By Robert "Bob" Bussey
AND THE SAGA CONTINUES …
Philip Larkin would devour this poet. Let’s move quickly to Sean Docherty’s next poem. While you read it, ask if it has an existential undercurrent or a deeper meaning than appears on its surface. The last poem is purely personal to Sean. But can you relate to being the parent of three completely different personalities?
The Minor Weather
There is a rain gauge
behind the heart,
collecting what no forecast
admits.
Not storms.
Not disasters.
Only the small weather
people make for one another
before the dark
gets organised.
In 1891,
a woman in a boarding house
warms her husband’s boots
by the stove
though he has spent the evening
being impossible
and smelling of gin.
She does not forgive him.
Let’s not get biblical
before breakfast.
But she turns the leather
toward the heat
so his feet
will not enter the morning
cold.
In 1977,
a girl in a nightclub toilet
holds back another girl’s hair
while she vomits up
vodka, heartbreak,
and half a packet of crisps.
The bass keeps thumping
like God having sexin the next room.
Nobody knows their names.
One says,
you’re alright, babe,
with the seriousness
of a priest
inventing mercy
over a cracked sink.
In 2034,
an old man in a tower block
feeds a neighbour’s cat
after the neighbour dies.
The cat is an arsehole.
A pure little dictator
in fur.
Still, he opens the tin
at seven each evening,
because hunger
should not have to understand
paperwork.
These are local climates.
A hand on a kettle.
A coat placed over shoulders.
The vulgar miracle
of staying.
None of it alters
the larger report.
Stars burn through
their allotted hydrogen.
Black holes keep
their terrible appetites.
The galaxies drift apart
like lovers
too proud
to text first.
Eventually,
even music
will lose the room.
Still, somewhere,
someone lowers their voice
so a sleeping child
will not wake.
Somewhere,
someone says stay,
and means only for five more minutes,
which is sometimes
the bravest unit of time.
Somewhere,
a hand reaches
for another hand
under the ruined weather
of being alive.
And the universe,
which has never promised
a thing,
registers
a slight change
in pressure.
Not enough
to save us.
Enough
to say
we were here,
and briefly,
it was warmer.
Again we get the goodness of humanity, even if in tiny acts, set against the coldness of nature, or the universe, of the uncaring.
“Rain gauge” to me is a metaphor for the soul, ego, superego, consciousness, or sense of right and wrong. What did you mean it to be?
Yes, in a way. The rain gauge is the hidden place inside us that collects what ordinary language misses. Not the huge disasters, but the tiny emotional weather: the small kindnesses, tensions, mercies, disappointments, and gestures that build up inside a life.
You have certain dates in the poem: 1891, 1977, 2034. Are they tied to real events?
No, they’re not tied to specific historical events. I chose them to create a sense of kindness happening across time — past, recent past, future. I wanted the poem to feel like these small acts are always happening somewhere, in every era, whether anyone records them or not.
Do you find yourself writing about human kindness often? If so, why?
Yes. I think because kindness is one of the only answers I actually trust. Big answers can become slogans very quickly. But someone warming another person’s boots, holding someone’s hair back, feeding a dead neighbour’s cat — those feel real to me. Small, flawed, human, and believable.
The Moon That Came Out in the Wash
It didn’t rise over the rooftops
or silver the sea
like it had hired a violinist
and a lighting crew.
It came out of my washing machine.
Just—
thunk—halfway through a mixed load,
between two socks
and a T-shirt I keep
even though it makes me look
emotionally unemployed.
A moon.
A small one.
Palm-sized.
Wet.
Slightly dented.
It rolled out with my pants
and sat there glowing
on the kitchen tiles
like it paid rent.
I stared at it.
Because I’m British,
my first thought wasn’t
Oh my God, the heavens have entered my home.
It was:
Great.
That’s the deposit gone.
The moon dripped Persil
onto the floor.
The washing machine beeped
like it had done nothing wrong.
I crouched down slowly,
tea towel in hand,
because apparently
when faced with cosmic mystery
my instinct is still
to mop.
The moon blinked.
Not with eyes.
Don’t be stupid.
It was a moon.
But it did something
with its light,
a little pulse,
a soft judgemental shimmer
like an elderly aunt
who knows you’ve been lying
about being fine.
I said,
“Don’t start.”
The moon rolled closer.
It smelled of rain,
hot metal,
and that weird clean smell
laundry has
before life ruins it again.
My socks glowed.
My chipped mug glowed.
The unpaid council tax letter
on the counter
became briefly biblical,
which felt unnecessary.
The whole kitchen
went silver at the edges.
Even the bin looked
like it had secrets.
The moon hummed,
not in words,
more like a feeling
behind my ribs:
Look.
So I looked.
And there I was,
reflected in its little shining face—
hair doing something illegal,
dressing gown belt
dragging on the floor,
eyes tired from pretending
not to want too much.
Rude, honestly.
It showed me
all the ways I make myself small:
laughing before anyone else can,
saying “no worries”
when there are, in fact,
several worries,
keeping my heart
in a drawer
with old batteries
and takeaway menus
from places that closed in 2018.
The moon pulsed again.
Like:
Babe.
And I said,
“Don’t babe me,
you came out of a Hotpoint.”
But it kept glowing.
Not cruelly.
Not kindly, exactly.
More like it knew
I had been treating my life
as something temporary,
like a rented room
I didn’t want to decorate
in case someone came in
and told me to leave.
