I'm currently reading Matthew Sweeney's 'Black Moon'. Sweeney has been one of my favourite poets ever since I discovered his prize-winning poem, 'The History of Glassblowing' a few years ago. For me, it's his sense of humour that gives his poetry lasting appeal. It's inventive and often fantastical, and his poems are a real joy to read. Humour in poetry requires a very light touch for it to work on more than one level, but Sweeney does this with incredible skill. As a result, his humorous poems are understated enough to avoid becoming distracting or intrusive. 'How to Win the Lottery' is taken from his 2007 collection, Black Moon, and is absolutely an example of one such poem.
I’ve called him Mr Pebble Pockets because if I don’t make a joke out of it I’ll cry. It was about 10:30pm, I’d just got back to the boat from a late shift and I was waiting for my Deliveroo. He was standing a little further down the towpath and staring at the water. The night was clear and crisp and there was enough moonlight to see the shape of him: he was tall, late twenties and had a powerful sporty look to him. He wasn’t crying, but he was shaking and he stood crooked. Well, it doesn’t take a genius, does it? I only came out to wait for a bloody curry. Mother Florence bloody Teresa Nightingale springing into action, hungry and as tired as fuck and now having to stop this guy from jumping into the canal with an anchor for a coat. I know now that the best thing to do was offer him a cigarette. I don’t know why I didn’t. I had the packet and the lighter in my hand. ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘Ar...
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