SOMEONE ELSE'S NIGHTMARE

I've always liked Carey Grant. He made acting look effortless. His timing was impeccable and he never seemed to take himself that seriously. He was a very skilled actor. The other week I walked into a cinema toilet and there was a huge frieze on one of the walls, a still from North By Northwest. That classic scene when he's been chased by the crop dusting plane through the maize field. The image set me thinking.

CHARADE

In the toilet of a cinema in Warrington

I almost bump into Carey Grant

Frozen as he is in black and white and panic

all over one of the walls

He’s in a bit of a pickle

look at those enlarged eyes

Definitely flight or fight mode

who wouldn’t be

He’s been chased

by a crop dusting aeroplane

And is stuck in the re-enactment

of someone else’s nightmare

As if he didn’t have enough

of his own to be going on with

The title Charade is a reference to another film he starred in, one of my favourites. I saw it when it originally came out in 1963 and many times since. Mr Grant had a terrible upbringing and appeared to only become at peace with himself in the 1950s following LSD therapy. I was wondering how a person with so many issues of their own dealt with being in another person's nightmare.

I was reading a series of articles recently in the Irish Examiner entitled Ireland in 50 Albums. It brought back memories of some bands I'd not thought about for years. The Stars of Heaven being one of them. Here's The Lights of Tetoan.

Until next time.   

WALKING SPELL

Some poems arise from the imagination, an idea, a line, an image that quickly writes itself. Other poems have a basis in fact and the ensuing poem may be an amalgam of many actual experiences. This poem is what it seems, a description of an event.

WALKING SPELL

I am carrying you into your dreams

this is my walking spell

whose power lies in repetition

I walk the same circuit

of the 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

I have not altered it much since the first draft. The focus has been on making it flow. Though it is still very early days, I think it is heading in the right direction.

Brooke Sharkey has a new single out. Frequent readers of this blog will know that I have supported Brooke over the years. It's good to hear her music once more. You can link to her website here.

Until next time.   

BLACK SCRAPS OF STEALTH

Last spring I spent a couple of days on the Costa Brava and one night I watched bats hunt in the twilight. The beam of a lighthouse catching them in mid flight. I stored the memory away knowing I would one day write a poem about it.

NIGHT HUNTERS

Unexpected the wind is in my ears

louder than my tinnitus ever could be

warm like a low power hand dryer

It must have picked up as night came

we’ve just left the restaurant

are by the squat light house

In the beam black scraps of stealth

strobe in and out of existence

it hurts to chart their orbits

and I question my eyes

all the way to the car

The poem percolated in my head for a long time I could vividly remember the bats but the words would not come. I've been working on this for the last couple of weeks. Watch this space.

Here's an early Elvis Costello song Motel Matches, I love the ambiguity of the lyric. He is a fine songwriter.

Until next time. 

JAMES LAST IS FIRST

This poem is a rewrite. You can read the last version here. I was never satisfied with the poem and recently rewrote it. 

Soundtrack for a Charity Shop

James Last is first

because you can usually find

one of his long players

in the record rack

alongside a Johnny Mathis,

both sold millions back in the day.

They front the line of budget classics

Beethoven’s greatest hits etc.

[capitalism camouflaged as culture].

I think I’d rather go to the

Fifty Top Tune Banjo Party

than listen to Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Requiem

every last copy is in mint condition

because nobody could face listening

to it more than once.

And all the prices have gone up

ever since the staff started googling Discogs,

just because a mint first pressing is worth real money

this scratched and battered reprint

has not the same value

but they never listen when you try to tell them. 

It is now longer than it previously was and I think the more conversational style works better. It also struck me that the opening line was reasonably funny. In the six years since I first had the idea to write about LPs in charity shops the times have changed. Vinyl is once more hip. I read in a survey of young people's music habits that having a record player was indicative being an authentic fan and apparently 80% of those interviewed owned decks. Just like when I was young. 

Speaking of those days I was listening to Smith, Perkins and Smith recently. They released one album on Island in 1972.

Until next time.

 

CARRY HIM INTO THE NEXT INCARNATION

I started this blog in May 2011, fourteen years ago, and this is my eight hundredth post and I would like to thank all the people who have supported the blog over the years. I am not sure what I make of this latest piece. It is still in its early stages. An EMP is an Electromagnetic Pulse. An airburst would destroy all electronic equipment retendering everyone back into the analogue age.

The times uncertain

the power failed with a regularity

Rumour was everywhere

whispered talk of an EMP

That would kill every screen stone dead

and soften them up for the expected invasion

He had prepared for this

if they ever dropped the big one

He would go out listening to West End Blues

and its beauty would carry him into the next incarnation

I'm not happy with it at the moment as it feels out of balance. West End Blues is a tune by King Oliver. My favourite version is by Louis Armstrong and His Hot Five. I do have a 78rpm disc of the tune.

