ON A SCREEN IN HER HEAD

I am a confirmed people watcher as you can tell from this poem.

YOU PLAY THE HAND YOU’RE GIVEN 1

Tallinn Old Town – Friday afternoon

What catches your attention

as you turn a corner

is the bossy woman with the camera

chivvying the others into shapes

she sees on a screen in her head

It’s only then you notice the Bride

in ivory silk with a bouquet to match

being told where to stand

where to look

who to smile at

and you wish her

against all the odds

a happy life

I haven't got much to say about it as I think it speaks for itself. I have however changed this next poem after discussing it with the Secret Poets. 

CHARADE

I almost bump into Carey Grant

In the toilet of a cinema in Warrington

His image is all over one of the walls

look at the enlarged whites of his eyes

He’s in such a pickle

frozen in black and white panic

Definitely flight or fight mode

who wouldn’t be

He’s being chased

by a crop dusting aeroplane

Stuck in the re-creation

of someone else’s nightmare

As if he didn’t have enough

of his own to be going on with

Just two small changes, one in the third stanza and another in the sixth. Three words have been removed. You can read the earlier version here.

Brooke Sharkey has just released a new single. Her new album is beautiful. 

Until next time.

THE FOUNTAIN FALLS

I had an interesting conversation with a friend this week who raised the point that in the last post's poem there was a need for editing or punctuation. She said there could be some confusion in the penultimate stanza. We talked about the alternatives and I thought the solution was to remove the confusing two words. Here it is in its completed state.

3:30 am IN TALLINN

he wakes into a dream

there is stillness

light

no one is about

yet the fountain falls

perhaps with less pressure

than it had in the dark rain

he wonders when he will wake for real

returns to the large lonely bed to practice sleep

I have to thank Nel for her observation and highlight that collaboration is always a positive process. This poem is now complete.

I was at Tropical Pressure last weekend and was thoroughly impressed by Diabel Cissokho. He is touring at the moment and I cannot recommend him highly enough.

Until next time.  

TO PRACTICE SLEEP

A poem about an experience that felt like a dream. I had arrived in Tallinn after midnight and gone to bed in a hotel. I had awoken a couple of hours later to find the sky was light. I felt I was in a dream and wrote this brief poem.

3:30 am IN TALLINN

he wakes into a dream

there is stillness

light

no one is about

yet the fountain falls

perhaps he thinks with less pressure

than it had in the dark rain

he wonders when he will wake for real

returns to the large lonely bed to practice sleep

It is not a complex poem. I hope it captures the dreamlike state I was in on waking in the night. I have no photographs of the fountain in the daylight as it looked very small. Here's another piece of reportage.

It’s mid-summer’s evening

he’s videoing his car

phone held up on high

metal blasts out of every open door

rises skyward to fill space in the world

he’s riding the curve

of his own imagined wave

Nothing to say about this one. it was simply a note a scribbled down. I have no idea why he was making a video of his car, perhaps it seemed a good idea at the time.

I was reminded of a song the other day that I hadn't heard for a long time. This is Errollyn Wallen with the Brodsky Quartet.

Until next time.

BIG BLUE SKY THIEF

There's been a heat wave over northern Europe and yet there are those who still deny climate change. Beats me how their minds work. This post's poem is about entropy [again], how the heat death of the universe waits for us all.

COUNTDOWN TO ENTROPY

the heat followed him

a thirty degree plus shocker

that set the air to shimmer

and seemed to be everywhere at once

bowling down the tunnel and onto the plane

Somewhere above the sunlit clouds

in decreasing instalments

the heat fizzled out

the big blue sky thief

stole every Joule

I hope what the poem communicates is that nothing lasts forever, that we move towards entropy whether we realise this or not. It is a finished piece. One of those exercises I set myself when travelling.

I had forgotten how good Ruben Blades was until I played Buscando America again the other day. I hope you like it too.

Until next time.

FIGHT OR FLIGHT

I've been moving the lines of this poem about trying to get it as clear and concise as I can. You can read the earlier version here.

CHARADE

I almost bump into Carey Grant

In the toilet of a cinema in Warrington

his image is all over one of the walls

look at the enlarged whites of his eyes

He’s in such a pickle

frozen in black and white and panic

Definitely flight or fight mode

who wouldn’t be

He’s being chased

by a crop dusting aeroplane

And is stuck in the re-creation

of someone else’s nightmare

As if he didn’t have enough

of his own to be going on with

I've changed some of the lines about and I think I'm finally satisfied with it. As I get older I find myself tinkering with poems in a manner I don't think I would have when younger. I suppose it's the distance from the poem that enables me to see other possibilities in the words.

