Thanks must go again to the Secret Poets for helping with this post's poem. You can read the earlier version here.
CHOCOLATE CIGARETTES
We’d buy them at Parrs on the way to
the matinee.
One of us would open a packet
and offer them round just like proper
ciggies,
pretend to smoke until the end got too
soggy
then peel the paper away reveal cylinders
of cheap chocolate pocked with holes.
Camel, Chesterfield, Lucky Strike.
A double whammy indoctrination
the normalisation of a lethal addiction
plus the superiority of American culture.
Well, I mean, that’s Elvis up there on
the screen
riding the wall of death until he fell off,
one hot August night in 1977.
As you can see the poem has lost all the first verse [save for one line] and gained a title. There was some discussion as to whether I needed to include candy cigarettes as the focus of the poem was the chocolate variety. I think it is tighter now. Oh the joys of constructive feedback from people you respect.
The other week I spent so time in Wales, near Swansea. On the Saturday morning I went for a stroll around the town, where the events in this poem happened, just as it says.
INTERSECTION
the sun is in my eyes
but the rain falls
it’s one of those days
a winter angled sun that blinds
so the wedding party
appear to materialise
out of the glare
in small groups
dressed to the nines
coats held over hairdos
impossible heels that
click click click towards you
I should not be surprised
the bells have made announcements
since I arrived
and here
on the cracked pavement
our lives intersect
and just like that
diverge again
Yes, it was raining when the sun was shining, it's been a rather wet winter. It was not long after the winter solstice and the sun was as low as it ever gets. Four or five groups of smartly dressed people did appear in front of me as I walked down a main street.
As to the poem. I think it works. This one has been in the drawer for a while and so I think I have managed to fix the flaws. The layout may need revising. Not sure about that yet.
There's an old album by Bronco called Ace of Sunlight. I think it's worth playing a few tunes off that.
Here is a poem I began to write in a supermarket car park. I'd just parked and the idea was insistent. I hope I have met it's expectations.
I found myself in Lisbon
thinking about the Liverpool Stadium
because sun faded in a small shop window
was a well worn copy of Barclay James
Harvest Live
it was not the 70s
I was not wearing flares
my hair was not half way down my back
no
it was grey
it was short
and I was old
reflecting on how such moments
take you to places
you didn’t know you remembered
The Liverpool Stadium was an old boxing arena that was used in the 1970s by rock bands. Barclay James Harvest were a prog rock band who've been mentioned on this blog before. The gig I went to was 31.8.74. I have to say I still have no recollection of Rare Bird the support band. As I remember it was a good concert, although my fondest gig of theirs was Sheffield in 1975 [8th November- the internet is amazing at times].
As to the poem, it is a work in progress. It certainly isn't finished yet. I'll leave you with a live Mockingbird.
I don't know what triggered the memory the other day but chocolate cigarettes popped into my head. You could buy them when I was a child. All American brands. We used to pretend to smoke. It sounds very weird today but at the time it seemed normal. Everyone smoked back then. I sketched this out.
Candy
cigarettes never cut the mustard.
Sickly
sweet white sticks with glowing scarlet tips.
Suck them
until they turned sticky most unsatisfactory.
We
favoured chocolate cigarettes
bought from Parrs on the way to the
matinee.
One of us
would open a packet
and offer them round just like our parents
did,
pretend to smoke until the end got too
soggy
then peel the paper away reveal cylinders
of cheap chocolate pocked with holes.
Camel, Chesterfield, Lucky Strike.
A double
whammy indoctrination
the normalisation of a lethal addiction
plus the
superiority of American culture.
Well, I
mean, that’s Elvis up there on the screen
riding the wall of death until he fell off,
one hot August night in 1977.
It is far from complete and the end is weak. It really needs more work but I thought I'd show you this work in progress anyway. Watch this space.
I've been researching slang this week because I realised that the poem in the last post had an incorrect term in it for an officer. The term I used - temporary gentleman referred to soldiers who were promoted to the officer ranks in the First World War. It highlighted their fleeting status and the high attrition rates of that conflict. I looked at a fascinating wiki. I must thank the author[s] for their comprehensive list.
