine,

hidden between my knees.

My back convulsing.  Mam’s

face frosted above me. 

“Now, love,”  she said, “tis God’s way!”


The wake, and no mistake,

was at number 54.  Hers with the

42 double Ds and the secret

smile.  And all the while

talking about a dead man

as though she knew him

better than Mam.  Better

than Alan or Peter or me.

© Jacqui Thatcher 2015