PRIVATE DRAMAS

I cannot remember where I took this photograph, or if it is the chair, the head or the fez that was £28. The scene just called out to be photographed.
A revised poem. You can read the earlier version here.

Human Geology

the band crank it out, urgent, loud,

such a brief time to impress

below them hands in the air

almost a single mass of flesh

caught up in their moment

others further away

drink, talk, laugh, vape

the festival the backdrop to their private dramas

everywhere

unnoticed in viz-vests

people paid by the hour,

stoop to collect cans into plastic bags

I know that when I last revised it I was concerned with layout and this time I have let the poem breathe more. It can be illuminating to play with layout. I think you have to live with a poem for some time before it reveals its true shape.
This next poem wrote itself. It is what I would call a character poem, rather than a poem based on experience.

so he gets older

his ghosts draw closer

elbow each other aside

hurl memories into his face

his life is far from calm

there can be no plain sailing through the storm

throughout his waking hours

his consciousness is wearing riot gear

the city of his self burns through the night

dreams are one long firefight

in this present one

he pretends he does not know the rules

but you too would deny all knowledge

with the muzzle in your face

more cold than interstellar space

and dawn five hours distant

It came as a series of images that I wrote down and linked later. Then I left it undisturbed for a couple of months. It is not yet complete.

This week I have been listening to lots of jazz. I think that could be my default setting these days, but here is something different.

I've long been a fan of Traffic and I've just found this video of Steve Winwood from 2012.

Until next time.

A CALM MOON

Last Saturday I was staying with friends in Lancaster. I awoke in the middle of the night and saw the moon. I took a photograph of the scene and was inspired to write this.

a calm moon

over the railway signals

against the darkest of blue skies

as the world turns

I give thanks 

Another short poem. I had been working on something longer but was getting bogged down because the poem wasn't working. I salvaged this.

he will leave her

two years later

for someone younger

and she will ask me why she did it

shaped herself to fit his world

and I will have no answer

I think it stands alone.
Here's a video from the legendary Annabelle Chvostek. It's wonderful to have a new video and rumour has it she has been recording recently. 

Until next time.

ENTROPY WRIT LARGE

The Brownshill Dolmen allegedly has the largest cap stone in Europe. It is very impressive, especially when you are standing in the centre space.
I was in Ireland last week and on the way back to Dublin airport I stopped to visit the site.
I have been pondering the heat death of the universe since I was a teenager reading New Worlds. I blame Michael Moorcock!
This is a the long way round to explaining the title of this post.

Quartz Inaccuracy

the house at Kilrossanty

is a space of stopped clocks

two or three to each room

in the kitchen

a second hand spasms

like a dead frog’s leg

wired to a failing battery

entropy writ large

I also wrote this little piece.

the wineglass I was just about to use I realise cups the sticky residue of its last drink

how long has it waited in the darkness of the cupboard for this moment?

It arose from actually finding a dirty wineglass in the cupboard of the house we were renting. 
I was listening to a lot of Sufjan Stevens while I was away so here is a beautiful song. 

Until next time.

FEATHERS FALL

As usual the photographs bear no connection to the poem.
This time a revised poem. You can read the earlier draft here.

he walks down the street

going to the supermarket

in his hands

bag and shopping list

but in his head

- an asteroid is towed towards Metaluna

the magnetic field glows, bright red and

he’s looking Eli Wallach in the eye

We deal in lead mister

while the boat burns

as the black bird disappears

then she’s just taken that photograph

the one of the last supper

with the camera her mother gave her

and the feathers fall

almost drifting out of the silvered screen

he’s watching her face

something has changed

the impatient world interrupts

and now he must choose a cabbage

as the onions clamour for his attention

Essentially the punctuation has been removed but is is the better for that.
This second poem has had the layout changed from the first draft. 
Thanks to the Secret Poets for their insightful feedback.
A couple of superfluous words have been removed  and one line rewritten.

