Friday, 27 November 2020


I recently participated in a Zoom poetry workshop with the Secret Poets. I came away with these two poems.

the sea strand

I could never piece together

these jumbled jigsawed sand grains

and here comes the sea

to chaos any illusion of order

I often walk on the beach at Oddicombe and imagine all the grains of sand rubbing along next to each other. I suppose if the poem is about anything it is our human desire to give the world an order we understand. If only we could...

This second poem relates to the bedroom I work in. I had just finished painting it when we did the workshop and one exercise set me thinking about the items in the room. I'm not sure what the American term for cling-film is, I've looked it up and it appears plastic wrap is the word.

notes from a nearly decorated bedroom

the cling-film sighs, resigned as it is to wrapping brushes

and so back to the staid darkness of the kitchen drawer

the paint scraper's blunted edge from increased labour

is content to dream, until it cuts again

the walls try out this new colour

uncertain, but with no choice

the wardrobe, the chest of drawers

and this table I write on, will welcome the quiet

Here's a band from the late 60s Blonde On Blonde with Castles In The Sky.

Here's Chorale.
There's appears to be, in the words of Carl Rogers [and his brother Roy], a bit of conditional positive regard going on in the song.
Until next time.

Friday, 20 November 2020


Just before this second lockdown we went to Wedmore for the night. Wedmore is on the edge of the Somerset Levels, a particularly flat area, close to sea level. 
When I lived in Somerset I was always conscious that, not so long ago, this whole area had been tidal marsh.
I think it was this that sparked the poem.


its nearly the end of the world

we wait in the flat lands

word may come in days, or weeks, or never

that the water will return is certain

rolling over fields, obliterating streams

dykes will yield, roads disappear

once all this was not ours

but living memory is too short a span

we think we know, we do not

but the eels remember

as they slither through the wicker traps

what was once, and will be again

The end of the world reference could have been to the coming lockdown or the American elections. In a way it doesn't matter. I'm not sure how I chanced upon the eels, I've used them before as an image for something that is hard to catch. Still two poems in six years hardly is a theme. 
I suppose the song should continue the water image.
Here's Spirogyra [the English freak folk band not the US jazz funk combo].

And this is The Wreck of the Hesperus by Procul Harum.

Until next time.

Friday, 13 November 2020



This post is not about the mad emperor across the sea, though given the ignorant and undignified manner in which he has presented himself this week, the title could fit him like a glove. The more I observe him the more distressed I become. On reflection a good title for a poem about him would be Conduct Unbecoming.

This poem attempts to look at three different outcomes arising from the same situation.

A man about to meltdown

Not the one who’s barricaded

himself behind his front door

and is now shouting threats

at the coppers through the letter box

while his uncomprehending family

huddle mutely on the sofa,

as if it were a life raft.

Not the man who faced by the road block

must turn his bus around,

inch by inch in front of the stopped traffic

the one for whom

a street has never looked so narrow.

But the one who suddenly cannot get home

and it has begun to rain.

He’s not the worst off by half

and inside he knows it

but in its own predictable, deadening way

this is all too much.

I was attempting to capture the panoramic consequences of an action. I'd be interested in your thoughts. 

It's felt like a long seven days. Here is a band from the 80s, the Mulemena Boys. I have one album on tape and it's wondrous but I've never been able to track down an album or cd.

Here's the album.

Until next time.

Friday, 6 November 2020



In the world in which we are living is just getting crazier. Hopefully the Mad Emperor Across the Water will be stopped and our own bunch of clowns given their marching orders sooner rather than later. I just want to say my thoughts are with you all in America.

I  was in Bristol last Saturday. I had been to Flow, a superb vegan restaurant the previous evening. This sign outside the Registry Office caught my eye.


Sign outside Bristol Registrar Office

The last Saturday before the second lockdown

The woman in the deep violet suit

is telling her father:

I’m not nervous at all, isn’t that strange?

The group of six huddle

as winds blow through the city

skittling leaves and lives

Tomorrow you will phone

tell me your wedding is off

death by a thousand regulation changes

Here for the ceremony queue the rain has returned,

the bride, the groom and their chosen four

run for any sort of shelter they can find

The penultimate stanza refers to a friend's wedding plans that have been scuppered by the pandemic.

This is the poem I was going to run this post.

Cheap Fireworks in the Rain

I left my family for this? he mutters.

He has already told me

this is a new start.

That he’s drawing a line under

the collapsed business

the catastrophic marriage,

and has taken the opportunity

to study English in England.

So here he is in Totnes

observing us natives celebrate the anniversary

of the putting to death of some Catholic.

