THE FIRST KISS OF THE RED GIANT SUN

 

A poem inspired by a firework rocket. This Bonfire Night I set off a packet of rockets at the end of our small display and that set me to thinking...

Escape Velocity

if gunpowder rockets never fell back to earth

just rose upwards consuming stick and cylinder

kissing the vacuum

to return their borrowed carbon to the stars

the dead in space on the other hand

who number more than you think

would look on in envy

tethered as they must always be

to the planet that birthed them

in various degrees of patience

they await release from

the first kiss of the red giant sun

that unmakes everything 

I am led to believe that in about ten billion years the sun will transform into a red giant and expand to engulf the earth. This will be the end of the planet. Not sure where the idea of the dead in space came from, probably an old Tom Rapp song. Thanks to the Secrets for assistance in the completion.

Annabelle Chvostek is touring, briefly, the UK in February, though sadly she is not playing the southwest. If you are able to catch any of the dates please do, she is always worth seeing live.

I leave you with a slightly out of sync video of Colin Blunstone singing a Danny Lane song. One Year the album this song was on Has just been re-released.

Until next time.

PIGS IN A TROUGH

 

I do try to avoid politics in my posts and, to an extent, in my poetry, as I believe political poems have a very short shelf life. However, the recent execrable activities of the  greedy, second raters who make up this countries present government has led me to write a political poem.

once more I echo my father...

backhanders

jobs for the boys

feathering their own nests

putting our money in their pockets

he had a lot of words for it

but then he’d had longer to observe it

God knows what he’d have made

of today’s crop of no hopers

brass necked

blatant begging bowls

the hard faced refusal to resign

no matter how compromised

I have to agree with him

we deserve better

Let us hope, that soon, such poltroons are replaced by competent individuals who place the welfare of the country above the opportunity to have two jobs and do neither well.  

For balance here is a silly poem which is also based on reality. Yes, I did make a vegetable lasagna when visiting Singapore many years ago.

Pasta making in Singapore

The oven is taking its time,

still cooler than this kitchen.

At this temperature the milk could curdle

I’m turning it into Hollandaise before it does

and with wine bottle rolling pin

generating pasta of a robust thickness.

Tropical night, humid heat,

moist neck, damp face, wet hair,

sweat drips off my nose,

finally the lasagna enters the oven.

I wrote the poem some time ago but that I still am unsure it is completed.

Recently I have been listening to Manel a lot. I leave you with La Jungla.

Until next time.

GIVES UP THE GHOST

 

These are the last of the poems I started on my poetry retreat. It was a remarkably prolific weekend. This first one is very brief and is based on a true story.

as a child the only time I ever talked to God was on a Wednesday afternoon

I always, politely, requested that it rain so I would not have to do games

sometimes God heard me

I hated games at school. I am a very unsporty person. This next poem is from the workshop I led. It was one of those times when, although I had ideas, I could not marry them up into a coherent whole. I did rescue this.

he’ll give her five

he owes her that

or at any rate thinks he does

the hands of his watch

refuse to move

no matter how often he stares

his showerproof coat

ever so quietly

gives up the ghost

he walks eventually

Not sure that it really is a poem. It is pretty slight and it tells rather than shows, but I wanted to share it.

Speaking of not liking sport, this song was a revelation to me, I realised I was not alone, that there are others who do not like it.

Until next time.

THE DANCE WITH POETRY

 

Over the past couple of months I've been discussing poetry with my friend Brooke Sharkey and planning a series of workshops for people who would like to write but who have not yet started to.

We want to explore, over four sessions, what it means to live a poetic life, even in difficult times, how to bring poetry into our very way of being and moving through the world, alongside learning some of the core foundations, contemplations and technicalities of writing actual poetry. In this course you will observer and better understand your own internal process via meditations, prompts, visualisations and contemplations aimed to specifically guide you to your own creative inner resources. On top of the four sessions, we want to offer a 1:1 coaching/tutorial session.

By the end of the series of sessions you will have created three poems inspired by the prompts and activities undertaken in the workshops. You will have an understanding of what works for you creatively, and you will have access to meditations and embodiment practices to support your creative flow and aid you on your continuing journey.

