HOW TO STAND

I was looking at a poem I had thought finished when I realised it still needed work. You can read the last version here. I then discussed it with a friend and concluded it really needed alterations.

YOU PLAY THE HAND YOU’RE GIVEN 1

Tallinn Old Town – Friday afternoon

What catches your attention

as you turn a corner

is the 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

how to pose

who to look at

when to smile

and you wish her

against all the odds

a happy life

I've removed the word bossy as it was not needed, too much tell, not enough show. I felt I'd missed a trick by not using how, why, what and when. Also my friend suggested a triptych - watch this space. 

Archie Fisher died last week. He was a folk singer I'd liked since the early 70s. Here's the song that introduced me to his work.

Lo Borges also checked out of planet earth as well. I adored his work with Milton Nascimento on Clube de Esquina. This is Tudo O Que Você Podia Ser

Until next time. 

THOUGHTOGRAPHY

When I was a child I read a magazine article about a man who could hold photographic plates to his head and think images on to the paper. The resulting  fuzzy dream like black and white images fascinated me. Years later I wrote a poem about it. You can read it here. Recently I discovered that his name was Ted Serios. I was surprised to see the images again and wrote this about it.

THOUGHTOGRAPHY

See him hold the plate to his forehead

drunk as a skunk with

eyes screwed shut

and he must sit down when the task is done

He will produce images time and time again

and be called charlatan for his trouble

I’ve walked down such captured streets

tottering along with migraine head

searched through the blurred black and white

but can never stay long enough to find you

I think that a common theme of my work is the act of searching for another who is not there. The poem is too fresh for me to assess. Watch this space, it might well return.

I've been avidly listening to The Decemberists lately. They are one of my favourite bands. 

Until next time. 

THE MEN SHRUGGED

Spacing is important, it effects how people perceive a poem. Some poems can look too compact, at other times, too much air and the poem can appear slight. The previous version of this poem was probably too squat. You can read it here.

SALT

They found it where

he said they would

A day’s digging in the field

dirty brown crystals

It was, he maintained

proof there had been an ocean above our heads

To begin with it was whispered

he had placed it there himself

but as the seam expanded

and gave up pound after pounds worth of profit

They accepted it was natural

though none would go as far as to agree

this land had once been the sea bed

He claimed we limit ourselves

settle for the least we can

In the spring he left for who knows where

The men shrugged

content to hollow the earth for coin.

Thanks must again ago to the Secret Poets for their invaluable perspectives. I'm still not sure that the poem is in its final form but it's getting there.

Here's Ruben Blades with Pedro Navaja. 

Until next time.

A PAINTED MOON

I was at a gig on Saturday evening and the venue had a moon painted on the wall above the stage. It inspired this poem.

PAINTED MOON POEM

They painted a moon on the wall

well away from the windows, of course,

to ensure the sun did not reflect

cold silver light.

A circle on plaster

that cannot cause seas to rise or fall,

is of no use for agricultural purposes,

and astronauts do not need to tell Huston

they have a problem

because they cannot land on it.

I looked at it for hours

but could not discern a face

or locate the Sea of Tranquillity

even though the night was still.

I jotted down my thoughts about the moon and spent some of Sunday turning it into a poem. I don't think it's a game changer but it has some merit.

It was a Holly Ebony gig and she was excellent. If you get the chance to see her, take it.

Until next time.

REALITY WAS SOMETHING DIFFERENT

A redraft this post, with thanks to Nel for her very pertinent comments. You can read the previous draft here.

INDOOR FIREWORKS

Undeniably the box held promise

a sun bleached label with wonky grammar

overprinted with geysers of bright light

Reality was something different

A splutter of iron filing sparkle

a brief magnesium flare

as the house filled with smoke

I was grateful back then

there were no smoke detectors

some life lessons are best learned early

To be honest I looked at the poem prior to our discussion and had decided that two of the lines needed to be swapped about. However, I cannot stress the importance of constructive feedback from people you trust.

I'm reading Wishing On The Moon by Donald Clarke, a biography of Billie Holiday. I leave you with These Foolish Things.

Until next time.  

WHAT DID NOAH THINK?

About forty plus years ago I wrote a [bad] poem about Noah that contained the line "the world through Noah's eyes" that went on to draw tortuous comparisons between the Biblical Flood and the placement of cruise missiles in the UK. Yes it was as awful as it sounds. The other day that line about how the world must have looked to Noah popped into my head. These days I know more about the myth it was based on, which is mentioned in The Epic of Gilgamesh. The later was version tailored for the Old Testament during the exile in Babylon.  