Poem for Sheila

brittle as bone china

ever more fragile

she tells me what she sees

it is not my reality

I am glad she is talking

attempt to see her reality

I’ve known her half my lifetime

so I can follow the clues

gently we talk

until head bowed

she slips into sleep

the magazine falls from her hand

We had a discussion about whether the word brittle was suitable because it could be interpreted as implying hardness, which is the last word I would use to describe Sheila. It has stayed in the poem. Our thoughts are still with Ryley Walker. Get better soon.

 Until next time.

WEIRD EXHIBITIONS THAT DON'T EXIST

Two recent found poems this post. Actually they are not strictly found poems as I have elaborated on the original sentences. The first strictly speaking has a found title. My friend Rex uttered the words as I explained why we had gone to Bakersfield in California. I had been under the impression that there was a collection of Georgia O'Keeffe paintings there. There wasn't. The author of the guidebook had been lazy when researching Bakersfield, it was a touring exhibition. We had a similar experience in Spain one year. We had to wait in 44 degrees C temperature to again be informed that what we had come to see had been a touring exhibition four years before.

Weird Exhibitions That Don’t Exist

I have searched for them

either side of the Atlantic,

steered by guidebook

to an out of the way community centre

somewhere in Bakersfield

and crossed the border

from Portugal to Spain,

hunting for touring exhibitions

travel writers claimed were permanent collections.

They are tales of family holidays

and sometimes when we are together,

we laugh about the bar we sat in,

playing cards, drinking water,

waiting for the 5pm opening

that Iberian August.

I am not sure the poem is anything like complete.

This second one came from the same evening and Rex talking about his student days in Brighton. I added the second half.

we’d come in drunk

and play our music loud

the guy downstairs

he was totally cool about it

cause he’d get in drunk

and play his music too loud

and we’d wake up in bed

and smile

cause it was liberating

in the afternoon

cause no one got up early

after nights like that

we might meet on the stairs

and smile and nod

and that’s what life was like back then

This poem is about there. It is only a quick piece but it captures a certain moment in life.

I literally wrote the first part down as he was talking. Some times I think being a poet is all about seizing the opportunity and running with it.

Sadly Ryley Walker has had to cancelled his April European tour due to health issues. I'd like to wish him a speedy recovery and just say our prayers are with him. Get well soon Ryley.

Until next time.

BLACK TEA

I must be thirsty, all the titles refer to tea lately.
A revised poem again this post.
You can read the original here.

House Clearance

The enormity of it all just stops you

dead in your tracks,

one long life lived

and here you are in the hallway

wondering where to start,

wishing it were simply a woollen jumper

with one loose thread you could unpick.

Of course, it’s not that easy

so you walk through the rooms,

upstairs then down,

make a cup of tea

sit at the kitchen table

drink it black,

because the milk has gone off.

The last three lines have been altered to allow the poem to breathe.
Thanks to Paul Mortimer.
I'm working on a poem at the moment but I'm not ready to show it to anyone. Watch this space.

I've just discovered an hour long set by Arthur Lee and Love at 2003 Glastonbury Festival [or Pilton, as those of us who have lived in Somerset refer to it].
Here's the whole show.

Until next time.

MAKE A CUP OF TEA

 

A revised poem courtesy of Paul Mortimer. Some of you may be aware that Paul is a very fine poet and was a member of Juncture 25. Since the ending of the Juncture 25 me and Paul have continued to meet and offer each other constructive feedback. 
Paul suggested that the last two lines of this poem were opened up to allow them to speak more clearly. You can read the previous draft here.

House Clearance

The enormity of it all just stops you

dead in your tracks,

one long life lived

and here you are in the hallway

wondering where to start,

wishing it were simply a woollen jumper

with one loose thread you could unpick.

Of course, it’s not that easy

so you walk through the rooms,

upstairs then down,

make a cup of tea

sit at the kitchen table

drink it black,

because the milk has gone off.

I think it works better.
I have no idea where the poem came from. Sometimes they write themselves. I always think it's best to get the poem down on paper without thinking/reflecting on what is coming out. Once you have got it on the page then you can start to work out exactly what you want to do with it.

Last weekend I was in Deal, Kent and while I was shifting through record boxes I came across a copy of the Chambers Brothers Time Has Come Today. Fantastic music. Needless to say I snapped it up.
Here's a live version. Let's wig-out man.

Until next time.