MY OUTLANDISH CONFESSION

Another revised poem this post. I was not happy with the previous version, you can read that here. I discussed it with the Secret Poets and they helped clarify my misgivings.

The classic murder mystery continues to disappoint

My book is read once again

I must walk through the head of the reader

and overhear to their thoughts

The author may deploy

sleight of hand

far fetched coincidences

then withhold vital information

until the final chapter

We are gathered in the library

yes it smacks of desperation I know

shamed as I am by my exposure

my outlandish confession

the other characters look away

And you dear reader sigh

think how trite the ending is

But hold on one moment

is any better constructed

I think it has a clearer narrative now and I have removed the last line. Time for it to go away again for another couple of months.

Here's Anna Ternheim and Johnossi.

Until next time.

SOMETHING TO WORRY ABOUT IN THE NIGHT

It's been a strange week here in the UK. The pantomime that is our political system appears to be thoroughly broken. The government seems to be totally incapable of doing what they tell us we must  do. Perhaps it is due to that sense of entitlement public schools appear to imbue these second raters with. Some Catalan friends of mine where saying how funny the actions of our crime minister and his troupe of clowns are. I had to reply that they do not have to live with the madness that their actions generate. 

A poem about stealing Jesus' wallet. It arrived nearly fully formed.

lifting Jesus’ wallet you confessed

was easier than you ever imagined

the real mystery was locating it amid those flowing robes

you continued by describing the contents:

four crisp ten shilling notes

a religious medal of St John the Baptist

a return tram ticket to Bairro Alto

various coins of different denominations and epochs

all too perfect to be kosher

I began to wonder if He

had let you steal it so

you would have something to worry about in the night

I have been reading a novel set in Lisbon, hence the Bairro Alto reference. Lisbon has to be one of the most beautiful cities in the world. 

I liked the idea of the thief receiving what he did not know he needed. I am not sure about the layout, the Secrets suggested a prose poem. Watch this space.

Here's a song by Pollyanna. At the moment she working on a sequence of labour songs, songs that were sung by people as they worked. You can keep up to date with the project on Instagram. 

Until next time.

HALF RECOGNISED

 Can any poem ever be said to be an accurate account of an event? I do not think so. Poets take their experiences and transform them into something universal, rather than offer reportage.

So it is with this poem.

Happenchance

half recognised

stopped in the street

asked my name

by friends become strangers

the gulf grown

a quarter century wide

so we swap major events

the achievements of children

obliquely they assess my status

we exchange numbers  emails

say we must catch up

properly get together

then break off  walk away

How much of me is in the poem? You know I am not sure. It is a specific event altered to, hopefully, appeal to all.

This poem wrote itself this morning out of a piece of stream of consciousness prose I had written late last night.

then you wake up

the morning after the divorce

the lost years

the redundancy

whatever particular defeat claimed you

and the physical laws are just the same

sunlight pinballs round the system

planets spin

ecosystems work  more or less

and you must decide what it is you do

yes we know what you have been

that is past

receding by the second

what will you be now?

You could argue that I have experienced some of the events mentioned, but who hasn't?

I have been listening to Pollyanna a lot recently and here's a live song.

Until next time.

SOME LIVE THEIR WHOLE LIVES LIKE THIS

Some short poems that have been around for a while waiting.

The first is about Brexit and how those that voted for it still do not realise the true cost.

Brexit

how easily we gave up our birth right

we were not even truly hungry

but we swallowed what we were told

only later did we come to regret it

when the true cost caused us

to look at what we had bought

with clear eyes

I am not sure where this next poem came from. I found it nearly fully formed in a notebook. I have no recollection of writing it.

this morning I discover

I am missing a layer of skin

clothing itches

every step informs me

my shoes are just that bit too loose

to the mirror I present the same image as yesterday

unflayed but sensitive

some people you tell me

spend their whole lives like this

I am silent waiting for tomorrow

Lastly a poem about forgetting your lunch.

halfway down the motorway

the image of his lunch

immobile

on the kitchen top

popped into his head

the distance between it

and his stomach widening

it was going to be one of those days

Here's Boo Hewerdine.

Until next time.

MY LIFE IN LETTERS

Here's a poem about dyslexia.

my life in letters

for me bs and ds were interchangeable

one letter and its reflection I could fit wherever

this practice hall marked me a slow learner

word blind and spelling remained a mystery

my mothers advice to break down difficult words

did not take into account

my long vowel northern voiced tendency

to sprinkle extra a’s and e’s about

the thesaurus became my life preserver

as I looked up words of similar meaning

and hoped what I required was waiting patiently

amid the ranks and columns with its friends

the spell check facility of middle age

enabled spellings to be puzzled out

different combinations chanced

until the red underlining went away

secretly I still suspect those people

who demand consistent sequences

who fear the world of bespoke words

tailored to suit that unique moment

I don't need to say much about it. I think it speaks for itself and keen readers of this blog may have already come to this conclusion.

Here's Anna Ternheim with a song I haven't heard before.

Until next time.

ANOTHER SLICE OF THE CAKE

I  was talking with a poet this week who was telling me that he keeps his poems in the drawer for years once he's written them, that way he know they are good or not when he finally takes them out to reread. I take my hat off to him. I usually allow a couple of months for that.
This post's poem sequence was written in December.

a convenient

[translate that as cheap]

weekend rental flat

step over the threshold

it is not the wealth generator

anonymous ikea space

you had imagined

no

it is not that simple

you are in a vacated home

with too many personal touches to register

and where are the occupants

while you sleep in their bed

and use their cups to brew your tea?

on the second day curiosity to the fore

I look at the photographs that claim the walls

most are of their marriage

a grand affair in some wiltshire country house

and a jolly admiral with his mrs

this is another slice of the cake

loaded perhaps with more than most

It is basically a slice of life. As I have said on my occasions, it is good to put yourself in a different environment and write what you see.
Not sure this one is finished. I think I need the Secret Poets input.

Here's Ketama.

Until next time.

THREE STORIES HIGH

Still at a loss to work out what went wrong with the last post. 
Here's the poem.

FORGOTTEN SCAFFOLDING

Three stories high.
You would get a good view from the top,
up two aluminium ladders, that bend in the middle.

This outline in poles and boards
has decorated the house across the way
for nine weeks or more.

I notice it this morning.
see it fresh, as if with new eyes.
It stands like a sketch 
of someone's late night, great idea
that having been slept on
is never spoken of again.

Strangely enough work has commenced today on the roof. 
Perhaps the act of writing has prompted action. The power of words.
Here's Art Pepper. The video may be poor quality but the music isn't.

Until next time.

DOUBLED SHADOW

Another work in progress. 
I am not sure how this poem arrived. I was opening books at random and jotting down the first word from each that I liked. I ended up with a page of words and I fashioned them into this.

hidden fires burned low

so the city leaked light

into a crumbled grey sky

casting doubled shadows on to broken streets

and more than the morning was lost

slowly

unseeing

with scant regard for his surroundings

he walked onwards

like a man lost to the world

his reality now reduced

to a parade of scenery flats

and himself a cypher beyond decryption

I think that the piece is complete in as much as I do not believe it needs more added to it. Whether the meaning is clear is another matter. I think I need to work on that.
Watch this space.

Kathryn Williams is touring in October to promote her Anthology box set. I'd get your tickets now, I have got mine. She is wonderful live.
There is also a rumour that Anna Ternheim is playing London in the autumn. More when I get the details. Here's the link for the new album.
This is an interview with Kathryn.

Until next time.