THE NEAR HORIZONS OF A SMALL TOWN

I ran a poetry workshop this week in Kingkerswell Library and I'd like to thank the people who attended and made it such an enjoyable morning. Thank you. This poem was begun in that workshop.

THE NEAR HORIZONS OF A SMALL TOWN

By Widnes Bus Garage

a mock Tudor pub

we never went in the bar

too full of bus drivers and mechanics

talking tickets, fare stages

bemoaning bus stop politics

But the snug had a jukebox

famous amongst our crowd

you stocked it with imports

to maximise income

you’d figured out the angles

rode the 70s for what they were worth

I imagine you today

balder

older

slightly embittered

at how it all turned out

it’s all rubble now

so much flat waste land

As you can see it still has many miles to go before it is able to stand on its own two feet and go out into the world. What I have not been able to do, so far, is to complete the narrative of the individual I am thinking of. The specific manner in which their life changed. 

This next poem is a redrafting. Actually I have removed a line which I think makes the poem read better. You can read the last version here.

INTERSECTION

the sun is in my eyes

but the rain falls

it’s one of those days

showers

and a winter angled sun that blinds

so the wedding party

appear to materialise

out of the glare

in small groups

impossible heels that

click click click towards you

dressed to the nines

coats held over hairdos

I should not be surprised

the bells have made announcements

and here on the cracked pavement

our lives intersect

and just like that diverge again

Once again thanks to the Secret Poets for their invaluable insights.

Sachal Vasandani has a new single out. 

Until next time.

THE FIRE IS ASH

I met with the Secret Poets this week and their excellent constructive feedback has enabled me to revise some poems. You can read the last draft of this poem here.

THE MORNING AFTER EDEN

you wake

amazed

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 is a sin

he wakes

the recriminations begin

and carry on to this day

The last line has been removed and there is less focus on the sin of being naked. It is now tighter and hopefully a better poem. This next poem has also been changed, you can read the last version here.

 “Never, ever, put bread on the fire.”

My mother was adamant about this

“Not even two day old stale crusts

because you’re feeding the Devil.”

In winter she would burn vegetable peelings

they would smoulder on the coals

deprive the room of heat.

I used to wonder about the menu in Hell

whether Satan longed for a soft white barm cake

Again the last line has been removed. There was some discussion as to whether there was a need for food critics or if it weakened the overall poem. Apparently barm cake is now correctly spelled.

Here's Chris Cleverly, the sharp eyed amongst you may spot me in the crowd.

Until next time.