A GOOD HEAD OF STEAM

The inspiration for this post's poem comes from real life. I did watch a street preacher attempt to interest the public at a street market recently. I often wonder what makes them stop? If they preach for a set time then go about their business? It's an idea have often toyed with but never got anything worthwhile from.

THE SPIRIT IS WITH HIM

Thanks to the speaker

I can hear him half way down the road

He’s worked up a good head of steam

that neither the drizzle or wind can dampen

His truths are obvious to him

and should be to all who listen

But the passers by do just that

and I pass by with them

I think this poem is about there. I think it's effective in conveying a scene. Part tell, part show. Some poems are just about keeping your chops sharp. 

I leave you with Laura Gibson.

Until next time.   

SEA CHANGE

I have a recurring dream that I suddenly discover I have not written my dissertation and therefore I cannot graduate. I've had it for years, and it probably comes from supporting higher education students. There is always trauma around getting dissertations in on time, although, back in the day, I was very organised and had mine completed in good time. It's my version of an anxiety dream. Oh, a Gentleman's is a Third Class degree which was considered an adequate level of achievement for a gentleman before they began their Grand Tour of Europe.

SEA CHANGE

There I am again

discovering my dissertation is unwritten

a common enough event in this repeating dream

But hang on

I check the calender

find I have seven days until hand in

And I think

I can do this

thereby sidestepping the sea of shame

And I know a Gentleman’s Third beckons

The poem is called Sea Change because this time I change the script. This is not a big poem. I may try it out at a couple of readings to gauge its reception. 

Sachal Vasandani has a new album out on the 14th. Here's a taster Sometimes I Miss.

Until next time.

WAITING FOR THE SAUCERS

Millennialism has always fascinated me. The idea that the world is coming to an end is as old as the world itself. I have never been seduced by the idea myself, but throughout history people have been duped. This is a poem about people who believed in something that didn't happen. 

WAITING FOR THE SAUCERS

Before dawn we were on the hill

singing hymns of celebration

confirmation this was the day

we would transcend

to our promised new lives in Heaven

The drizzle did not dampen

the gawkers and cameras did not make us falter

that came later in the full light of day

wet to the skin cold to the bone

perhaps Salvation did not beckon that February day

Conscious of my weak chest

my Mother was the first to question

in twos and threes we walked away

turned back to our earth lives

I have never felt as alive as I did on that hill

I think it wrote itself from the title downwards. This is only a rough draft. It needs time for me to discern the faults, I'm too close.

I have to leave you with Judee Sill's Enchanted Sky Machines which is about such a rescue.

Until next time.   

NO WORDS LEFT

Have you ever ran out of words to say to a stranger? I have on occasion, though usually I ask them questions, most people are happy to talk about themselves. This poem is a variation on that fear.

there was so much conversation

during the wedding feast

that all our vocabularies were consumed

consequently the reception was a let down

no words left between the lot of us

we just looked at one another

and that DJ was neither one thing nor the other

prompting our half hearted movements

on the empty dance floor

so we sat it out for as long as was decent

slipped away from the hotel to our cheaper room

and we never saw either of you ever again

I thinking that we'd been invited to a wedding and all conversation had been used up during the meal. I think this is very definitely a first draft. Though I'm not sure what where it is heading. 

Lucy Dacus has a new album out. Here's the first song released from it, Ankles.

Until next time.  

EARWIGGING

I promise this is the last time I shall show you this poem, I think it's complete-phew! You can read the last version here.

In the 1970s, the K-unit Maintenance

baggin’ room, at Castner-Kelner Chemical Works,

was not conducive to the study of great literature.

We were employed to fix broken machinery,

not to broaden our intellectual horizons,

so there were no pointers to those volumes

that could have enabled us to understand

why we had been educated to a certain point

then handed overalls and told to get on with it.

We drank tea on our breaks

and talked of nothing in particular.

I think the tight punctuation aids clarity, as does removal of all extraneous words. That's always difficult, but it is worth asking yourself how the poem benefits from each word and being ruthless in removing excess.

the parking police walk up our street

earwigging I’m walking behind

it’s like this is the savannah

and we’re the apex predator

we give no one a second chance

let alone some third act of grace

a ticket on every window

and digital photographs of the crime

you can’t argue with technology

it’s a result every single time

This was just a little idea that occurred to me when I watched two traffic wardens walking up the road deep in conversation. The rest was fantasy.

I suppose I should play Lovely Rita by The Beatles to complement the second poem.

Until next time.    

THE WEATHER TODAY IS CALLED DRIZZLE

Sometimes a line can lead to a novel, but not every time. The first poem today is a good first line but I am not sure I understood where to go with it.

the weather today is called drizzle

those of you from more edgy environments will be relieved to know that the precipitation on this planet is principally CO2 with a dash of microplastics and heavy metals

incidentally the inhabitants of this island will be very happy to discourse about the weather

please note this does not mean you can ask them any other questions

It's a piece of nonsense, but it requited deft handling to bring off the necessary lightness. I honestly do not think I have achieved it. Killer first line though, probably one to put away for a long time. This next poem is making its third appearance in as many weeks. You can read them here and here.

In the 1970s K-unit Maintenance

baggin’ room at Castner-Kelner Chemical Works

was not conducive to the study of great literature.

We were employed to fix broken machinery

and not to broaden our intellectual horizons

so there were no pointers to those volumes

that could have enabled us to understand

why we had been educated to a certain point

then handed overalls and told to get on with it.

We just drank tea on our breaks

and talked of nothing in particular

I think the difficulty for me has been getting clarity. I have known what I wanted to say but did not want to be either supercilious or tell [rather than show]. It is a changing line to walk. This is definitely one to share with the Secret Poets.

Here are a Charm of Finches, such lovely harmonies, they are so well worth a listen.

Until next time.   

ON THE LOOKOUT FOR NUMBER FOUR

A rewrite for you this post. Some poems do not come easy. They are never fully realised and condemned to the Locker Room of Lost Poems, while other undergo transformation after transformation. Possibly it is because I don't know exactly what it is I want to say, or the original words didn't quite catch the essence and so I search for clarity.

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 who found one

His boat had come in

more luck than he knew what to do with

The days were long

the field was large

Just beyond our fingers

possibilities tantalised

So what's changed? Layout for a start and the odd line. You can read the last version here. 

The new Laura Marling album is worth a listen.  

Until next time.