REINCARNATION BLUES

There's a lot to be said for sharing your work with others because they will not be as familiar with it as you are and will see the flaws. This revised poem benefitted from being discussed with friends. Thank you Secrets. You can read the pervious version here. 

REINCARNATION BLUES

It was lucky that we had the gramophone,

separated as we were by time,

and you could leave me messages

in the canyon spirals of shellac discs,

cunningly wrought as they were from insect resin.

Eventually I happened upon them

in fire sales of bankrupt stock.

Then with a growing fascination,

in the backrooms of second hand shops

that litter the fading ports this side of the warming sea.

You described your love for me

in the words of Tin Pan Alley tunes,

spry three minute miniatures that chronicle

the moves of smiling men who could never be me,

and the heartbreak from their treachery.

You see I arrived too late though not by choice.

You had jumped impulsively from the Bardo

as the drop zone came into sight.

I hesitated. Too late I followed.

Half the globe away your siren songs had long been sung.

You were gone decades ago

and now I have the hands of an old man

with a face that almost matches.

This time around we got out of step.

Mistiming, loneliness are the lessons we lived this life to learn.

Like the revised poem last post, this poem too has gained punctuation and lost some words. It reads better now. It is I think complete. 

Here's the Ezra Collective, get dancing.

Until next time.

FIVE YELLOW STARS

I met up with the Secret Poets this week. We try to meet every four to six weeks. As usual they were able to offer constructive feedback on  my latest poems. This one lost part of a line and gained some punctuation.

BUTTONS

Who saves buttons these days

to rescue a garment in time of need.

Your mother did, in a big glass jar.

Studiously she cut them off those labels

the ones we only notice when they make us itch.

I’ve never told you this before,

too embarrassed,

too distressed,

because I mislaid it one move or other

after her death.

All I can offer you is this,

a litany of buttons you will never see,

pearl white, little maroon, big wooden buttons.

Oh, and the five yellow stars

she meant to put on the jumper

she never had the chance to knit you.

You can read the other draft here. I think this poem is as finished as it will ever be. Thank you Secrets.

Here's Astrid Williamson. Her latest album is excellent.

Until next time.

  

YOUR SIREN SONGS HAD BEEN SUNG

Sometimes in that half awake borderland I dream poems, occasionally they appear near fully formed, this one did not. I had the bare bones [though at the time, it was just a screed of words on a page] and I let the idea percolate for a time before attempting to shape it. 

It was lucky that we had the gramophone,

separated as we were by time,

and you could leave me messages

in the canyon spirals of shellac discs

cunning wrought as they were from insect resin

Eventually I happened upon them

in fire sales of bankrupt stock

then with a growing fascination

in the backrooms of second hand shops

that litter the fading ports this side of a warming sea

You described your love for me

in the words of Tin Pan Alley tunes

spry three minute miniatures that chronicle

the moves of men who could never be me

and the heartbreak that results from their treachery

You see I arrived too late not by choice

you had jumped impulsively from the Bardo

as the drop zone came into sight

it was obscured by turbulence I hesitated

half the globe away your siren songs had been sung

This time around we got out of step

you are gone decades ago

I have the hands of an old man

with a face that almost matches

mistiming, loneliness are the lessons we live this life to learn

Essentially I was thinking of a couple with a karmic bond - an intense relationship between two people that is rooted in past lives or lives. My semi-dreaming state thought about what would happen if they were separated by time but connected through early recordings. I was thinking of 78's telling a story to the one who was born later. 

Does it work? I think the idea is basically sound but it may need revision. I shall show this poem to my colleagues the Secret Poets. Watch this space.

Here's another old psychedelic band, please ignore the awful cover. Blonde On Blonde deserve better art.

Until next time.

A LITANY OF BUTTONS

This poem has had a long gestation. Some poems need time to feel their way to a conclusion. The rare ones arrive nearly fully formed but others take months, or longer to coalesce. 

Just A Little Insight into Her Beauty

No one saves buttons these days

to rescue a garment in a time of need

your mother, did in a big glass jar

studiously she cut them off those labels

the ones we only notice when they make us itch

I’ve never told you this before

too embarrassed

too distressed

because I mislaid the jar one move or other

and there were many, after her death

All I can offer you is this

a litany of buttons you will never see

pearl white, little maroon, big wooden buttons

oh, and the five yellow stars

she meant to put on the jumper

she never had the chance to knit you

I am too close to this one to talk much about it. I'm not sure this is its final version but it will do for now. 

Ryley Walker has just released a live recording of a show at the Phoenix in Exeter. It was an excellent evening. Here's a recent recording.

Until next time.

GATEWAY TO THE LUCK

I think this poem draws on vague childhood memories. I have a hazy notion of looking for a four leaf clover in the playing field near my childhood home that I have turned into this.

It was the topic of our summer

one we would return to every so often

as we sat in the central school playing field

looking at the clover

counting leaves one two and three

on the lookout for number four

the rock solid gateway to the luck

You told me that your uncle once known a man

whose life had been turned around

more luck than he knew what to do with

We renewed our search

the days were long the field was large

our prize glittered just beyond our fingers

It is far from complete. The last line is in question, I am not sure that I can get away with clover glittering. I thought of tangible but it worked even less well. I think this poem has legs though. We await developments.

Plumes has a splendid new album out, you can buy it here.

Until next time.

BRIGHT CURLED CRISP

Autumn has definitely arrived in Devon, it should have, you cry, it's November! Well, yes it is, but it's been unseasonably warm recently. Here's a poem about the season.

AUTUMN

The leaves were leaving

right angles in the wind

bright curled crisp

they fly from the branch

Then circle as if unsure

of what to make of this word freedom

only to fall

heavier than the thought

Briefly they will jewel the pavement

Nothing to say about this poem really. This next one is another in the long line of poems about writing poems. 

It comes down to the poem shouting at you

oi! over here!

As it mimes a metaphor

that you only half appreciate

You are just the hapless scribe

whose hands are full

Recording every word

as best you can 

Again it is just a little observation. I think I am in a period of writing miniatures. Small, self contained facets of lived experience. I hope they chime with you. 

Here's Ben Webster and Oscar Peterson.

Until next time.

 

UPPED STICKS

I recently went to Morlaix for the weekend, it was a flying visit. I had been there about five years before and I thought I had retained a reasonably accurate mental map of the town. I had not. It did provoke this poem.

FIVE YEARS LATER

At least two buildings had upped sticks

and shuffled across the square

to present different vistas

of their architectural features

All the roads have been rerouted

and the town centre must have shrunk in the rain

so that when we returned

our mental maps were astray

Try as we might

we were lost

and could not find our way

This is a first draft. I think the ending can be improved and I'm not sure about the layout. Watch this space.

Both Chris Cleverly and Boo Hewerdine are on tour at the moment, so I've a busy a busy week coming up as they are playing in Devon on different nights. Here's Boo live earlier this year with Yvonne Lyons. It takes a while to get going but it's worth it. 

Until next time.