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.
It was a few weeks into autumn and I hadn’t had a hair cut since before the summer solstice. My beard, long and straggly and in desperate need of trimming, was a week away from having birds nest in it. I unpolished my boots and wore some old jeans that were ripped at the knees and dirty from digging a deep hole on a particularly wet day in Highgate Cemetery. Hanging loosely over the top of those was a baggy grey jumper I spilt half a bottle of bleach over about three years ago. I looked a bit of a state, but there was a method to my madness. Today was the day I was going to ask Moon for a pay rise and I wanted to look as if I’d been trod on. On the morning I was due to ask him, my bike got a puncture not twenty yards down the road from my house. It wasn’t a polite slow puncture so that I might finish my journey on a squidgy but rideable front tyre; the thorn tore through that poor inner tube like a javelin through jelly and it had me riding on a stee...
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