Pigeon Pie, a poem

Since I regularly wade through the ocean of chaff that is The Blogosphere to search for fresh and moving poetry, I thought it would be a nice idea to share some of what I find.


Lives built on pigeon dreams
structured by Madison Avenue
calculated by Wall Street
beribboned  by Hollywood
We take them: these manufactured dreams,
one-size-fits-all, straight off the rack . . .
And damn cheap too!
Mad, cannibal pigeon dreams
turn good minds and whole hearts into mince
We pray to false economies,
seek deliverance from Cheap Jack
We buy one, get one free –
And fetch and fetish youth eternal
from face-lifts, Botox™, and boob-jobs –
Exit here:
drugs, alcohol
Get a house, a car, a jewel –
Be the first on your block.
Buy now. Pay later.
Filling the empty with nothing more,
something less . . .
and warehousing our souls, they
gather dust in public storage . . .
the first month free.
Poems unwritten. Songs unsung.
Chumped. Stumped. Petrified.
A gullible human Pigeon Pie,
neatly boxed
and wrapped to go.

© 2017, poem, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved; Photo credit – Lars…

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The time I discovered that the best health and safety measure is looking where you’re going

Submitted this to a Lonely Planet travel writing competition recently. No prizes but I enjoyed the trip down memory lane.

The time I discovered that the best health and safety measure is looking where you’re going

‘Shiv! STOP!’

My body was sailing forward over the threshold by the time I heard Lily’s shout. Momentum was carrying me into what should have been the next carriage of the train.

A split-second was enough to feel the breeze on my face and register the darkness. Fast-moving darkness in the shape of Ukranian farmland.

My right foot scuffed the top of the coupling plate.  I would have walked straight out of the train had it not been for the sharp yank on the hood of my jumper. I tumbled backwards in a heap onto Lily’s petite frame. Crash! – The heavy door slammed shut.

G’dun, g’dun, g’dun…

The motion of the rattling night train soothed my heartbeat as I rolled off my friend and lay still on my front for a few seconds, my nose uncomfortably close to the old wooden floor panels.

I should have guessed. The doors were never locked like that. It hadn’t even entered my mind as I turned the large metal bar that it would be possible to walk off the end of the train.

‘What are you doing?’ we heard, in Russian. The carriage manager, or ‘provodnitsa’, had come to restore order to the corridor. ‘That door’s not for passengers!’

‘Who is it for?’ I thought; and Lily helped me to my feet as I clumsily explained that we had been looking for the restaurant.

The no-nonsense provodnitsas are responsible for keeping passengers safe and orderly on the trains. A good night for a provodnitsa is not one in which a foreigner, with the habit of being mollycoddled by Health and Safety rules, fails to look where she’s going and ends up on the tracks halfway between Kiev and Sevastopol.

‘What do you want from the restaurant?’ she asked. I was a little thrown by the question but answered ‘pelmeni’.

Lily shook her head. ‘A vodka,’ she said. ‘We need a vodka.’

‘Well, you don’t have to go to the restaurant for that!’ replied the provodnitsa, and promptly herded us into her staff cabin, where there was a healthy supply of the good stuff.

‘Sometimes,’ the provodnitsa was recounting an hour or so later, ‘the men drink too much and wee out of the window. They can’t wait for the toilet…’

‘And what about that?’ asked Lily, pointing to the back of the train. ‘Has that ever happened before?’

The provodnitsa didn’t hesitate. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Nobody has ever been that stupid.’ It was deadpan. ‘I’ll be telling that story for years to come. And don’t remind me what country you’re from,’ she added, ‘or I’ll be telling them that, too!’

The Light Switch

The Light Switch

My 101-word story The Light Switch has been published on the 101words website.

As I mentioned in my haiku post, I love working with strict limitations because of the creativity that blossoms when you have to think very carefully about revising something to fit specific form-related criteria.

What’s more, a short word count is less daunting to fit into your schedule!


The English Haiku?!

Haikus are surely the ultimate form of poetry. I didn’t realise until recently that the English haiku is seen as a distinct form, altered from the age-old haiku from Japan for reasons explained here.

What is poetry for but to express universal ideas in as succinct a way as possible? What provides more scope for creativity than the strictest parameters of form?

Fine: these are clearly my ideas of what poetry is for, since plenty of celebrated poets are not interested in applying these concepts.

One of my favourite haikus:

Love is not complex
It demands an absent mind
And a present heart


For Christmas, I wrote two haikus: one for my Gran (who used to be a pharmacist) and one for my brother Jamie.

In her pharmacy
With laughter’s analgesic
Wisdom is dispensed
For my Gran
His music carries
Echoes of the harmony
Felt in his presence

For my brother Jamie
I’d love to see more haikus in the comments if you have favourites…

My poem on The Fem

The Fem has published my spoken word poem ‘Letter to my latest street abuser.’ It’s a great feminist literary magazine. Check it out. 🙂


Dear friend
You seem to forget
You’re the same as me
Survivors of reality
Hearts beating rapidly
Lost in the sea
Of our venom
As you spit yours at me
Did you actually
Just unzip your jeans?
Do you understand
What it means
When you dribble out
Your obscenities?
Your humanity

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