RETREAD

What did Noah think?

Parachuted into a borrowed myth

to make it tell their own tale

What a tight script

no wiggle room

He did as he was told

and when the land was dry once more

he plants vines

tends his crop

ferments the harvest.

It takes the edge off

I wondered how Noah must have felt, shoe horned into an existing tale, replacing Utpanishtim as the person who builds an ark and saves humanity. Afterwards he apparently, according to the Bible, he was the first wine maker.

Here's an old song by Moving Hearts that I think I've posted before.

Until next time.     

GEYSERS OF BRIGHT LIGHT

Indoor fireworks, do you remember them? I thought they were a thing of the past but a quick search has informed me that they are available today. I bought some once and needless to say was disappointed. I was thinking about the incident recently and it led to this poem.

INDOOR FIREWORKS

Undeniably the box held promise

a sun bleached label with wonky grammar

overprinted geysers of bright light

Reality was something different

a splutter of iron filing sparkle

a brief magnesium flare

As the house filled with smoke

I was grateful back then

there were no smoke detectors

Some life lessons are best learned early

I've had about four attempts at writing this poem. I think it's finally worth showing people. At the time the whole house stank of smoke. I wonder if indoor fireworks have improved. I shall not be finding out anytime soon.

Danny Thompson died last week. He was an amazing bass player who played with everyone you could think of. Here he is with John Martyn.

Until next time.

SIDESWIPE

I was saddened to hear of the death of Brian Patten this week. I can't claim to have known the man but we talked on occasion and he was complimentary of my poetry. He was generous enough to offer to write something more for the blog the last time I saw him read. I don't know why I did not take him up on his offer, I suppose I thought I could in the future, sadly it was not to be. Here he is in full flow. 

I've actually just got back from Catalunya and this was the last of the posts I'd written before I went. Have you ever had one of those experiences when something catches you off guard and evokes a forgotten memory that is so strong it knocks you sideways? That is what the following poem attempts to capture.

SIDESWIPE

Out of nowhere a song knocks me off my feet

and I am miles ago and years away

You are asking me what ever is up

because I look like I’ve seen a ghost

I stare at you mute

because that’s exactly what has happened

Everything vanishes as I tumble towards today

I've been struggling with this one for a couple of weeks. I've been writing down lines as they have occurred to me and I still think it is not quite in focus. 

Here's a short video featuring The Wave Pictures live. They are on tour at the moment and well worth catching.

Until next time.

THE PROCESS STOPPED

Here's a poem that describes a chemical plant shut down. It's a slice of my past, back in the 70s I worked as a tradesman in a chemical plant. Once a year the plant was shut down, it was a continuous process and some maintenance could not be undertaken while the plant was working.

SHUT DOWN

For the first time in a year

the process stopped

All was silent and the process men

got on with what had been put off

We were given our schedules

and took up our tools to repair and overhaul plant

Fourteen hour days or more

obligatory overtime for everyone

Within the designated time period

it was completed and slowly brought back on line

While we looked for leaks

and the inevitable mistakes of tired men

I have never heard a sounds like that before or since

like some great beast coming back from sleep

Process men ran the plant but during the shut down they were at a loose end. I am not sure what I will do with this poem. I think the drawer beckons.

Here's Laura Gibson. 

Until next time.

AN OCEAN ABOVE OUR HEADS

The following poem evolved in my head over a couple of days before I put pen to paper. I had been thinking about a salt mine in Poland I had visited years ago and how we humans create holes in the ground.

Salt

They found it where he said they would,

a day’s digging in the field, dirty brown crystals.

It was, he maintained, proof that some time before

there had been an ocean above our heads.

To begin, with it was whispered, he had placed it there himself

but as the seam expanded

and gave up pound after pounds worth of profit

they accepted it was natural

though none would go as far as to agree

this land had once been the sea bed.

He claimed we limit ourselves

settle for the least we can.

In the spring he left for who knows where.

The men were indifferent,

content to hollow the earth for coin.

I have to thank Nel for taking the time to discuss this poem and for making a number of excellent suggestions. I actually think this one is complete. 

Toumani Djabati died recently and is missed greatly. I first saw him back in the 80s and have loved his music ever since.

Until next time.

ADDICITIVE APPLAUSE

This poem got me out of bed early one morning, I'm not sure it wasn't a dream.

