GEYSERS OF BRIGHT LIGHT

Indoor fireworks, do you remember them? I thought they were a thing of the past but a quick search has informed me that they are available today. I bought some once and needless to say was disappointed. I was thinking about the incident recently and it led to this poem.

INDOOR FIREWORKS

Undeniably the box held promise

a sun bleached label with wonky grammar

overprinted geysers of bright light

Reality was something different

a splutter of iron filing sparkle

a brief magnesium flare

As the house filled with smoke

I was grateful back then

there were no smoke detectors

Some life lessons are best learned early

I've had about four attempts at writing this poem. I think it's finally worth showing people. At the time the whole house stank of smoke. I wonder if indoor fireworks have improved. I shall not be finding out anytime soon.

Danny Thompson died last week. He was an amazing bass player who played with everyone you could think of. Here he is with John Martyn.

Until next time.

SIDESWIPE

I was saddened to hear of the death of Brian Patten this week. I can't claim to have known the man but we talked on occasion and he was complimentary of my poetry. He was generous enough to offer to write something more for the blog the last time I saw him read. I don't know why I did not take him up on his offer, I suppose I thought I could in the future, sadly it was not to be. Here he is in full flow. 

I've actually just got back from Catalunya and this was the last of the posts I'd written before I went. Have you ever had one of those experiences when something catches you off guard and evokes a forgotten memory that is so strong it knocks you sideways? That is what the following poem attempts to capture.

SIDESWIPE

Out of nowhere a song knocks me off my feet

and I am miles ago and years away

You are asking me what ever is up

because I look like I’ve seen a ghost

I stare at you mute

because that’s exactly what has happened

Everything vanishes as I tumble towards today

I've been struggling with this one for a couple of weeks. I've been writing down lines as they have occurred to me and I still think it is not quite in focus. 

Here's a short video featuring The Wave Pictures live. They are on tour at the moment and well worth catching.

Until next time.

THE PROCESS STOPPED

Here's a poem that describes a chemical plant shut down. It's a slice of my past, back in the 70s I worked as a tradesman in a chemical plant. Once a year the plant was shut down, it was a continuous process and some maintenance could not be undertaken while the plant was working.

SHUT DOWN

For the first time in a year

the process stopped

All was silent and the process men

got on with what had been put off

We were given our schedules

and took up our tools to repair and overhaul plant

Fourteen hour days or more

obligatory overtime for everyone

Within the designated time period

it was completed and slowly brought back on line

While we looked for leaks

and the inevitable mistakes of tired men

I have never heard a sounds like that before or since

like some great beast coming back from sleep

Process men ran the plant but during the shut down they were at a loose end. I am not sure what I will do with this poem. I think the drawer beckons.

Here's Laura Gibson. 

Until next time.

AN OCEAN ABOVE OUR HEADS

The following poem evolved in my head over a couple of days before I put pen to paper. I had been thinking about a salt mine in Poland I had visited years ago and how we humans create holes in the ground.

Salt

They found it where he said they would,

a day’s digging in the field, dirty brown crystals.

It was, he maintained, proof that some time before

there had been an ocean above our heads.

To begin, with it was whispered, he had placed it there himself

but as the seam expanded

and gave up pound after pounds worth of profit

they accepted it was natural

though none would go as far as to agree

this land had once been the sea bed.

He claimed we limit ourselves

settle for the least we can.

In the spring he left for who knows where.

The men were indifferent,

content to hollow the earth for coin.

I have to thank Nel for taking the time to discuss this poem and for making a number of excellent suggestions. I actually think this one is complete. 

Toumani Djabati died recently and is missed greatly. I first saw him back in the 80s and have loved his music ever since.

Until next time.

ADDICITIVE APPLAUSE

This poem got me out of bed early one morning, I'm not sure it wasn't a dream.

IT’S THE APPLAUSE THAT’S SO DAMN ADDICTIVE

We had a number one in Italy, launched the next album there, performed the side long title track on primetime national tv

But that was back in the 70s, and I’m told the royalties are still in the post

Our glory days, back before the first break up as we lost traction amid the fashions changing

now we get back together when the accounts say its time and play venues like this

I suppose in part it's based on all those prog rock bands from the 70s, or possibly any band that is resilient enough to keep coming back. To be honest, I'm not sure what to do with it.

Here's Bronco, an English band from the early 70s who never got back together.

Until next time.

THE HOUSE'S MELANCHOLIA

I thought it would be interesting to turn the idea of two people slowly falling out of love on it's head and have the house where they live turn against them. This is a rough draft.

ENVIROMENT

Slowly the house grew unhappy

invested rooms with an atmosphere

that provokes us into arguments

until we were forced to move

live separately

lick our wounds

The next occupants fared as badly

and did not even stay as long as we had.

The ones after them started out happy

but by then the house’s melancholia

an indefinable sad strange aura

could not be overcome

They put the house up for sale again

I’d stopped taking an interest by then

moved to another town, got on with my life

I think the idea has legs but needs some work. I am going to put it away for a couple of months and see what it looks like then.

Here's Bridget St.John from 1972 [honestly it doesn't seem that long ago to me].

Until next time.   

MODELLING ANGER

This poem arrived as I was having a shower. It needed little coaxing, though it is totally fiction.

She had stood in front of me

modelling anger

I’m finished with you

I can’t now remember why

so assume it was because of my adultery

[it usually was in those days]

on the steps of the library

passers by smiled

discretely stopped to watch

Her hands are on her hips

...and don’t put me in one of those things

you try and pass off as plays

some unsympathetic character

bemoaning the hero

who transparently is you

not that anyone would ever give it a read through

She stormed off

in anger not tears

and I didn’t and I haven’t

until this last minute

stood in the shower

when it all returned

and just now

when I wrote it down

Sometimes ideas just arrive and you have to respond to them. The fear is that if you do not they will stop coming. Again this is only as draft. It needs more work.

Do you remember Pauline Murray? I've been listening to her lp with the Invisible Girls a lot lately. Here is the single.

Until next time.