The poet Adrian Mitchell once described poetry as, “a bucket for the truth”. Adrian Mitchell was one of my favourite writers, and poetry is one of my favourite types of writing. So this is a space for some poems…

The day the world turned upside down
the trees went blue, and the sky went brown.
Men became women. Women became men.
Two became three, and nine became ten.
All the dogs turned into cats.
Roots became branches, and shoes became hats.
Lambs became butchers, and fish became birds.
“Please” and “Thank you” became rude words.
Roads were rivers, and squares were round.
The day the world turned upside down.

The day the world turned upside down
aeroplanes flew underground.
Honest people turned into thieves.
Tea became coffee and coins became leaves.
Horses rode upon their riders.
Mice caught cats, and flies caught spiders.
Milk became metal. The deserts froze.
The sun set in the morning, and at night it rose.
All the news-readers were dancing clowns
the day the world turned upside down.

by Sean Taylor

Five miles above the cold sea,
I am asleep in the sky.

Then there’s an urgent whisper. 
An air-hostess swishes by.

“Is there a doctor on board?”
she asks across the seats.

Heads shift on small pillows,
“A doctor? A doctor?” she repeats.

I wish that I could nod,
then stand up looking doctorly and assured.

And I wonder if one day I’ll hear,
“Is there a poet on board?”

by Sean Taylor

I saw three girls make snow babies
with stumpy arms and legs.

They rocked their small white bundles
and kissed their soft cold heads.

It warmed my heart to see those
bright-eyed little mothers.

Then they burst out laughing
and threw the babies at each other.

by Sean Taylor

My father’s palms on the worn smooth wood of the fork.
Garden trousers instead of his weekday suit.
Me, abob round his knees like a floating cork,
watching the prongs pushed into the soil by his boot.
Then he’d tilt back and turn up a thick wedge of earth,
say, “No luck?” and seem to be looking around.
“Yes!” I’d say, finding potatoes for all I was worth -
like scattered coins in the blackness of the broken ground.
Years later he admitted his bad eyesight had all been a fake.
Pretending not to see the potatoes was just his game.
He loved to see me with my eyes and my fingers awake.
And perhaps that is why I am writing this poem today.
Because he taught me to look for what’s golden down in the dark
and to watch the world with eyes alive and sharp.

by Sean Taylor

(Read out when my son, Joey, was born. It got a round of applause from the doctors and nurses, and a yawn from Joey…)

Welcome to the world, to the air and the stones.
Welcome to the colours of the birds.
Welcome to dogs and distances and storms.
Welcome to the rooms full of words.

Welcome to trees and choices and love.
Welcome to friends and the sun.
Welcome to wheels and worn down shoes.
Welcome to your dad and your mum.

Welcome to windows, doors and shelves.
Welcome to adverts and sirens.
Welcome to the world with its big, wild cats,
its laughter, its songs and its silence.

by Sean Taylor