We hope this opportunity will appeal to anyone who loves words, those looking to find or refine their poetic voice, and those who wish to learn by trying and exploring with others. Whether you are a poet or a person who would like to dabble, here is a kind, safe space to explore, learn and share.

We are offering four live and interactive sessions with Brooke Sharkey and myself plus a Free 1:1 session (either with Brooke or myself).

Price £200 (with discount for low income or students, please contact Brooke directly for more information.

Link

AND THEY GOT AWAY WITH MURDER

 

Here is another poem that was written on the poetry retreat I recently attended.

It had a difficult genesis as it required me to repeat lines in a specific order. My dyscalulia played havoc with that!

it was written in the small print

nobody told her any different

they glossed over the details

and she never thought to question

nobody told her any different

she just signed her rights away

and she never thought to question

and they got away with murder

she just signed away her rights

and there never was no comeback

and they got away with murder

hid behind their fancy words

she just signed away her rights

and there never was no comeback

hid behind their fancy words

it was written in the small print

I have no idea where the poem came from. I took a line from another poem as my starting point and promptly ended up altering it beyond recognition. In this present draft it is now the second line. What I like about the poem is the narrator's sense of outrage. Thanks to Liz for setting the challenge.

Only one poem this post. Since my creative outpouring on the retreat I have been revising more than writing. 

Here's Pollyanna with a song about chasing mammoths. 

Until Next time.

EARLIEST MEMORY

 

Another couple of poems that I began on my poetry retreat. The first arose from an exercise that required me to describe my earliest memory. Camp Coffee, which is mentioned in the poem, was an instant coffee and chicory mixture that was popular in my childhood. 

earliest memory

when me and my mum

came out of Berry’s corner shop

that overcast autumn morning

my three year old hand in her calloused palm

she said to me

as we walked along Wallace Street

let’s go home and have a nice hot drink

in my head I could see

the Camp Coffee steaming

in my little white cup

milky, mud brown, sweet as the hive

It is what it is really. I think I have managed to do the memory justice.

This second poem is another inspired by my visit to Charles Causely's  house/museum. In one bedroom a perspex case was fastened to the wall and it contained a number of items that I suppose had belonged to the poet. The collection seemed to lend itself to being a poem.

inventory

china bull

stained glass star

amber eyed angora

adorned matchbox cover

library card

signature fading fast

time stopped alarm clock

forever 12:05

listen

and you can almost hear

the silver peeling off the mirror

I suppose my initial impression was sadness that his signature on his library card was fading. One day soon it will vanish and that seems a shame.

I leave you with a new video from Annabelle Chvostek.

Until next time.

PURLOIN THEIR INSPIRATION

 

As part of my poetry retreat last weekend I was fortunate enough to spend Saturday morning looking round Charles Causeley's house, which is now a museum and pretty much preserved as it was at the time when he died. 

Charles Causeley spent most of his life in Launceston, Cornwall. He was a school teacher at the same school he had been a pupil. He was quite simply an excellent poet. 

Though I was conscious when I was looking round that I was in his personal space I did write this poem.

Rummaging Through Charles Causeley’s Record Collection

nothing grabs me

too classical by far

save for a solitary

Oscar Peterson plays Cole Porter

I could grove to that

but the atom powered Dansette

monophonic record player is missing its needle

and I feel too much the tomb robber

I never have been able to resist looking through someone's music collection, but I'm not sure what that says about me. By the way Dansette was an old record player from the 1950/60s. 

on exploring Charles Causeley’s house

we might be buyers with money to burn

this could be a viewing

house all shipshape

bristol fashion

I am in the footsteps of a poet I don’t know

a most modest master

so I search for clues

open drawers look in wardrobes

but you cannot wear another’s words

purloin their inspiration

it doesn’t work like that

I think tomb robber is about right for how I felt. I was conscious of the fact that I was looking for inspiration in the very place where most of his ideas coalesced. It was unique experience and thanks to Annie for organising the weekend. 

I have to end with Natalie Merchant's version of Nursery Rhyme of Innocence and Experience, a poem by Charles Causeley.

Until next time.