A Case.

Poem by Tony Chapman - finished.

A Case.

I rest my case

full of busy little animals

working treadmills and pulley systems and bicycle generators,

digging holes and filling them again, endlessly

cutting prairies with nail scissors,

painting Forth Bridges from beginning to end, ad infinitum

moving whole continents with tea-spoons

my case is full of these colourful little creatures

all quite happy.

I rest it.

Letter to Johann.

Poem by Tony Chapman - finished.

Letter to Johann.

You are a wonder to behold, Johann,

with your rainbow wings

and hair of diamonds.

Thank you one million times

for sending me

the yellow coat,

I left at your house.

It is like my second skin

... and it is now even more precious

because you have handled it

with your velvet, glove-like hands

and sent it winging its way

across the ocean depths

where mighty whales

and whisky drinking giant squids

sit in deep, undersea tea shops

drinking from bone-china teacups,

their pinkies raised politely,

whilst nibbling daintily

on scones, jam and double Devon cream. x.


Poem by Tony Chapman - finished.



This road

takes me down

under sand-bridges

threatening to fall,

covering me.

This road

takes me over


threatening to fall,

dropping me.

This road

takes me beneath

lightening bolts

threatening to fall,

striking me.

This road

takes me under

guillotine blades

threatening to fall,

slicing me.

This road takes me through:




                                    gas and mines

and I always pass through safely

                                 except perhaps

                                 this time.


This road is my road.

This road

is caught

on hedgerow thorns,

like sheep's wool.

This road

is slippery,

built upside down,

sky below my feet.

This road

rears up

like a cobra

whose head is spinning


This road

is no comfort,

it whips me,

leaves me floating

in a sea of broken glass.

This road is tough.


Unperturbed, I carry on

left hand in shadow

right hand in flame.

Unexploded, I carry on


to the ultimate solution.

Uninhibited, I carry on

my skin unravelling,

laying like tarmac

behind me.

Uninhabited, I carry on

a stranger

in a crowd of lovers,

a derelict courtyard

in a city of golden rooftops.

Unconceived, I am born.

Already dead, I die,

leaving behind:

pearls for swine

and petals

sinking through water.

My need for freedom is:

paramount    obsessive    total.

Some of my poems and drawings:

Wales Poem 4 : Dylan Thomas's House.

by Tony Chapman -finished.

Dylan Thomas's House.

Dylan Thomas came here

lived here

his poetry, his words came from here.

In this house

the poet lived

in this kitchen his wife cooked

it was cold and damp

with the sea outside, "cat-lapping" the walls.

Up the path from this house

in a blue, wooden hut

with his books

and wood burning stove,

over-looking the "crow black" bay,

crumpled-up poetry-ideas littering the floor,

the poet wrote

it was cold and damp and VERY REAL.

This house is, now, centrally heated

his recorded voice

reads endlessly

in his own living room




pass through.

Here, the poet left for New York City

where he read his poetry

America shook (a little)


he felt cold and drank and smoked

skyscrapers watched

bronchitis pneumonia emphysema

impaired his breathing

starved of oxygen

he died

that’s all.

His voice echoes in this kitchen

where we tourists sit

centrally heated

eating cheese and soup.