BLACK SCRAPS OF STEALTH

Last spring I spent a couple of days on the Costa Brava and one night I watched bats hunt in the twilight. The beam of a lighthouse catching them in mid flight. I stored the memory away knowing I would one day write a poem about it.

NIGHT HUNTERS

Unexpected the wind is in my ears

louder than my tinnitus ever could be

warm like a low power hand dryer

It must have picked up as night came

we’ve just left the restaurant

are by the squat light house

In the beam black scraps of stealth

strobe in and out of existence

it hurts to chart their orbits

and I question my eyes

all the way to the car

The poem percolated in my head for a long time I could vividly remember the bats but the words would not come. I've been working on this for the last couple of weeks. Watch this space.

Here's an early Elvis Costello song Motel Matches, I love the ambiguity of the lyric. He is a fine songwriter.

Until next time. 

JAMES LAST IS FIRST

This poem is a rewrite. You can read the last version here. I was never satisfied with the poem and recently rewrote it. 

Soundtrack for a Charity Shop

James Last is first

because you can usually find

one of his long players

in the record rack

alongside a Johnny Mathis,

both sold millions back in the day.

They front the line of budget classics

Beethoven’s greatest hits etc.

[capitalism camouflaged as culture].

I think I’d rather go to the

Fifty Top Tune Banjo Party

than listen to Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Requiem

every last copy is in mint condition

because nobody could face listening

to it more than once.

And all the prices have gone up

ever since the staff started googling Discogs,

just because a mint first pressing is worth real money

this scratched and battered reprint

has not the same value

but they never listen when you try to tell them. 

It is now longer than it previously was and I think the more conversational style works better. It also struck me that the opening line was reasonably funny. In the six years since I first had the idea to write about LPs in charity shops the times have changed. Vinyl is once more hip. I read in a survey of young people's music habits that having a record player was indicative being an authentic fan and apparently 80% of those interviewed owned decks. Just like when I was young. 

Speaking of those days I was listening to Smith, Perkins and Smith recently. They released one album on Island in 1972.

Until next time.

 

CARRY HIM INTO THE NEXT INCARNATION

I started this blog in May 2011, fourteen years ago, and this is my eight hundredth post and I would like to thank all the people who have supported the blog over the years. I am not sure what I make of this latest piece. It is still in its early stages. An EMP is an Electromagnetic Pulse. An airburst would destroy all electronic equipment retendering everyone back into the analogue age.

The times uncertain

the power failed with a regularity

Rumour was everywhere

whispered talk of an EMP

That would kill every screen stone dead

and soften them up for the expected invasion

He had prepared for this

if they ever dropped the big one

He would go out listening to West End Blues

and its beauty would carry him into the next incarnation

I'm not happy with it at the moment as it feels out of balance. West End Blues is a tune by King Oliver. My favourite version is by Louis Armstrong and His Hot Five. I do have a 78rpm disc of the tune.

There seems no better way to end this post than with the genius of Mr. Armstrong.

Until next time.       

CONSTANTLY PLAYING

Yesterday was World Book Day and was invited to give a reading in Ivybridge at the Tap Room. I'd like to thank all those that came and the Tap Room for having me. This first poem is a revised draft. Thanks, once again, to the Secret Poets for their assistance in fine tuning it. You can read the earlier version here.

BREAK TIME IN THE BAGGIN ROOM

In the 1970s, the K-unit Maintenance Baggin’ Room,

at Castner-Kelner Chemical Works,

was not conducive to the discussion 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 that it is as complete as it can be. Now it can join all those other poems I have written about K Unit over the years. This next poem is just a small observation. I was just thinking how some people's music must be playing somewhere in the world 24/7.

GLOBAL

they’re famous

they’re dead

and once in a while

you play the album

their popular one

that every other person owns

and without your realising it

you do your bit

keep their music

constantly playing somewhere around the globe

I nearly entitled it They're famous, they're dead but decided against it. I preferred something less bald. 

I suppose I should leave you with a Beatles song as they are the group I was thinking of [yes, I know only two of them have died]. 

Until next time.

HYMNS OF CELEBRATION

I've been playing about this is poem and I think, with the added assistance of the Secret Poets, it is finished. Thank you Secrets. You can read the earlier version here.

WAITING FOR THE FLYING SAUCERS

Before dawn we were on the hill

singing hymns of celebration

of confirmation

This was the day we would transcend

to our promised new lives in Heaven

The drizzle did not dampen us

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

But Salvation did not beckon that February day

Conscious of my weak chest

my Mother was the first to question

In twos and threes

slowly we walked off that hill

In all my life I never felt as alive

The layout is different and the Secrets suggested flying saucers rather than simply saucers. Also the third stanza has been clarified. I hope it all reads better.

I was asked a question about Redgum recently, on an old post, so I'll leave you with the band at their peak.

Until next time. 

THE JUDGEMENT OF THE MAGIC FISH

Have you ever held your palm open, flat for the Magic Fish to be placed there and for it to tell reveal the secrets of your heart? I know it's a piece of nonsense but from childhood I've always found the Magic Fish fun. Apparently it is also known as the Fortune Telling Fish. You can read it's secrets here.

THE JUDGEMENT OF THE MAGIC FISH

How keenly we await

the kiss of cellophane

on our open palm

red as a promise

transparent as truth

it will read your heart this day

reveal what you would conceal

Are you ready for such honesty?

Yes, this is a small poem but it's fun. I do not intend to change the word cellophane for polyacrylate. Cellophane seems a more accessible word.

Here's a song by Iron and Wine.

Until next time.  

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.