INTERLACED

I am posting two days late this week to coincide with the fact that Magpie Bridge is ten years old today! Yes, it is amazing! I never thought when I started this bog I would still be going in five years let alone ten. Blogs I assumed were ephemeral creatures but here I am still at it.

You can read the very first blog post here. There have been 593 other ones since then and over 800,000 visits. I would like to thank you all for your continuing support.

This is a poem revised with the assistance of the wonderful Secret Poets, thank you chaps. 

Farewell Sheila

double masked

eleven people in a chapel

the clock is running down

on our fifteen minute slot

if I had though about it and I had not

I would not have imagined it this way

interlaced with flashes

of every sad ceremony I’ve known

You can read the last version here. The layout has changed as has the final line. 

I was in London this week and I bought a copy of the Funky Rob Way, an old Nigerian lp that I had downloaded a while ago. The vinyl is even better. I leave you with the title track.

Here's to the next ten years!

COULD HE RETURN THE ROSES?

 

Yes, these are lilies not roses. So close but not cigar. 

This poem grew from a simple idea, a man wanting to propose to his girlfriend while a whole string section played on in the background. The poem wrote itself.

She’s Mine

he wanted violins

for only the complete string section could describe his love for her

the price was beyond him so he maxed out his plastic

on a string quartet from the local music college instead

she told him they were history and this was typical

him lost in the grand gesture unable to see her needs

this could have been a blessing

for her eyes were on the cellist

those long expressive fingers his strong hands

they left together in a taxi for her place

as he stood in the street he was left to wonder if he could return the roses

perhaps the florist would refund him under the circumstances

I did not want the main character to have an easy time but such a grand gesture seemed to lend itself to failure.

The Secrets aided the layout, thank you. Its always a good idea to play about with the layout of a poem, you may stumble upon something better than you realised.

I have just come across Polyanna, a rather wonderful French singer-songwriter. You can listen to more of her music here.
I shall leave you with In The Snow.

Until next time.

HOLY COW!

 

I wonder if you remember the old slang phrase Holy Cow? It's a piece of my 1960's childhood. Robin the Boy Wonder used to say it in the Batman tv series. The Cassell Dictionary of Slang defines Holy Cow as an American in origin, an exclamation of surprise, first recorded in the 1920s. It sits between Holy Cod [a 19th century term for Good Friday]  and holy crap! A exclamation of amazement [1960s + US].

The slang dictionary is a totally absorbing read. I often think I could run a poetry workshop on slang, writing new words, generating a poem from a definition - watch this pace...

Holy Cow!

Holy cows were forbidden in our house,

my mother did not hold with mid-60s lingo.

I could watch [and hear] Robin, the Boy Wonder,

Holy Cow! And Holy Broken Bones, Batman!

But could not echo his words.

Lee Dorsey, on our monophonic

solid state transistor radio,

could sing the phrase thirty or more times

in his song of the same name

but I could not utter it once.

Because nice people don’t say words like that,

common people do, and Paul, we are not common.

[We were but my mother steadfastly denied it]

I just happened to see on the open page of the dictionary the phrase home on the pig's back, which is an Australian saying meaning very contented, happily or successfully placed, having arrived at a successful conclusion [1910s +]. May you be high on the pig's back.

I have to end this post with Lee Dorsey singing that song. Great New Orleans music courtesy of Allen Toussaint. 

Until next time.

ALL IS ENERGY ONCE MORE

 

 

The other day I noticed just how tall one of the horse chestnut trees was in the local park was. 

the horse chestnut

All is energy once more,

a sap green canopy

ablaze with conker candles

and suddenly over brimming with life.

Taller than the houses

that cordon Carey Park.

I originally had:

I walk between the trees

words of praise on my lips.

at the end but thought the poem did not need my endorsement. 

Here is another poem I've shortened.