Here's another enchanting song by Brooke Sharkey. You can buy her new album here.

Until next time.

SOLO SAILOR ON A LIMITLESS SEA

I have been playing about with an idea for sometime now and I think I have managed to get it into a rough order. I think it's self explanatory.

If he was alone on a storm tossed sea

he would call out to Jesus

wouldn’t we he asked with certainty

[this was the place to pause in the lesson plan]

There could only be one way

fall onto your knees

and start to pray to your redeemer

It was all wasted on me

Stuck in a trough of towering waves

solo sailor on a limitless sea

how had I ended up there

Exactly what was my backstory

I could never make sense of the Trinity

and this latest example of faith

was totally beyond me

I refused to go to confirmation class after that

The metre isn't quite there nor I suspect is the ending. Watch this space.

Brian Wilson passed away last week so I shall leave you with a classic. Thanks Brian.

Until next time.  

WATERLOGGED RICE

Here's an autobiographical poem about food. I've been vegetarian since the 70s and the lack of preprepared food caused me to develop my cooking skills. 

MY COOKING ADVENTURE

It began with rice and veg, a suitably earnest dish, taken from the pages of a second hand macrobiotic cook book

The dense and contradictory Introduction defeated me and so I never completely understood the philosophy

What the hell, I just jumped in and started to cook

The serious food of 1970s vegetarianism gave way to obsession, to make the perfect souffle which in turn led to a pasta machine

Then the subtleties of the mezze and authentic regional dishes from the subcontinent

Now I am old, I have the moves, I can do it all from scratch without breaking into a sweat

and I’m a long way from the days of underdone vegetables and waterlogged rice

The poem assembled itself from the first line and I am not sure that it has the right ending. Over half a century a person should be able to develop their skills if they so desire. I wanted to capture how serious the food was back then. This is definitely a work in progress.

Pollyanna has just released a deluxe version of her ep Man Time, needless to say it's superb. You can listen to it here. I leave you with Diamond Ring.  

Until next time.

CIRCLED THE EARTH

I do like a sauna and I've been enjoying the new crop of seaside saunas that have popped up in the south west. I was sat in the Blackpool Sands sauna the other week and began to write this in my head.

The pop up sauna

is all varnished pine and dry heat

in truth it is a big barrel

laid on its side

near the tideline

I’m sat sweating inside

I look out the porthole

on what could be a moonscape

I think about Yuri

and Valentina

who circled the earth

in capsules the size

of a large washing machine

just to be the first

So the poem mentions Yuri Gagarin, as many of my poems do. Valentina Tereshkova was the first woman in space and I saw her actual capsule in the Cosmonaut Exhibition in London. It was very small. I've not much to say about the poem. It's a bit too new to make sense of. Watch this space.

I leave you with a song about a spaceman by Bob and Carol Pegg.

Until next time.

 

WHO WOULD COURT MISFORTUNE?

Some poems are based on real life, some are not. This is one of those. Not sure about the ending.

ELEPHANT ORNAMENTS

My father would have none of it

china elephants holiday gifts

they always bring bad luck

and who would court misfortune?

There were moments when a child

that I sensed elephants in the living room

the drum taut tension of things unsaid

I knew not to ask

I had an interesting discussion with a friend about last post's poem and was prompted to make a number of changes.

For Euan and Murray

I am carrying you

into your dreams

This is

my walking spell

the same circuit

of forty two steps

Again and again

around this room

And as we move

all I ask of you

Is to close

those tired eyes

Then you

will cross the border

Don’t worry

the whole wide world

Will still be here

when you awaken

What do you think? Does it work better? I think so. Thanks Nel.

Here are Everything But The Girl.

Until next time.

CROSS THE BORDER

I had thought this poem complete but the Secret Poets made so many suggestions that I realised it need a total overhaul. Thank you Secrets. You can read the original here.

For Euan and Murray

I am carrying you

into your dreams

This is

my walking spell

I walk the same circuit

of forty two steps

Again and again

around this room

And as we move

all I ask of you

Is to close

those heavy lidded eyes

Then you

will cross the border

Don’t worry

the whole wide world

Will still be here

when you awaken

Making the layout into couplets works well. The individual words have a chance to breathe and overall it adds to the charm-like quality of the poem. I do think it is now complete. 

Here's a new song from Anna Ternheim.

Until next time.

SEA GLASS

Do you ever wander along a beach looking for sea glass? I do, it helps that I'm lucky enough to live by the sea. Though I've just discovered that sea glass can be found by the banks of rivers, though it is less frosted than glass smoothed by the seas, and is known as beach glass. Here's a poem about sea glass.