IT’S THE APPLAUSE THAT’S SO DAMN ADDICTIVE

We had a number one in Italy, launched the next album there, performed the side long title track on primetime national tv

But that was back in the 70s, and I’m told the royalties are still in the post

Our glory days, back before the first break up as we lost traction amid the fashions changing

now we get back together when the accounts say its time and play venues like this

I suppose in part it's based on all those prog rock bands from the 70s, or possibly any band that is resilient enough to keep coming back. To be honest, I'm not sure what to do with it.

Here's Bronco, an English band from the early 70s who never got back together.

Until next time.

THE HOUSE'S MELANCHOLIA

I thought it would be interesting to turn the idea of two people slowly falling out of love on it's head and have the house where they live turn against them. This is a rough draft.

ENVIROMENT

Slowly the house grew unhappy

invested rooms with an atmosphere

that provokes us into arguments

until we were forced to move

live separately

lick our wounds

The next occupants fared as badly

and did not even stay as long as we had.

The ones after them started out happy

but by then the house’s melancholia

an indefinable sad strange aura

could not be overcome

They put the house up for sale again

I’d stopped taking an interest by then

moved to another town, got on with my life

I think the idea has legs but needs some work. I am going to put it away for a couple of months and see what it looks like then.

Here's Bridget St.John from 1972 [honestly it doesn't seem that long ago to me].

Until next time.   

MODELLING ANGER

This poem arrived as I was having a shower. It needed little coaxing, though it is totally fiction.

She had stood in front of me

modelling anger

I’m finished with you

I can’t now remember why

so assume it was because of my adultery

[it usually was in those days]

on the steps of the library

passers by smiled

discretely stopped to watch

Her hands are on her hips

...and don’t put me in one of those things

you try and pass off as plays

some unsympathetic character

bemoaning the hero

who transparently is you

not that anyone would ever give it a read through

She stormed off

in anger not tears

and I didn’t and I haven’t

until this last minute

stood in the shower

when it all returned

and just now

when I wrote it down

Sometimes ideas just arrive and you have to respond to them. The fear is that if you do not they will stop coming. Again this is only as draft. It needs more work.

Do you remember Pauline Murray? I've been listening to her lp with the Invisible Girls a lot lately. Here is the single.

Until next time. 

STOLEN STORY

Sometimes I will hear a story and think that it would make a good poem. There are a number of examples of this process on the blog. Here's a poem that describes that process.

I STOLE YOUR STORY

because it was just there

attractive words hung in the air

on more than one occasion

I have taken a conversation

and cast it in ink on a page

It wrote itself from the first line. Here's a rewrite from a recent post.

A tenor weaves an old tune

breathes new life around the buildings

the wind is set on distort

as if each note had a different weight

and could only be carried so far

If I had a voice

I would sing the words

as I do at home

but in the city

I am silent

It's still not perfect but I thought the last version ended too abruptly.

Here's a very different tune by The Decemberists.

Until next time.

BOUNCING LIGHT

I don't usually sit down and just free write, but the poem below came from an idle half hour of writing with my inner critic in neutral. 

Unexpectedly Peter tickled a trout

a skill he had never disclosed

before that night when the stars

were bouncing their light off the mill pond

He just reached in

then there was this fish

wriggling in his hands

we all laughed

as he returned it to the dark waters

It works I think, a simple straight, forward narrative, something I could have remembered. I don't, though, think it is true. It is a very vague memory. But then again, things don't have to be real to be true, or so it seems with all the made up nonsense circulating about the internet.

Here's the Mountain Goats singing along with the audience.

Until next time.

GHOST FAINT IMAGES

I appear to have spent this afternoon changing the following words into different combinations, ghost faint images into faint ghost images and I have reached the point where I can no longer decide which is the better. The drawer beckons for that particular quandary. I had been reading something about how photographs will fade over the centuries and leave blank shiny paper. Given the present state of dubious narratives, false news and outright lies the poem was an easy write. 

PROPAGANDA

The photos presented problems

having been badly curated

and too quick to fade

to a yellowing cream blankness

We were forced to trace the outlines

of the faint ghost images

with fine graphite sticks

which slipped on the slick surface

As we attempted to harness the past

to justify our political position

Even if I can decide the order of the words: faint; ghost; and images I am unsure that the poem is finished. As I say one for the drawer.

I've been listening to the expanded edition of A Distant Shore by Tracey Thorn, my original album is worn out. Such a classic. 

Until next time.