Poetry for Lunch

by Laureen Johnson



1.         The Listener’s Tale


Noo, it’s aa very weel for dem at can plaise demsels

but some o wis haes decisions ta mak:

do you glaep a morsel afore or efter dis kerry-on?

You can hardly sit yonder crumpin on crisps

or oppenin a froadin can ida Library.

A shampse on a silent sandwich you might get aff wi

ahint a brod shooder,

or da merest moothfoo o watter

dentily smootit atween da poems.

Or will da faer o your belly rumblin

ruin your concentration?

Weel, whit do you dö?

Poetry – I mean, laek mony anidder thing,

hit’s meant ta be guid for you,

I ought ta be goin for it!

But it’s ower late noo at I’m here

ta wiss I’d a hed dat biscuit at brak-time,

an I set me doon in a snöd.

I’m missin me denner ower dis –

weel, whit are you come wi?

Hit better be bloody good!




2.         The Reader’s Tale


Is dis fokk aeten, I winder?

Are we da starters, or da desserts?

Or een o yon things da magazines caas a ‘meal-subsitute’

(at’s never a mael an always a braaly pör substitute)?

Fresh fae a diet o ‘Masterchef’ da streen,

I winder what ta serve up dis lunch-time.


Naething ower heavy, I tink, ta lie on da stammick

an ruin da efternön. Something light, maybe.

Something ta setisfee, athoot laevin dem stuggit.


A burger poem?

(Meaty, atween twa comfy saft slices.)


Some kind o a spicy clatch-up

rowed up in organic dialect?

(Expensive, but guid for da image.)


Oh, I’ll tell you what:

a chunky selection

held tagidder on a streight shiny kebab o a theme!


I’ll ax Michel Roux

whit he tinks.