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Michael Burton
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the poet
Michael Burton is a poet based in Todmorden in the Calder Valley, West Yorkshire. His poems have appeared in, among other places, The Interpreter’s House, The Honest Ulsterman, Ink, Sweat & Tears and London Grip, He's also read his work on BBC Radio Manchester, Chapel FM and various podcasts. Michael co-hosts monthly spoken word open mic event Gobsh!te at the iconic Golden Lion in Todmorden, and writes and performs as NotAnotherPoet. He's also one half of the band New Age of Decay, whose debut album can be found on various online streaming platforms.
the poems
Thanks to My
Lower-intermediate
Mandarin Chinese
I know that the girl sat across from me
on the tram is unhappy with the boy next to her.
I know that something has happened
sometime before, after (or possibly during)
their dinner but can’t quite make out
the parts in between.
I know the boy thinks what’s upset the girl is not serious.
He does not say sorry or that he’ll make it up to her somehow
(though, in truth, I may not have understood it if he did).
I know there is something said about her
mother. She was there with them earlier today
or, if not, will be with them soon.
The girl or her mother (or both of them?)
have or had to wait a long time.
There’s a coat, hat and pair of gloves also
somehow involved in this and a phone call
which somebody needs to make.
The boy, arms now crossed, is insistent.
Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes what? I can’t be sure.
The boy is or has been busy recently.
The job. Her mother. The coat. The hat.
The gloves. The phone call.
The boy asks the girl how long something will be needed
and how many times must something be said and then
four characters, emotionally toned, one of those situational
set phrases you can only learn when mastering the language.
The boy then tells the girl he loves her.
He reaches for her hand. She looks down.
The boy kisses her firmly on the forehead
and as the carriage doors open
I picture the girl’s mother waiting.
No coat. No hat. No gloves.
Checking her phone and waiting outside
in the cold.
A Childhood Friend’s
Critique of
My Lifestyle Choices
After Raymond Antrobus
you all changed / all strange tastes /
new age / highbrow / holier than thou /
you all head down / shy-faced
round town / all flat cap / all man bag
you all dressed up / all plaid / all sandals /
soft lad / smelling all tea tree / Versace /
you quit the smokes? / gone all woke? / all lame-
arse jokes / all posh speak / all prim / all proper geek /
you all scrawny / weak / arty chic /
all desk job / all snob / away too long pal
one of them now / all big city flat / think you’re all that
but where’re your mates now? / what’s brought you back?
On the Third Thursday
of Every Month
Me and every man to ever have fallen in love with her
meet to discuss how we are coping with her absence.
For some it has been years. Many, now happily married,
talk only of flashes in their wingmirrors or windows.
For others their visions are a much more regular occurrence.
Some of the group claim they only know they are truly alone
once all the lights in their houses are out. One man confesses
he carries her hair clip in his pocket, squeezing it tight as he walks.
Another describes a recurring dream where she and him in full
embrace fall from a cliff face to a city of red and amber lights.
There is even a man she has never met who attends, dressed each
time in the same misfitting raincoat, his fists pressed against his
scalp as he speaks of her standing in the crowd, of running through
town, up long narrow streets, only to lose sight of her right at the last.
And then there is me and the curve of men beside me in the circle who
sit and listen, sit and listen, red faced, dazed in a frown, as so often
she said was the problem. So often, she said, the worst of all our problems.
Publishing credits
Thanks to My Lower-intermediate
Mandarin Chinese: Cerasus Magazine (Issue 9)
A Childhood Friend’s Critique of My Lifestyle
Choices: exclusive first publication by iamb
On the Third Thursday of Every Month:
The Interpreter’s House (No. 78)