JUST ANOTHER STATISTIC

I took a train to Runcorn recently and wrote these two poems about the trip.

In Stafford there were train spotters

older men cameras slung round their necks

no pencils, no spiral bound notebooks

They take note of the rolling stock

record every serial number

in search of the big score

One took my photograph

as my carriage slid by

just another statistic

in a sea of dates, times and tonnage

All the train spotters were older men, I wondered if younger people collect train numbers? This second poem is reportage of my return and the fact the station was closed due to the signalling equipment being broken. Decades of private ownership and the trains don't even run as efficiently as they did for Sherlock Holmes. Aren't tory policies marvellous.

when I got to the station

people were pouring from inside

a man told me the signals were toast

I almost didn’t believe

asked a woman for confirmation

early Thursday Runcorn town

the wind nags at you

bound to wear you down by noon

I know how such days play out

a single unexpected side step

and life is once more a struggle

I am not sure about either poem. I shall put them away and see if they survive future scrutiny.

Were you at the All Points East Festival last Sunday? I was and the Decemberists were superb. My daughter commented on just how good Colin Malloy's singing was. You can judge for yourself.

Until next time.

VERBAL GOLD

I've been working on this first poem since last Friday when it happened.

A Friday night hotel bar

he’s a couple of few drinks ahead of me

his every word is big voiced into his phone

he is deconstructing his heart

I’m the other side of a flimsy partition

trying to camouflage my listening ear

his every word is verbal gold

as he spills memorable phrases

I can’t pull out pen and paper

to record his every heart felt word can I?

Would anyone notice?

The poem wags a finger in my face

Whispers: this one’s not going to happen

Yes, I was sat in a hotel bar attempting not to listen to a man pour his heart into his telephone. To be honest, I think he was past the point of awareness that people could overhear him. The poem wrote itself the next morning. I've been working on this next one about the same length of time.

for the first time in years

he takes stock

of his head long trajectory

from home to here

what has been cast aside

internal inventory

remembers his mother’s prayers

lost somewhere

no going back

Not sure this is going to go anywhere. I like the idea of the protagonist losing his mother's prayers but think it's probably too tell, rather than show.

Here's The Byrds with Gunga Din. No idea what the song is about. It sounds amazing.

Until next time.

BOOK LAUNCH

I would like to thank all those who attended the launch party, last Friday, of my latest collection The Wait of Water. It was a jolly affair and it was well attended. The setting was the exhibition of Alison Wilson's lino cuts which illustrate the book. Thanks once again to Alison for her superb art work which raised the book to a whole new level.

If you would like to purchase a copy of the collection please contact me at thewaitofwater@outlook.com and I will be happy to post you a signed copy. The price is £10 plus p&p.

I shall be reading at the series of exhibitions of Alison's prints. Watch this space for details. Thanks to Chris for the amazing photographs.

RAIN WET ROAD

Here's a strange one. It's part tell, part not. There's a feeling of menace about the final line. I suppose it's a mirror of this poem.

he returns

to find a dry rectangle

on the rain wet road

nothing else

the police tell him

that little I

denoting fuel injection

was too attractive

to some student in the rain

easy enough

break a window

hot wire the car

when he got back she cried

after all that has happened

we could do with some luck

worse was to come

My car was stolen, many years ago, in Leeds. The police did say it would be a student who doesn't want to walk home in the rain. They located it in the middle of the night. Side window smashed, the glove compartment emptied. The usual. 

The poem is a series of arresting images and much is left unexplained. I think it's one for the drawer. Time will tell...

Here's Laura Gibson. I've been playing her albums lately.

Until next time.

 

CAJOLING A FLAME

I suppose the poem this post is related to the poem I wrote about humans being cast out of the Garden of Eden. It is set the following morning.

you wake

amazed

that you had managed to sleep

after all that palaver

the fire is ash

damp grey in this drizzle

no hope of cajoling a flame

then you realise you are naked

and that it a medium sin

he wakes

and the recriminations begin

and carry on to this day

I wanted to explore what it must have felt like the morning after, and the hideous blame game that followed and still continues to echo down the years. We all deserve better.

Here is a silly little piece:

the bus driver informs me as I step aboard that he is living the dream

he pulls away singing a song that was popular some years ago

and continues after I alight

I think his dream would be my nightmare

It's a true story. It happened just like that as I was returning from Brixham. Driving a bus would not be my idea of paradise.

Here's the title song from The Decemebrists' new album. They are playing a festival in London this month. I may see you there.

Until next time.   

SLIP SOME SILVER

Here's a revised poem. The earlier draft is here. Once again have to thank The Secret Poets for their invaluable input.

CHARLIE

finally the shooting stops

Charlie gets the train to Venice

where the sandbagged statues

tax his imagination

after all that khaki and the hard won miles

he’s seen so much these past six years

he goes to La Scala

as opera never fails

to bring out the beauty

they’ll ship him home soon

and he’ll slip some silver

to the demob tailor

who’ll cut his suit

with a little more care

Charlie will wear it

like they all did

down at the dance

on a Saturday night

where he’ll meet my mother

and then my story will begin

Essentially they suggested "down at the dance" rather than my Widnesian "down the dance." I agreed because I wanted the poem to be as easily read as possible. I changed the fifth and sixth lines around in the first stanza, as when I read the poem aloud, it sounded better to my ear. There will be a new poem next post.

I just want to repeat the information about my new book, The Wait of Water, which is available to buy now. Contact me at thewaitofwater@outlook.com for details.

Here's The Mountain Goats with an old favourite.

Until next time.