Night Meteorites

the bathroom window

was a dark blue square

stained by the street light

he chanced to see

friction lines cut the sky

on waking he will question the memory

You can read the original here.

Essentially I have removed the first two lines which described waking in the night. Sometimes the poem needs a frame to contextualise the events but where ever possible I try to let the poem stand as it is. Once written and out in the world poems can be interpreted in many different ways. Who is to say the poet holds the definitive explanation?

I leave you with Jonah Moyo and Devera Ngwena.

Until next time.

MOSES DOWNED TOOLS

 

Earlier this week I caught on camera a reflection I had seen last year at this time. I cannot work out just what the sunlight is shining off in the sitting room but I like the result. Strangely it was not there the next day, so perhaps I was very lucky.

A brief poem that wrote itself from the first line. In the poem the Egyptian parents were not as lucky.

Industrial Action

Moses downed tools

and before the management capitulated

things turned very nasty

frogs fell from the sky alive

and children died.

Imagine that

children died.

Could you pray to a deity

that valued one child’s life over another?

When I was a child and I first heard the story of the Exodus I did not consider the pain and distress of the Egyptian parents, to lose so many children like that must have been horrific. I can only compare it to Aberfan disaster in 1966, when 116 children and 28 adults died following the collapse of a colliery spoil tip. I was 10 at the time and the photographs shocked me.

Even if, as I suspect, the story of the Exodus is untrue, I would still have doubts about praising such a deity. 

I had a zoom meeting with the Secrets the other day. This is a revision, you can read the original here. 

it was the size of the day and

it slipped in while he slept on

so that when he awoke

it was its sun he saw

its trees and grass he glimpsed

through its windows

his body slumbered

machines worked to keep him stable

it was large

yet it was not infinite

he knew on his solo walks

in the empty park just where to stop

for one step more and he would have been

enmeshed in its membrane

the ceaseless machines watched over

his silent hospital room

What's changed is the layout, it is now in couplets. I think this one is slowly evolving, watch this space.

The talented Annabelle Chvostek is celebrating 25 years as a professional music ian this week. Congratulations Annabelle! Here is the title track from her latest album.

Until next time.

FRICTION LINES CUT THE SKY

 

I woke in the night and wrote the first draft of this post's poem. This is not something I do often.

It concerns the Lyrid meteor shower which was visible this week in Devon. It all happened pretty much like the poem says.

Night Meteorites

he happened to wake

at the optimum hour

the bathroom window

was a dark blue square

stained by the street light

he chanced to see

friction lines cut the sky

on waking he will question the memory

I appear to be in a very prolific phase at the moment. 

This poem too is a little observation.

one hour in

we were at the stage

when everything takes on

an infinite aspect

and so were running around the house

taken with the newly revealed size of it all

and the distance between the rooms

a picture caught me

an etching of a dress

I stood and watched all the straight line dance

it does not last long

you are soon carried on

smiling into the next phase

Here is Laura Gibson, I Carry Water.

Until next time.

MY FEET TOOK MY HEAD TO THE BEACH

 

I have been fortunate enough to be able to spend time at the beach recently. In Torquay you are spoilt for choice when it comes to beaches.

This is poem was written while I watched the world go by on Meadfoot beach.

gulls ride the thermals over the bay

spiralling dots in a blue and white sky

ever higher lost to my eye

It doesn't quite work, the metre is uneven but it captures the moment. I have often said that writing what you see is a good exercise for the poetic chops.

my feet took my head to the beach

when I saw

from the top of the hill

the low tide laid out before me

I could have cried

for the beauty of the moment

and walked that much faster

to stand on the tide line

be amazed by each successive wave

savoured each stolen second

gave thanks, gave thanks, gave thanks

The beach in this case was Goodrington. I think it captures the right mood, one of thankfulness. I believe that we are here to give thanks for the beauty of existence.

Here's a dream-like song about the sea side, Anne Briggs, off her second album The Time Has Come. 

Until next time.