The September First Selected Poet is David Subacchi

Please feel free to email David at david.subacchi@tiscali.co.uk

HUNTED

Astride her horse she glows with confidence
Coal black curled hair by a hard hat concealed
Gloved hands gripping reins, tight control revealed
Spurred boots adding to her magnificence
She rides to hounds jumping each hedge and fence
Galloping through forest and muddy field
Cheeks flushed with excitement her both eyes peeled
For any hazard in undergrowth dense

The master’s horn squeals its bloodthirsty cry
Hardening her expression in response
She urges her mount on with crop and steel
All thoughts of safety gone as hounds rush by
They have the scent but death is her fragrance
For today is the hunter’s turn to die.

BURNING

There is nothing that isn’t so important
It doesn’t merit a meeting or two
Or postponing a prearranged activity
So I can provide reassurance to you
That all is well as it must be
No reason to panic or fear
For I am accountable for all of it
And you are always in the clear

There is nothing that isn’t a crisis
And preferably a drama as well
To get the adrenalin flowing
And make each working day hell
Everyone so stressed and offended
Standing up high on their toes
Alert to the need to defend you
From the arrows of critical foes

God forgive you it isn’t meant personally
Your sincerity is plain to see
When you take me aside for a catch up
On the weekend and close family
Then pulling a file from your briefcase
A few statistics we need to plough through
Do you not see the scythe that I’m holding?
Or the ground that’s burning beneath you?

UNMARKED GRAVES

These days I read little
Dog eared bargains
In charity shops
No longer tempt
Now history is only
A click away

On line videos
Provide instant
Gratification
Bullet casings
Steel helmets
And rusty rifles
Rise from the earth

I fly from France
To the Russian front
From the Great War
To the Second
In a heart beat
A finger movement

Watch gloved hands
Excitedly wiping dirt
From what
Should remain
Buried
Undisturbed

These days it’s not
A golf club
Or a fishing rod
That I grip tightly
Only the black box
Mounted on a pole

And wired to my ears
Probing the soil
Listening for echoes
Sweeping the surface
Of unmarked graves.

David Subacchi was born in Wales (UK) of Italian roots and has published two collections of poems, First Cut (2012) and Hiding in Shadows (2014). He studied at the University of Liverpool and is a full time writer and poet. He is increasingly well-published internationally.

You can find his blog HERE