Grandfather frequently paced the floor
before the paper boy delivered it
unavoidably damp and rolled to fit
the wide-grin letterbox. In the door
like a stuck-out tongue, the Broadsheet hung
till pulled from the grip of stiff, chrome jaws
unravelling to our silent applause.
Two huge pages flung
across the table, broadcasting even stop-press news
freshening each day. Over coffee it spilled
ink print headlines and copy, brim-filled
with politics, events, murders, reviews,
Old papers kept, re-read and used for shining
shoes, and silver spoons. Made wraps for ash,
peelings, waste, and a small neat cache
of crumpled balls that set the coal fire roaring.
In flames went Grandma's crossword clues
(she'd almost always solved but one)
the well scoured 'Notices' too where anyone
could post their gladdest or their saddest news.
"never believe what you read in the paper" they'd say,
I trusted it only twice, when each had passed away.
For today’s Poetics: For the Love of the Broadsheet, Punam is challenging us to bring the Newspaper and all it might mean to us into our poetry.
PoetryPix 