There seems no better way to end this post than with the genius of Mr. Armstrong.

Until next time.       

CONSTANTLY PLAYING

Yesterday was World Book Day and was invited to give a reading in Ivybridge at the Tap Room. I'd like to thank all those that came and the Tap Room for having me. This first poem is a revised draft. Thanks, once again, to the Secret Poets for their assistance in fine tuning it. You can read the earlier version here.

BREAK TIME IN THE BAGGIN ROOM

In the 1970s, the K-unit Maintenance Baggin’ Room,

at Castner-Kelner Chemical Works,

was not conducive to the discussion of great literature.

We were employed to fix broken machinery,

not to broaden our intellectual horizons,

so there were no pointers to those volumes

that could have enabled us to understand

why we had been educated to a certain point

then handed overalls and told to get on with it.

We drank tea on our breaks

and talked of nothing in particular.

I think that it is as complete as it can be. Now it can join all those other poems I have written about K Unit over the years. This next poem is just a small observation. I was just thinking how some people's music must be playing somewhere in the world 24/7.

GLOBAL

they’re famous

they’re dead

and once in a while

you play the album

their popular one

that every other person owns

and without your realising it

you do your bit

keep their music

constantly playing somewhere around the globe

I nearly entitled it They're famous, they're dead but decided against it. I preferred something less bald. 

I suppose I should leave you with a Beatles song as they are the group I was thinking of [yes, I know only two of them have died]. 

Until next time.

HYMNS OF CELEBRATION

I've been playing about this is poem and I think, with the added assistance of the Secret Poets, it is finished. Thank you Secrets. You can read the earlier version here.

WAITING FOR THE FLYING SAUCERS

Before dawn we were on the hill

singing hymns of celebration

of confirmation

This was the day we would transcend

to our promised new lives in Heaven

The drizzle did not dampen us

The gawkers and cameras

did not make us falter

That came later in the full light of day

wet to the skin

cold to the bone

But Salvation did not beckon that February day

Conscious of my weak chest

my Mother was the first to question

In twos and threes

slowly we walked off that hill

In all my life I never felt as alive

The layout is different and the Secrets suggested flying saucers rather than simply saucers. Also the third stanza has been clarified. I hope it all reads better.

I was asked a question about Redgum recently, on an old post, so I'll leave you with the band at their peak.

Until next time. 

THE JUDGEMENT OF THE MAGIC FISH

Have you ever held your palm open, flat for the Magic Fish to be placed there and for it to tell reveal the secrets of your heart? I know it's a piece of nonsense but from childhood I've always found the Magic Fish fun. Apparently it is also known as the Fortune Telling Fish. You can read it's secrets here.

THE JUDGEMENT OF THE MAGIC FISH

How keenly we await

the kiss of cellophane

on our open palm

red as a promise

transparent as truth

it will read your heart this day

reveal what you would conceal

Are you ready for such honesty?

Yes, this is a small poem but it's fun. I do not intend to change the word cellophane for polyacrylate. Cellophane seems a more accessible word.

Here's a song by Iron and Wine.

Until next time.  

A GOOD HEAD OF STEAM

The inspiration for this post's poem comes from real life. I did watch a street preacher attempt to interest the public at a street market recently. I often wonder what makes them stop? If they preach for a set time then go about their business? It's an idea have often toyed with but never got anything worthwhile from.

THE SPIRIT IS WITH HIM

Thanks to the speaker

I can hear him half way down the road

He’s worked up a good head of steam

that neither the drizzle or wind can dampen

His truths are obvious to him

and should be to all who listen

But the passers by do just that

and I pass by with them

I think this poem is about there. I think it's effective in conveying a scene. Part tell, part show. Some poems are just about keeping your chops sharp. 

I leave you with Laura Gibson.

Until next time.   

SEA CHANGE

I have a recurring dream that I suddenly discover I have not written my dissertation and therefore I cannot graduate. I've had it for years, and it probably comes from supporting higher education students. There is always trauma around getting dissertations in on time, although, back in the day, I was very organised and had mine completed in good time. It's my version of an anxiety dream. Oh, a Gentleman's is a Third Class degree which was considered an adequate level of achievement for a gentleman before they began their Grand Tour of Europe.

SEA CHANGE

There I am again

discovering my dissertation is unwritten

a common enough event in this repeating dream

But hang on

I check the calender

find I have seven days until hand in

And I think

I can do this

thereby sidestepping the sea of shame

And I know a Gentleman’s Third beckons

The poem is called Sea Change because this time I change the script. This is not a big poem. I may try it out at a couple of readings to gauge its reception. 

Sachal Vasandani has a new album out on the 14th. Here's a taster Sometimes I Miss.

Until next time.

WAITING FOR THE SAUCERS

Millennialism has always fascinated me. The idea that the world is coming to an end is as old as the world itself. I have never been seduced by the idea myself, but throughout history people have been duped. This is a poem about people who believed in something that didn't happen. 