FLEETING

Amid the silica

sea glass

on its way back

from bottle

to being grains on a beach

Towards the end

of this transformation

I hold it in my hand

and admire the ocean’s lapidary

I'm not sure this is complete. It is meant to be a description, the mystery is in the beauty of each unique piece. Here's a connected poem about finding a Spanish pop bottle on the beach.

A pop bottle from Spain

has ended up on the strand

half full of grey water

the plastic label worn but readable

it has travelled so far to be recycled

As I pick it up I notice

a sea green glass pebble

that I place in my pocket

Do people still say pop? Or is it beverage, or some such other word? Anyway this bottle travelled from Spain across the Atlantic to Torquay, where it was recycled. A rather epic journey.

I found this live footage of Shelagh McDonald recently. It's beautiful.

Until next time.

TOMORROW WILL TAKE CARE OF ITSELF

Yesterday was the 80th anniversary of the end of war in Europe, VE Day. I was going to repost a poem about my father in that day but I ended up revising it instead. You can read the last attempt here. 

8^th MAY 1945

The Ivy Benson band will not play

in the Alexandra club this evening

everyone is too busy celebrating

the end of the war in Europe

The conflict has taken Charlie

from Runcorn to Rome in

two thousand and seventy seven days

with many stops in between

Tonight is a little sigh

a brief respite in hostilities

Charlie parties with the band

tomorrow will take care of itself

The Ivy Benson Band was an all female big band. The story is true, they did not take to the stage that night but partied the night away in the Alexandra Club along with my father. Here's what they sounded like.

And I cannot close without a reprise of D-Day Dodgers.

Until next time.

AS COMPLEX AS LIFE

Here is a poem that came to me in a dream. I think it is pretty self-explanatory. I shall thank the Secret Poets, yet again, for their support and observations. 

POEM FOR CHRISTINE

I dreamt of you last night.

We were living in some far city,

I had something to do with the university

where Leonard Cohen was going to give a reading

in the lecture space atop the library,

all very informal.

There were the usual barriers that dreams put up

to ensure they are as complex as life

but the sun shone and the people had enough to eat.

Anyway when I arrived he had begun.

Thinking back on it now I am awake,

I can see he was a collage

composed of the dozen or so times I saw him,

morphing from a younger man in the 70s,

to the old man who never stopped touring

and back again in the space of a poem.

Though I was close enough I couldn’t ask a question

or get him to sign the copy of Selected Poems

that had appeared in my hands.

He was there and then gone

and you never arrived.

Though the world carried on I waited

until they locked the building.

The sun had set the night was warm

and our children came to collect me.

I thought of you somewhere in that city

as I rushed back towards morning.

Some poems write themselves [with a little bit of help]. Thank you Secrets.

Here's a new video of a song I've posted many times. Take it away Murray.

Until next time.

 

WEASEL WORDS

I don't seem to be able to let this poem be. I've had a couple of goes at writing it over the years but a definite version seems to allude me. It is based on the conceit that an avatar of mine is conjured in the head of the man who sold us all down the river with all the horror that comes with the phrase.

INSIDE THE HEAD OF THE MAN WHO SOLD US ALL DOWN THE RIVER

His weasel words of self aggrandisement

once again conjure me into existence

and I am told where to stand and what to say

His take on our shared history

his reality

mine would be more cutting

But I am a simple iteration

concocted to speak his words that big him up

with a vocabulary I would never have used

Elsewhere on the planet

the actual me gets on with my life

and never thinks of him

My subconscious must still be processing an event from my past. Will it ever produce and acceptable version? This next poem I've revised the third stanza and a number of other lines. Hopefully it reads better.

PRECARIOUS

He served he said

they called him sailor

he’d seen it all when in the navy

and told us so

at every turn of human nature

We worked the same gig

nine months on promises

then just before the big buyout

they let us all go

messaged us the news

Shut up shop and fled

and that was that

the half hinted at rewards

so much empty sugar

Me and him  well

we sat on the platform all night

hoarding what we had left

waiting for the dawn

new day new chances

He told me he’d lasted six whole weeks

never made it past the harbour

bought himself out of the service

and lived his life on the ripple

a stuttering sequence of jobs

Then he asked me

how do you make your way

when the waves rise then topple

how do you stand in a sinking sea

I shook my head

I had no answers

I have to thank the Secret Poets for their assistance in clarifying this poem.

Here's Hurray For The Riff Raff.

Until next time.