BRIGHT CURLED CRISP

Autumn has definitely arrived in Devon, it should have, you cry, it's November! Well, yes it is, but it's been unseasonably warm recently. Here's a poem about the season.

AUTUMN

The leaves were leaving

right angles in the wind

bright curled crisp

they fly from the branch

Then circle as if unsure

of what to make of this word freedom

only to fall

heavier than the thought

Briefly they will jewel the pavement

Nothing to say about this poem really. This next one is another in the long line of poems about writing poems. 

It comes down to the poem shouting at you

oi! over here!

As it mimes a metaphor

that you only half appreciate

You are just the hapless scribe

whose hands are full

Recording every word

as best you can 

Again it is just a little observation. I think I am in a period of writing miniatures. Small, self contained facets of lived experience. I hope they chime with you. 

Here's Ben Webster and Oscar Peterson.

Until next time.

 

UPPED STICKS

I recently went to Morlaix for the weekend, it was a flying visit. I had been there about five years before and I thought I had retained a reasonably accurate mental map of the town. I had not. It did provoke this poem.

FIVE YEARS LATER

At least two buildings had upped sticks

and shuffled across the square

to present different vistas

of their architectural features

All the roads have been rerouted

and the town centre must have shrunk in the rain

so that when we returned

our mental maps were astray

Try as we might

we were lost

and could not find our way

This is a first draft. I think the ending can be improved and I'm not sure about the layout. Watch this space.

Both Chris Cleverly and Boo Hewerdine are on tour at the moment, so I've a busy a busy week coming up as they are playing in Devon on different nights. Here's Boo live earlier this year with Yvonne Lyons. It takes a while to get going but it's worth it. 

Until next time. 

THE DAWN WAS FRESH AND CLEAR

 A personal history poem first this post.

21^st BIRTHDAY POEM

Colours erupted in the wet sky

the fireworks arrived on time

as we toasted my birthday

in malt and Moroccan

Time started to leapfrog

a series of stuttering memories

that I could later never quite sequence

but the dawn was fresh and clear

I walked home

leaving a set of footprints

on the dewed grass

that eventually led me here

This is something I've been looking at for a couple of weeks and please regard this as a first draft. I think it's pretty straight forward reportage. The events happened at a festival back in the 70s and it did conclude with fireworks.

I don't know where this one comes from. It wrote itself and I don't know what to make of it. 

Elvis said to Elvis in the Clones For Hire stockade:

I’d never have gone and done it

if I’d have even had half an inkling this would be my fate

I’d have sacked that bastard Colonel for a start

Marilyn Monroe sighed:

You always say this before they retune your head

but you never ever act on the impulse

or think about the situation we are all in now

She was called away to another job

she was the most popular of the Heritage Clones

The other Elvis sighed

and wished he’d stuck to driving trucks

It did make me smile though.

Iron and Wine were excellent. Here's a video of him live.

Until next time

DECONSTRUCTION OF THE HEART

This week I attended a new local spoken word evening. It was an interesting event, although I could have done without the drunken man in the black overcoat and hat who talked all the way through the evening oblivious of what was taking place around him. It is unusual to encounter such a level of self-absorption. He was talking about the great Sam Cooke some of the time and insisting that his swan song, A Change is Going to Come, was entitled A Change is Coming... Close but no cigar.

With the assistance of the Secret Poets I have redrafted this week's poem. You can read the pervious incarnation here.

THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY

A Friday night hotel bar

he’s a couple or three drinks ahead of me

his every word is big voiced into his phone

he is deconstructing his heart

I’m the other side of a flimsy partition

trying to camouflage my listening ear

I can’t pull out pen and paper

to record his every heartfelt word

Can I?

The poem wags a finger in my face

Whispers: this one’s not going to happen

As you can see I have removed a line that was superfluous and respaced the poem. I am still not sure of it amounts to anything serious, but I am satisfied with it. 

I suppose given the poetry evening events I should leave you with Sam Cooke. 

Until next time.         

HITS, HEADLINES & IDLE SPECULATION

Have you watched any of those biographical films that seem to be being made with increasing regularity these days? Films that purport to tell the story of a musician who has died? I've watched a couple over the last year and the experience has prompted me to write this.

we should know better

but we gather round the flat screen

while a life we think we know

through hits and headlines and idle speculation

and where we were when we heard they’d died

is played out before our eyes

The actors get the set pieces perfect

follow the live footage

better than we remember

but the director has their own ideas

and the script has been negotiated through

the demands of all of those who outlived the subject

we know better but still we watch

as if hoping for a different outcome

On both occasions when I began to watch I said to myself that this will not be my sort of film but I persevered anyway. Neither was. We all have our own idea of a narrative and to make a film you have to ensure that none of the people involved who are still alive are libelled so the film must walk a changing line. I think the poem needs a title, any ideas? 

I'm looking forward to seeing Iron and Wine in Bristol in a couple of weeks. His new album is well worth a listen.

Until next time.    

THE NEAR HORIZONS OF A SMALL TOWN

I ran a poetry workshop this week in Kingkerswell Library and I'd like to thank the people who attended and made it such an enjoyable morning. Thank you. This poem was begun in that workshop.

THE NEAR HORIZONS OF A SMALL TOWN

By Widnes Bus Garage

a mock Tudor pub

we never went in the bar

too full of bus drivers and mechanics

talking tickets, fare stages

bemoaning bus stop politics

But the snug had a jukebox

famous amongst our crowd

you stocked it with imports

to maximise income

you’d figured out the angles

rode the 70s for what they were worth

I imagine you today

balder

older

slightly embittered

at how it all turned out

it’s all rubble now

so much flat waste land

As you can see it still has many miles to go before it is able to stand on its own two feet and go out into the world. What I have not been able to do, so far, is to complete the narrative of the individual I am thinking of. The specific manner in which their life changed. 

This next poem is a redrafting. Actually I have removed a line which I think makes the poem read better. You can read the last version here.

INTERSECTION

the sun is in my eyes

but the rain falls

it’s one of those days

showers

and a winter angled sun that blinds

so the wedding party

appear to materialise

out of the glare

in small groups

impossible heels that

click click click towards you

dressed to the nines

coats held over hairdos

I should not be surprised

the bells have made announcements

and here on the cracked pavement

our lives intersect

and just like that diverge again

Once again thanks to the Secret Poets for their invaluable insights.

Sachal Vasandani has a new single out. 

Until next time.

THE FIRE IS ASH

I met with the Secret Poets this week and their excellent constructive feedback has enabled me to revise some poems. You can read the last draft of this poem here.

THE MORNING AFTER EDEN

you wake

amazed

you had managed to sleep

after all that palaver

the fire is ash

damp grey in this drizzle

no hope of cajoling a flame

then you realise you are naked

and that is a sin

he wakes

the recriminations begin

and carry on to this day

The last line has been removed and there is less focus on the sin of being naked. It is now tighter and hopefully a better poem. This next poem has also been changed, you can read the last version here.

 “Never, ever, put bread on the fire.”

My mother was adamant about this

“Not even two day old stale crusts

because you’re feeding the Devil.”

In winter she would burn vegetable peelings

they would smoulder on the coals

deprive the room of heat.

I used to wonder about the menu in Hell

whether Satan longed for a soft white barm cake

Again the last line has been removed. There was some discussion as to whether there was a need for food critics or if it weakened the overall poem. Apparently barm cake is now correctly spelled.

Here's Chris Cleverly, the sharp eyed amongst you may spot me in the crowd.

Until next time.