It is a Sunday.

It is drizzling.

The kind of rains that soaks through

and there we are all outside

with the cheapest packet of fireworks

glumly igniting each one in turn.

And you do this every year? he asks

as finally the sodden blue touch paper

I’ve been trying to light for the last two minutes

suddenly flares into life

and very nearly takes my eye out.

And is it always so bleak?

Always I reply.

The story is about as true as any poem I write. It the event is Bonfire Night, a traditional celebration of the fact that Guy Fawkes did not blow up Parliament.

I leave you today with Paul Simon singing American Tune. Who would have thought there could ever be a worse President than Nixon?

Until next time.

Friday, 30 October 2020


Am I the only person who finds this new style blogger format difficult to operate? Every time I write a post I struggle with centring the first image. Much distress is caused. I have to confess I am a person who never reads instructions believing that I can pick it up as I go. Perhaps I need to start...
I contacted my MP yesterday to ask why if he had had a change of heart about voting against free school meals for children in the half term holiday. 
I have to say his reply was swift, but written some time ago as it included the line:

Turning to yesterday’s vote on an opposition motion calling for the provisions made in summer to also be extended into the Christmas School Holidays.

I think I have received a circular. Still as they say in Widnes "owt is better than nowt". Voting to feed children would be better than them going hungry.

The origin of this post's poem is that I was thinking about people sharing a silence because they did not need to speak, because they knew one another so well words were unnecessary. Thanks must again go to the Secret Poets for their insights.

if he had stayed in this village,

and lived out his life amongst these men

he would be sharing their silence

but here he is talking

about people and places of which

they know little and care less

wordlessly judging him

by their own lived experience

that’s how it always goes

now his father is dead

the last link severed

he will not return

for him there would be no

sea captain’s homecoming

with money and tales of the sea


he would be like Lot

and he will not look back

I had no idea how it would end when I started. I was going to title the poem after where ever it was Lot went to after he fled Sodom but decided that would be too abstruse even for me. Suggestions welcome as ever. Titles are always difficult.

I've been painting a bedroom this week, this is not a photograph of what it looked like, can't remember where I took this. 
Anyway I've been listening to lots of David Bowie on the mp3 player as I have painted. So here is a slice of nostalgia.
I sent this video to a friend and they asked what exactly a bipperty- bopperty hat is? I have no idea.

Until next time.

Friday, 23 October 2020


I write my posts a couple of days before they go live and usually I do not change them. I check for mistakes the day before, but that's it.

This week however, I am adding a comment to express my disgust at the cabal of poltroons that allegedly govern us. 
You may have heard of Marcus Rashford's campaign for free school meals over the half term holiday. Sounds reasonable, you may think, in this time of pandemic and hardship, but not for our government. 

No. Instead we had the woeful Paul Scully turning the debate into a chance to attack the opposition by claiming that many children went hungry under previous Labour governments. Nice one Mr Scully. It appears it is more important to score a political point than feed starving children. Two wrongs obviously make one right for you.

On Wednesday the Bill to feed hungry children was defeated by 322 to 261. I hope those who voted against can sleep at night and look at their reflections in the mirror. 

Normal service will now be resumed.

Here is another poem that popped into existence with not a warning. 

Honestly I got the first line and the rest wrote itself. It was one of those poems that live in my head for a couple of days before being written down. I always write out drafts longhand. It helps me to get the feel of the poem. Rarely do I compose on the keyboard.

When I'm rewriting the poem I always refer the the original draft as I think that helps to keep me from drifting, or diluting the essence of the poem.

On the road to Jericho

we bitched about the gig,

hunted out mouthpieces

long unused and dusty.

On the road to Jericho

we raked over old grudges,

squabbled about the set list.

Unspoken fears every step of the way.

By the second tune

we knew the notes to play,

the size of the walls no longer mattered.

That last day, the seventh,

almost made the previous forty years make sense.

The only line I am unsure about is the last line of the second stanza. I'm not sure that it works. 

Next year will be ten years of Magpie Bridge! It doesn't seem that long. I shall be unveiling some surprises as the year unfolds. 

I have been listening to Leyla McCalla  a lot recently. I was first attracted by her recordings of Langston Hughes' poetry- superb. 

Here's Money is King from her latest album The Capitalist Blues.

Here's Heart of Gold, the lyrics are taken from a poem by Mr. Hughes. 

Until next time.

