Spectral Horse Poems No. 5

By Simon Pole

Poems about the march of life and death, in war, on the freeways, at the end of earthly things, and beyond. Also musings on the professional lives of barbers, the proclamations of angels, and arguments for the existence of God. Includes the complete sci-fi verse novella, The Planet’s Tale, in 45 stanzas.

No. 5 in the Spectral Horse chapbook series from Simon Pole, author of The Saga Terminal City.

Poems included:

The Barber
Rags of Time
On The Morrow
Adoration
The Ranks of Angels
Scenes From A War
The Planet’s Tale
Astro-Zombies (1968)
Old Ghost Gather
Red Monkey
God of Moses
The Wrong-Way Driver

Bio

His mind corrupted by childhood exposure to horror movie matinees, but equally enthralled by the atmosphere of old churches, Simon Pole writes cosmic poetry from the location of Vancouver, British Columbia. A graduate of Harvard University, Simon has continued his studies of what is hidden in the dark. Writing is also in his blood, being the great-great-grandson of early Canadian poet Susie Drury.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon Pole
• Release date: Aug 11, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370390977

Simon Pole

His mind corrupted by childhood exposure to horror movie matinees, but equally enthralled by the atmosphere of old churches, Simon Pole writes cosmic poetry from the location of Kingsville, Ontario. A graduate of Harvard University, Simon has continued his studies of what is hidden in the dark. Writing is also in his blood, being the great-great-grandson of early Canadian poet Susie Drury.

Book preview

The Barber

I shave on the upward stroke,

Listen lad, it is no joke,

If you want to fill this chair

With a lifetime’s derrieres:

Serve contented clientele,

Those who seek a salon’s smell,

And the soapy lather crave

On their cheeks, by far the fav

Of them that call before work,

Where they must forbear the jerks,

Those who put down good hygiene,

In muttering most obscene.

If you can soothe these itches,

Your shop will swim with riches.

But if your blade smooth skin nicks,

And feeds on blood, like the tick,

Or sully a suit’s lapel,

With stray drippings of the gel,

That wayward wigs holds in place,

Or the cream with solvents lace,

Our high art you will pervert,

And your chair the droves desert.

Then in shame you will abide,

A trimmer of poodle’s hide,

And braider of horse’s hair

At some obscure county fair,

Where like dung the people smell,

You, the angel lately fell

From the heaven of our trade,

The proudest God ever made.

Thus I tell you, bloke to bloke,

Always choose the upward stroke.

Rags of Time

So the coffin in its dust

To its hinges molder must,

And the noble seat of Kings,

These heights of which ballads sing,

In the brambles are forgot,

As to scrap their charters rot.

This old hat I had for years,

The rain it kept off my ears,

And the sun which likes to beat

Upon my head, it defeats.

But I find these snug thatches

Have their weave dropped in patches.

And these bones which hold me up,

Like this jaw which sips a cup,

Have begun in age to ache,

And