WAITING FOR THE SAUCERS

Before dawn we were on the hill

singing hymns of celebration

confirmation this was the day

we would transcend

to our promised new lives in Heaven

The drizzle did not dampen

the gawkers and cameras did not make us falter

that came later in the full light of day

wet to the skin cold to the bone

perhaps Salvation did not beckon that February day

Conscious of my weak chest

my Mother was the first to question

in twos and threes we walked away

turned back to our earth lives

I have never felt as alive as I did on that hill

I think it wrote itself from the title downwards. This is only a rough draft. It needs time for me to discern the faults, I'm too close.

I have to leave you with Judee Sill's Enchanted Sky Machines which is about such a rescue.

Until next time.   

NO WORDS LEFT

Have you ever ran out of words to say to a stranger? I have on occasion, though usually I ask them questions, most people are happy to talk about themselves. This poem is a variation on that fear.

there was so much conversation

during the wedding feast

that all our vocabularies were consumed

consequently the reception was a let down

no words left between the lot of us

we just looked at one another

and that DJ was neither one thing nor the other

prompting our half hearted movements

on the empty dance floor

so we sat it out for as long as was decent

slipped away from the hotel to our cheaper room

and we never saw either of you ever again

I thinking that we'd been invited to a wedding and all conversation had been used up during the meal. I think this is very definitely a first draft. Though I'm not sure what where it is heading. 

Lucy Dacus has a new album out. Here's the first song released from it, Ankles.

Until next time.  

EARWIGGING

I promise this is the last time I shall show you this poem, I think it's complete-phew! You can read the last version here.

In the 1970s, the K-unit Maintenance

baggin’ room, at Castner-Kelner Chemical Works,

was not conducive to the study of great literature.

We were employed to fix broken machinery,

not to broaden our intellectual horizons,

so there were no pointers to those volumes

that could have enabled us to understand

why we had been educated to a certain point

then handed overalls and told to get on with it.

We drank tea on our breaks

and talked of nothing in particular.

I think the tight punctuation aids clarity, as does removal of all extraneous words. That's always difficult, but it is worth asking yourself how the poem benefits from each word and being ruthless in removing excess.

the parking police walk up our street

earwigging I’m walking behind

it’s like this is the savannah

and we’re the apex predator

we give no one a second chance

let alone some third act of grace

a ticket on every window

and digital photographs of the crime

you can’t argue with technology

it’s a result every single time

This was just a little idea that occurred to me when I watched two traffic wardens walking up the road deep in conversation. The rest was fantasy.

I suppose I should play Lovely Rita by The Beatles to complement the second poem.

Until next time.    

THE WEATHER TODAY IS CALLED DRIZZLE

Sometimes a line can lead to a novel, but not every time. The first poem today is a good first line but I am not sure I understood where to go with it.

the weather today is called drizzle

those of you from more edgy environments will be relieved to know that the precipitation on this planet is principally CO2 with a dash of microplastics and heavy metals

incidentally the inhabitants of this island will be very happy to discourse about the weather

please note this does not mean you can ask them any other questions

It's a piece of nonsense, but it requited deft handling to bring off the necessary lightness. I honestly do not think I have achieved it. Killer first line though, probably one to put away for a long time. This next poem is making its third appearance in as many weeks. You can read them here and here.

In the 1970s K-unit Maintenance

baggin’ room at Castner-Kelner Chemical Works

was not conducive to the study of great literature.

We were employed to fix broken machinery

and not to broaden our intellectual horizons

so there were no pointers to those volumes

that could have enabled us to understand

why we had been educated to a certain point

then handed overalls and told to get on with it.

We just drank tea on our breaks

and talked of nothing in particular

I think the difficulty for me has been getting clarity. I have known what I wanted to say but did not want to be either supercilious or tell [rather than show]. It is a changing line to walk. This is definitely one to share with the Secret Poets.

Here are a Charm of Finches, such lovely harmonies, they are so well worth a listen.

Until next time.   

ON THE LOOKOUT FOR NUMBER FOUR

A rewrite for you this post. Some poems do not come easy. They are never fully realised and condemned to the Locker Room of Lost Poems, while other undergo transformation after transformation. Possibly it is because I don't know exactly what it is I want to say, or the original words didn't quite catch the essence and so I search for clarity.

It was the topic of our summer

one we would return to every so often

As we sat in the central school playing field

looking at the clover

Counting leaves

one two and three

On the lookout for number four

the rock solid gateway to the luck

You told me that your uncle

once known a man who found one

His boat had come in

more luck than he knew what to do with

The days were long

the field was large

Just beyond our fingers

possibilities tantalised

So what's changed? Layout for a start and the odd line. You can read the last version here. 

The new Laura Marling album is worth a listen.  

Until next time.