Friday, 16 October 2020


The term honey trap relates to the act of luring an individual into a compromising situation and then blackmailing them. I know the term from watching too many spy films. Apparently it was a favourite tactic of the Stasi.
I was recently discussing the poem with the Secret Poets who were of the opinion that the poem is broader than the cold war terminology. I was not as sure. I shall leave you to decide.

honey trapped

someone is always alert

on the lookout to turn the weak

to inflame their hidden desires

a chink

a crack

a vector to the soul

and so they are compromised

then asset stripped

run through their upside down lives

mouths full of ash

I do know that the poem is complete, but it shall be going into the drawer for a couple of months anyway, just to make sure.

Here's the marvelous Palooka 5 and their new tune Possession of the Surf Tsar. Honestly this band gets better and better.

Until next time.

Friday, 9 October 2020



To start with this post here are four lines I wrote yesterday [in my head] while driving to the shops.

the boat will not set sail today

the waves run too high

a slowly rising red sun

into a mackerel sky

 Originally I wrote herringbone sky but on checking the phrase appears to be mackerel sky. I will leave you to decide which is the more effective. 

Now a revised poem. When I showed this to the Secret Poets there was a general agreement that the poem could not decide what it was saying. I hope this revision makes that clearer.


On wet days, before he truly went blind,

my father in half moon spectacles,

would get down his maps,

unfold them on the kitchen table,

his fat finger tracing familiar trails,

he would one day take,

over this mountain, across that moor.

He talked the big picture but noted the details,

in the crevasses of the folds.

I dreamt my own dreams.

The end they said, was a cigarette,

of course I arrived too late,

after the fire, those all consuming flames

that ate my father and his rooms.

The day after I raked through the ash,

not expecting to find anything

and I did not.

These days I use a phone screen,

reduced to letting an algorithm to dictate my route,

which takes no note of altitude or contour,

battle site, henge or tumuli.

This poem is now being put away, for a goodly amount of time. When it is looked at again, in however many months, I am sure it will highlight its own flaws.
I recently bought an LP by Aziza Brahim on spec and it has proven to be excellent. 
Here she is singing Hajad Jll.

Until the next time.

Friday, 2 October 2020


I have been contemplating the wallpaper in the bedroom where I write.

Since we moved into this house, thirty six months ago, we have been slowly renovating it. Now my gaze has fallen on the blue rose wallpaper of this room.

Prompted by an #iamallstories exercise I wrote this week's poem. I think that is all you need to know prior to reading

They chose blue rose wallpaper for this room,

never knowing five years down the line

too big, too empty, crowded with memories

the house would be sold by the one left alive.

When they had sat in the freshly tiled kitchen

breathing the newness in, satisfied,

drinking instant in the cups they used for coffee,

could they have realised that after the sale

the new people would change nothing,

content to live in a house that slowly stopped working,

unheated and unloved until they moved too,

because that’s what people do

so here in my turn I contemplate blue roses.

Some poems require the reader to have specific information in order to understand then poem, others, those inspired by a painting or photograph require the reader to know the image but this poem just is. 

Before Christmas the room will be decorated and the blue roses will be no more...

Here's Laura Gibson. I was listening to La Grande the other day, first time for ages. I'd forgotten just what a good writer she is.

Here's a live session from last year.

You can order her fine new album here.

This, I think, is my favourite song by her.

Honestly is it that long ago?

Until next time.

Friday, 25 September 2020


Two rewrites this post. As usual thanks to the Secret Poets for their invaluable suggestions. You can read the previous versions here and here.
The sequencing of the poem has changed for the better and references to the other poem about tinnitus has been removed

Tinnitus 2

In the night, when I awake

the street lamp patterns

leaf shadows on the blinds,

ancient music in my ears.

This is growing old:

in my left ear three notes

played on a piano accordion,

stuck on repeat, plenty of sustain.

The right carries the sound of the sea.

The poem is tighter, more economical. 
A line has been removed in this poem and it reads better for it.

the water cycle

on his drawing the rain fell up

he did not give a fuck

for the teacher’s laboured explanation

or his laborious chalked illustration

he simply had a need to see

the world as a place where water could soar skywards

I know I ramble on about the importance of getting constructive feedback but it is really useful. Thank you Secrets.
Adam Beattie has a new album out in November.  Here is the single.

And this is my favourite song by Adam.

Until next time.

Friday, 18 September 2020



This is another poem that turned up unexpected and wrote itself over the course of a couple of days.

I always find it interesting when that happens. This time I was lying in bed, Sunday morning, when the first line appeared. I got up and jotted it down as it arrived.


On wet days, before he truly went blind,

my father in half moon spectacles,

would get down his maps,

unfold them on the kitchen table,

his fat finger tracing familiar trails,

he would one day take,

over this mountain, across that moor.

