Gary Carr - Poet
I tend not to publish much poetry online, it makes the work ineligible for competitions and for submission to several magazines.
Published poems of all vintages will be added below.
There are more than sixty of them in total, so keep coming back and you may be surprised by new ones.
As I add sound experiments to soundcloud I will also add links here.
All poems copyright Gary Carr, please don't steal them, they've been published so at some point you will be caught.
Poetry to Listen To

When Alice came home the girl was watching tv,
the boy was on the x-box. Two plates contained remains
of tinned spaghetti and toast.

When Alice came home the girl watched tv,
the boy played x-box. Yesterday's plates on the floor.
Two more, with toast and bean smears, on the sofa.

When Alice arrived home the girl was watching tv,
the boy playing x-box. Spaghetti plates against walls
beneath beaned ones. Picked-off pizza bits on a plate.

As Alice entered, the girl was watching the boy
playing x-box on tv. Several cornered plates
climbed the walls on top of an uncertain mess.

When Alice came home the girl was watching tv,
the boy was on the x-box. Toppled plates near the corner
showing, most recently, macaroni cheese and candy kisses.

Leaves speak
languages of air
and water

The dance of leaves -
a freedom of trees
waiting for dormancy

When we build books
their leaves
whisper stories
of forests who died
for them

is spring's song
woodland crèche
for summer's orchestra

and fertility
are gifts of leaves
to their parents

Leaf – typically home
to eleven
species of mite

Respiration of leaves
in sunlight
is life
a planet dies
as oxygen breather

The god of leaves
because she is real

Even at the start,
with that lipstick ink on his arse,
the furrowed crosshatch
patterning of Marylin's lips was copied,
with infinite precision;
a flesh facsimile of flesh.

Later, still before
he knew his precious satellites -
though not before
orbits of uncounted, untrackable women,
around his oh-so-celestial body -

the forearm bulldog
was a morphed abomination
of dog, Churchill,
t-shirt. The cigar brand correct,
grip, anatomical
with photorealistic smoke, that… flexed.

And each of a dozen more
created for reasons he could list
back in those days
before the forces eased their grip
and he slipped
into satellites and a civilian life.

Now each launch
has a new celebration,
distance scaled
to an Earth centred somewhere
around his groin,
skin stained with an equation's knot,

imaginary numbers
describing a real circumnavigation.
When he is buried
they will leach back into Earth,
with the reality they try to describe.

I am the same sharp spade
he has always used
to divide his earth
and turn it. Though
this is my fourth handle
second blade.

And his body –
organs and bone,
spleen out to skin –
have renewed twenty-five,
forty, sixty times.

But our partnership
is not piecemeal.
He still recognises
his spade and I
the press of his palms.

re-drew me
my new form fit
their human specification and needs
the living soul of my spread vine wall stripped
back to plaster,
rows of

Let's stay at home alone tonight,
just the two of us, and chill
with a cold Italian white
and homemade curry – eat our fill
then retire drunkenly to bed.
In the morning, lets not go to work
but in the plane-less quiet overhead
listen to the birds, it's nice to shirk

all responsibility this way.
Perhaps (but maybe not!) start chores
by early afternoon and if the day
needs more we'll speak to both next-doors
across the fences either side
while sitting in the garden pulling weeds.
Later we'll discuss and then decide
how the plan for next day's leisure reads –

pretend that, while we can go anywhere,
we'll choose to be in here and not out there.