Friday, 3 February 2017


I spent the other weekend with the Secret Poets on a writing retreat. It was both great fun and very productive. Here's a poem that came from one of the writing workshops. We had to focus on a specific year and try to put ourselves back there in the moment. 
It was surprisingly easy to do once I got going. We were asked to write down a sentence in response to a series of questions. The poem had to be 20 lines long.
This is my take.


I spend more time on the green buses
travelling there, or coming back
than I do where I am going.
There is the occasional milky coffee,
chipped cups in bus station caf├ęs,
windows misted, cigarette smoke and coughing old men.
The park is empty.
The sun slopes through the trees,
reddens the lake and the municipal ducks.
Winter comes calling.
My patch pocket, button front, black loons
are no match for this lazy wind.
I don't know where or what we eat,
but we are either at The Grand, or the Beer Keller,
or in a doorway kissing.
Once in a while your house is empty.
I say I love you.
I have no idea what those words mean.
The set of answers left me with a series of images from 1974 that I wove into the above poem. I think it may be near completion.
Sadly I have not been able to find any photographs from the time on my hard drive. You are presented with some photographs of the New Bridge instead.
I've been listening to Ryley Walker recently. His third album had some good write ups, though I could do without the hyperbole. Why is it we have to compare new musicians to older artists? Is it to make the job of selling them easier?
Here he is playing Roundabout.
And here he is live.  
He's touring in May. Should be worth seeing.
Until next time.

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