He talked the big picture but noted the details,

as I lost myself in the creases,

in the crevasses of the folds

I dreamt my own dreams.

The end they said, was a cigarette,

of course I arrived too late,

after the fire, those all consuming flames

that ate my father and all his rooms.

The day after I raked through the ash,

not expecting to find anything

and I did not.

These days I use a phone screen,

content for an algorithm to dictate my route,

which takes no note of altitude or contour,

battle site henge or tumuli.

I am not sure I believe the relationship between the narrator and his father. Much, I think, is unsaid. I shall share it with the Secret Poets and see what they make of it.

When a poem wants to be written you have to write it even if you do not understand it. Hopefully that comes over time.

I have a soft spot for Catalan pop. Here's Sau from 1991. 

And here's Sau playing their other hit, El Tren de Mitjanit.

Until next time.

Friday, 11 September 2020


I have been working on this post's poem for some time and I am still not sure it works. The basic premise is that a character in a story can live forever in the minds of those that read their tale. 

I had been thinking of the Epic of Gilgamesh, the world's oldest recorded story. Of how the hero, Gilgamesh, lived first in the mouths of the story tellers then in the heads of those who read of his life.


After the sacking, the final fall,

abandoned in Nineveh's library

there had been a time of nothingness,

not quite pitch black, unfeeling for sure.

Stasis, he later learned while lodged in a head

rubbing shoulders with new concepts.

It was all so different from being on the lips,

in the thoughts, on the tongues of story tellers

his tale, his epic spoken of and retold

all across the then known world.

He had lived in their minds

each time his legend was told,

recreated in each consciousness

for the length of time they listened,

appreciated his dilemmas.

Then he had not realised those clay tablets,

patiently pressed cuneiform

would bestow the immorality he craved,

would convey him into the future

this everlasting now he lives in

each time someone reads his history.

I think I need to work on the poem some more. What do you think?

Yesterday a friend sent me a video of The Boxtops singing The Letter, splendid music

Until next time.

Friday, 4 September 2020


I have been polishing the poem for this post all week. This is unusual. I tend to write them and leave them alone for a time. This one demanded attention. Possibly because the narrative thread needed to be very clear.

the hanging man

the wallpaper will not hang today

reprieved beauty unseen

as it has been these past two Saturdays

it is the hangman, the handyman

who can turn his hand to all the things I cannot

whose future dangles by a thread

his disbelieving wife

long his sternest critic

has finally had enough

he stands in what is now her hallway

stuffing thirty years of life

into black plastic bags

I think that the narrative is clear. The breakdown of a relationship, wallpaper that is not put on the wall, the handyman packing his life into bags. Your thoughts, as always, welcome.

Here are Palooka 5 being splendid.

Until next time.

Friday, 28 August 2020



A couple of poems I started on a recent trip to London. 

the room offered two time zones

10:04 and 08:32

he stands in the centre

an hour rests on each open palm




real time prowls

waits to skewer you 

Yes, the room did have two digital clocks, each showing a different time.

There was a heat wave going on that week and it sort of contributed to this.

whatever, the furnaces are fed

it is only nine o’clock

and already the room is too warm

unbidden the hot wind from the sahara

brings the words of his mother

days like this there’s no talking to him

too much in his head for him to ever hear you

the sun shall brick bake the air

his voices will yell the louder

Pretty bleak eh? 

It was one of those poems that wrote itself, coming from somewhere deep inside. 

Here's an accurate poster. I am glad I am not the only one upset by the antics of the shameless and apparently Teflon coated advisor to what is laughingly referred to as the prime minister...

Here's someone of quality, which is more than can be said of the poltroons in the cabinet, the majestic Ben Webster from 1964.

Until next time.

Friday, 21 August 2020


I wrote a poem about Tinnitus a long time ago, twelve years in fact, you can read it here.

I have revisited the topic recently and this is the result.

Tinnitus 2

This is growing old:

in my left ear three notes

played on a piano accordion,

stuck on repeat, plenty of sustain.

The right as in the last poem

carries the sound of the sea,

an older tune than human time.

In the night, when I awake

the street lamp patterns

leaf shadows on the blinds,

ancient music in my ears.

I think it is self explanatory. I wrote it one morning after lying in bed catalouguing the sounds in my head.

Here is a rewrite, courtesy once again, of The Secret Poets. You can read the original here


as the buses turn the corner

they catch the sun and bounce the light

straight into our sitting room

as the driver turns the wheel

patterns of leaves stroke the walls

move and then are gone

in silence this morning

I await the next illumination

Only two words have been removed from the middle stanza. Sometimes that is all it takes.

Here's Cosmo Sheldrake.

Until next time.