A selection of poems from the upcoming book "Life in the Mad Arc"


900 Quid Service and MOT

Nine hundred quid for my car service and MOT,
It's not as if I drive a Porsche or Ferrari.

Currys has a sale on big flat screen, LCD, Freesat TV.
Look really good in my living room, 42" big flat screen TV,
that was meant for me.

I could have got one of those girls from the back of the Escort magazine,
for a whole night, all leather rubber and PVC.
OK, not her, but I could have got the one from Valance street with not teeth,
and for that money she would say she loved me.

OK, I don't do speed bumps at 20, 53 is the speed for me.
That was the exhaust at two hundred and seventy pounds exactly.

He never stopped, the man from BT, who clipped my wing mirror on the M23,
twenty seven pounds, sixty three.

I had a gorgeous girl next to me, when I reversed into the 4x4,
quite a bump and coming home from an all night party.  Never got to kiss her.
That will be three hundred and sixty two, twenty nine pee.

My car has cassettes, so changing them isn't easy.
Broken headlights, bent fender and bumper gone.
Sixty pounds forty three.

Need a new laptop for poems, facebook and watching missed TV.
That was the extra parts, and the labour to explain it all to me.

Me, my car and my bleedin' 900 quid MOT.


© 06 April 2010 Damian Heal


A Quickie


Take your time

yearnest fool

as you hurtle across to your

crescent moon.


Yet, I see thee in the day

Caught between

Lust love and hay.


All these things will one day pass

Rattled and rolled under skies

Killed as if by light in a looking glass

And in a second all and nothing be.


© 31 March 2010 Damian Heal



Beetle Love



When I love, it is not as as a beetle,

with foolish enterprise, 

turns over all things and rambuctious rumbles.

Having of this and tarrying of that and in confusion, saited.

Lost in the leaves and tumbled becomes October fallen fruit.


When I love, is like the spider in dawn autumn sun,

atop a stem and with intent,

arcs a single thread,light shimmered, to some unknown, to snag.

Once held, holds and builds between intimacy and beauty.  


This that spider love creates all can behold

as the web that reflects light more brightly than 

the nightengales song


and yet is fragile, in the morning due.

And sadly easily broke, but for its time is there.

Nothing in gods sky or upon gods earth can compare.


© 30 May 2010 Damian Heal


Is it for now or always?



Is it for now or always?

As I feel your fingers and tongue caress lips.

Thrown bed clothes, twisted locked, in disarray

ruffled, ravished all on a Sunday too.


You turn and say "What fun that we are this way."

I must agree, when later walking through London Fields snow, 

cold lips warm kissed, lifted to mine.

This ache in the heart, you for make me feel so.


Lunch finds us two spoons one dessert

Is it for now or always? 

Maybe its better not to know.


© 10 March 2009 Damian Heal 




Delville Wood

Two hour drive or three day march with full pack on from Calais.

They grow tall, straight, strong, but especially, especially silent, these trees in Delville Wood.


I scuff my way, scrub caught feet, July rain scares away tourist throng

and in the silent sound of falling rain and forming mist. 

There is I, the trees, the scrub, the uneven land.

The sound, 80 years on, of fallen men.


Numbers mean nothing, they entered the wood and ended.

No Teddy bears, dappled shade or broken sun.  Here is a place that dreams ended.

Here is a place of screams, of guns, wire, shells, choking of fathers, strangled sons, breath stopped lovers, husbands, friends. 

Dead, none are all.


One tree alone, among the hundreds, remained standing witness to the slaying 80 years ago.

Now surrounded by many.  All taller than it, vital, youthful, almost new.


I watch them quite alone in July rain,

Roe deer and orange slugs,

in the scrub brush.  In the tears;

skies, trees, or mine is hard to tell.


 ©13 September 2010 Damian Heal 



I want to be Glasgow early morning
light entering the room where you sleep
To be there when you wake and wrap you naked
in my light.
Held close.
Musically danced held and swung
until you sleep again.





And I would kiss and swim
with you in a beautiful lake.
And drink all you are within your kiss.
The lake I would swim with you would not be of water filled.
It would be cool on skin after summer sun.  It would be deep and uncertain.
Wide beyond the eye and long beyond the reach.
But mostly silent and soft.
Until the movement of us made rippled mirrors, light refracted diadems.
And so we move again.  Till we hand held shore walk and gaze back.
And see a lake not with nature store filled.
But a lake of years together swum.
3 Sep 2011 
London Bridge Facing South
You were lost to me in the dark bodies
of suits and crowd as you walked away
across the bridge.
I stood and watched as you walked.
Your bag, yellow and blue, as you move,
stands out and despite all those people.
It when glimpsed through them, told me you are still here.
Along the bridge, across the water,
making a distance between us.
You turned and waved, and smiled as
I waved reply. So happy it made me.
In an instant all that has been the
last few days came back to me.
How complete I feel with you next to me.
And now am halved again.

Then with throng of people it was harder to see
you.  I moved towards the road and could
still see you.  You turned one last time
looking at the place I had stood and not seeing
me moved on.  I waved hoping you would once
more look my way. But no. You were not
to look back again.  Funny how dust seems
to get in the eye at such times. 
If only I could make the world so you would never
walk away from me again.  It is cruel to see
you lost in the crowd. My last memory of a bag
disappearing as the rise of the bridge takes you
away and gone until the next time.
I love you.  I say this again now.
Because I want you to know this.
Every time you cross a bridge or walk away.
23 Jan 2012 14:35