THE CLASS STRUGGLE
a synapse sparks unbidden
sets the memory unrolling
and I am back in the 70s
an apprentice working with a fitter
old enough to be my father
he’s telling me about his national
service
I spent two
years on an airbase in Yorkshire
guarding Vulcan bombers
and me a time served tradesmen
fully indentured
but the RAF needed security
for the new super weapon
it wasn’t a bad billet and
the sergeant told me that
no one enters that hanger
not even your grey haired old mother God
bless her
because it’s top bloody secret that’s
why
I’ll have your bloody balls on toast
if you bloody defy me and
it wasn’t a bad billet save for that time
inFebruary
when I
should have been at the dance with my girl
pulled the short one that night I can
tell you
this one pip rocks up all received
pronunciation
straight out of Sandhurst
demanded I move aside
that I let
him
into the hanger and that is an order
looked down his nose at me
his face getting redder and redder and
then it was get out of my way
by God I’ll have you on a charge
so I moved aside and when his back was
turned
I hit him with the butt of my revolver
did I mention we were armed anyway
the officer went down like a sack of spuds
and
there was hell to pay
I barely escaped a glass house holiday
never knew what became of that officer
never saw a Vulcan either only on the
television
years and years later and
he threw his dog end away
it had stopped raining
so we left the shelter of the pipe bridge
and went back to whatever we were doing
before the rain
I still don't think this poem is quite there yet but it reads better. I am now going to put it away for some time. I appear to have got my mojo back at the moment, for which I'm thankful.
Been listening to Scott Walker this week, going back to the first four LPs.
I've been working on this poem for a while. It is based on a memory that just popped into my head one morning. I can't remember the circumstances that led to the fitter I was working with as an apprentice, telling me about his National Service but the dilemma he faced that night stayed with me.
THE CLASS STRUGGLE
a synapse sparks unbidden
sets the memory unrolling
and I am back in the 70s
an apprentice working with a fitter
old enough to be my father
he’s telling me about his national
service how
I spent it guarding Vulcan bombers in
Yorkshire
and me a time served tradesmen
fully indentured but the RAF needed
security
for the new super weapon
it wasn’t a bad billet and
the sergeant told me that
no one enters that hanger
not even your grey haired old mother God
bless her
because it’s top bloody secret that’s
why
and I’ll have your bloody balls on toast
if you bloody defy me and
it wasn’t a bad billet save
for that one night when a temporary
gentlemen
[that’s was how they referred to
conscripted officers]
rocked up and demanded to be let into the
hanger
looking down his nose at me all received
pronunciation
getting redder in the face and
then it was get out of my way
I’ll have you on a charge so I moved
and then I hit him with the butt of my
revolver
did I mention we were armed guards
the officer went down like a sack of spuds
and
there was hell to pay
I barely escaped a glass house holiday
never knew what became of that temporary
gentleman
never saw a Vulcan either only on the
television
years and years later and
he threw his dog end away
it had stopped raining
so we left the shelter of the pipe bridge
and went back to whatever we were doing
before the rain
This is a rough draft. The Vulcan bomber was part of the UKs nuclear deterrent. It was a rather elegant shape. I am sure that the poem will change and I think that it is worth persevering with. Watch this space.
This is a revised poem and it owes much to the input of the Secret Poets. Once again thank you chaps. You can read the last version here.
FINALS
with mirrored steps
we walk side by side
turn in slow motion
this dialogue of movement offers
a split second vision
of all the rehearsals to come
the walls will hold our sound
the floor our footfalls
the air our breath
we will never fade
though all come to stillness
energy
transforms
how fragile is the house of now
a time of endings
our finals farewell
I was not happy with the poem and discussing with the Secrets clarified the structure of the poem and exactly what I wanted to say. Thank you once more. The looking glass steps had to go for clarity, you cannot hold on to those words which obscure.
This second poem has had the lines tightened up and I think works the better for it. You can read the earlier version here.
TAUNTON STATION ONE MIDNIGHT
we three strangers could be the last people on this earth
cold to the bone in the post midnight chill
the silence of the station is as deep as sleep we miss
individual in our anticipation we wait for the last train anticipating the last trainas we wait
then the light
rounds the bend
yawns to a stop
is this the carriage door
the one you will explode out of
telling tales of jostling platform changes
that lead to cheek by jowl overcrowding
no seat until well after Bristol
of course it isn’t
you walk up to me
we hug and walk home
I've been playing the American Dreamer box set a lot. Laura Nyro has been someone who I have listened to since I was a child. Here's some footage of Laura at Monetary I've just come across.