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 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. 

STOLEN STORY

Sometimes I will hear a story and think that it would make a good poem. There are a number of examples of this process on the blog. Here's a poem that describes that process.

I STOLE YOUR STORY

because it was just there

attractive words hung in the air

on more than one occasion

I have taken a conversation

and cast it in ink on a page

It wrote itself from the first line. Here's a rewrite from a recent post.

A tenor weaves an old tune

breathes new life around the buildings

the wind is set on distort

as if each note had a different weight

and could only be carried so far

If I had a voice

I would sing the words

as I do at home

but in the city

I am silent

It's still not perfect but I thought the last version ended too abruptly.

Here's a very different tune by The Decemberists.

Until next time.

BOUNCING LIGHT

I don't usually sit down and just free write, but the poem below came from an idle half hour of writing with my inner critic in neutral. 

Unexpectedly Peter tickled a trout

a skill he had never disclosed

before that night when the stars

were bouncing their light off the mill pond

He just reached in

then there was this fish

wriggling in his hands

we all laughed

as he returned it to the dark waters

It works I think, a simple straight, forward narrative, something I could have remembered. I don't, though, think it is true. It is a very vague memory. But then again, things don't have to be real to be true, or so it seems with all the made up nonsense circulating about the internet.

Here's the Mountain Goats singing along with the audience.

Until next time.

GHOST FAINT IMAGES

I appear to have spent this afternoon changing the following words into different combinations, ghost faint images into faint ghost images and I have reached the point where I can no longer decide which is the better. The drawer beckons for that particular quandary. I had been reading something about how photographs will fade over the centuries and leave blank shiny paper. Given the present state of dubious narratives, false news and outright lies the poem was an easy write. 

PROPAGANDA

The photos presented problems

having been badly curated

and too quick to fade

to a yellowing cream blankness

We were forced to trace the outlines

of the faint ghost images

with fine graphite sticks

which slipped on the slick surface

As we attempted to harness the past

to justify our political position

Even if I can decide the order of the words: faint; ghost; and images I am unsure that the poem is finished. As I say one for the drawer.

I've been listening to the expanded edition of A Distant Shore by Tracey Thorn, my original album is worn out. Such a classic. 

Until next time.