The moon rolled
into a puddle of rinse water
and the floor became a night sky.
Tiny stars gathered
around the chair legs.
A comet slid under the fridge.
The toaster shone
with terrifying purpose.
For one second
my kitchen was infinite.
For one second
I was not behind,
or broken,
or waiting to become
the sort of person
who deserves good things.
I was just there.
Barefoot.
Damp socks in hand.
Standing in the middle
of a miracle
that smelled faintly
of lavender detergent.
And I laughed.
Not prettily.
Not like a woman
in a perfume advert.
I laughed like someone
who had been holding her breath
for years
and suddenly realised
breathing is free.
The moon dimmed.
Of course it did.
Miracles never stay long enough
to help with admin.
It gave one last shiver
of silver light,
then shrank
into something small
and ordinary:
a button.
White.
Round.
Still warm.
Probably from the duvet cover.
I picked it up
and held it
like evidence.
Then I put the washing on again
because life is glamorous
and towels don’t clean themselves.
But later,
when the night got loud,
when my thoughts started pacing
like foxes behind glass,
I found the button
in my dressing gown pocket.
Still faintly glowing.
And I thought:
Maybe wonder
doesn’t always arrive
with trumpets
and answers
and someone finally saying
you were right all along.
Maybe it slips in
through the spin cycle.
Maybe it waits
in the lint trap.
Maybe it says,
softly,
absurdly,
You are not too late.
You are not too much.You are allowed
to take up space
in your own kitchen.
So I made tea.
I folded the towels badly.
And outside,
above the damp little roofs,
the real moon hung there
looking smug as anything.
Like it knew.
Like it had always known.
What was the motivating factor in writing this poem?
It came from the idea that wonder doesn’t always arrive grandly. Sometimes it might arrive through the most ordinary, slightly ridiculous place. A washing machine felt perfect because laundry is so domestic and repetitive. It’s the opposite of a grand revelation, which is exactly why I liked it.
What kind of tea do you like best?
Yorkshire Tea. Strong, dependable, and less likely than most things to let you down.
Do you really use Persil and not Tide?
Yes. Persil is much more familiar here in the UK. Tide feels very American to me. Persil feels like the sort of thing that might actually be sitting next to the washing machine while a small moon causes problems.
This poem also explores the human condition, does it not?
Yes, but through comedy. It’s about the way people can become used to shrinking themselves, apologising for wanting things, and treating their own lives as temporary. The moon interrupts that.
Towards the end, you seem to have an epiphany that you are not too late and that you have something to offer. Is that what you were aiming at?
Yes, exactly. That’s the emotional turn.
I’m sure you have notice that Sean mainly uses free verse as his form of poetry. I think it blends easily into his wanting to have his poems seem more like conversations. But he is not against using a rhyming structure, if that will also fit into his themes of humanness. This next one does just that.
Three Small Queens
I am a king, but not of lands or gold,
My kingdom’s made of stories to be told.
It’s built on laughter, wonderfully loud,
And I’m the luckiest, most happy and most proud.
For three small queens who rule my every day
Have stolen my whole heart and run away.
My eldest has a quick and clever spark,
Who finds the light when everything is dark.
She’ll solve a puzzle, figure out the ‘why,’
Then leap and spin and seem to touch the sky.
She is the thought, and then the graceful twirl,
The brilliant, dancing leader of my world.
My middle girl, my strong and fearless one,
With muddy trainers and a love for sun.
She’ll climb the highest, take the biggest fall,
Then brush it off and stand up straight and tall.
She is the rock, the courage I can see,
The little hero who looks up to me.
And then my youngest, with a gentle grace,
A little song that floats around the place.
She sings to nothing, dances with no care,
And finds the magic hiding everywhere.
She is the music when the day is long,
The sweet and happy rhythm of our song.
So one’s my thinker, one’s my brave and tough,
And one’s the sweet song when the world gets rough.
You’re three wild parts of one amazing whole,
The beautiful, chaotic treasure of my soul.
And I’m just Dad, your steady, happy guide,
With arms wide open and a heart of pride.
This poem has some rhyming. Is this a personal poem about your three daughters?
Yes, it’s a personal poem about my three daughters.
General response to your note about your children.
I really appreciated what you said about your own children. That’s exactly the feeling behind the poem: each child being completely distinct, completely themselves, and loved in a way that is impossible to measure without sounding ridiculous. The poem is simpler and more traditional than the others because the emotion is simpler too. It’s pride. It’s love. It’s being Dad, standing there with your heart walking around outside your body in three different directions.
Is there anything else you would like the readers to know either about you or your poetry that I have not asked?
I’d like readers to know that I’m trying to write poems that don’t look away from the hard stuff but also don’t surrender to it. I care about death, grief, loneliness, desire, doubt, family, work, ordinary rooms, and the strange comedy of being alive in a body that needs sleep, tea, affection and occasionally better decision-making.
I don’t think poetry has to choose between being beautiful and being funny, or between being serious and being human. Life doesn’t separate those things neatly, so I don’t really want the poems to either.
You can find Sean on Reddit using the name “deadeyes1990.” I never asked him why he chose that name. He is so the opposite. He can also be found on Substack as “Sean Docherty.” In either location you will find his poetry set out for anyone to read. He sets it out for anyone to read. You don’t have to buy a book. It’s not self-promotion. Maybe that will come later.
