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.  

BRING ORDER TO NATURE

I'm not sure about this poem. It is based on something I saw recently, a woman digging out blades of grass that grew between the paving slabs outside her house. Her lawn was composed of plastic grass and the exacting precision with which it had been laid reminded me of a model train exhibition I had seen in the early summer. 

The grass on her lawn could have been laid

by a carpet fitter and probably was

it’s plastic and could outlast The Bomb

It looks like a scene in a toy train diorama

the well kept garden of some dream house

that faces the train line with a waving figure in the doorway

Meanwhile she’s on her knees

hoicking up rebellious sods of grass

that have the temerity to poke up between the paving stones

And I wonder if the model shop sells plastic figures

that enable such order to be brought to nature

I am not sure about the end, whether it needs to be less critical, I suspect it does. I was struck by the artificial neatness of the lawn and how she was endeavouring to remake the street in its image. Perhaps this is what humans have been doing from the get go attempting to remake the world to suit the image in their heads.

Coincidently two different albums have just been released about Amelia Earhart and both are worth a listen. This is Public Services Broadcasting.

And this is Laurie Anderson.

Until next time.     

TICKING OFF WHO KNEW WHAT

It's not often that I take some lines from a poem and use them in a completely different way. But I have this post. You can read the last iteration of it here. 

LOVE POEM

In Stafford there were train spotters

cameras slung around their necks

tablets gripped tightly in their hands

ticking off who knew what

In Birmingham where I changed trains

I was refused hot water in in four

of the five cafes in the last

my jasmine tea was refilled with a smile

Out of the city it was all green country

until I saw the sea at that point I knew

I’d be with you soon from then on

the smile never left my face

It's now a love poem where as before it was more reportage. Same train journey, different focus. You have to be flexible and open to experimenting. 

Here's some Laura Gibson. I've been playing La Grande lately and it really is an impressive piece of work.

Until next time.

TRAMMELLED TO TIMETABLES

I had to check online to that the title of this post's poem was correct, and it is. Apparently straight lines are a mathematical concept rather than a physical fact. It's another bus poem. Inspired by sitting on the top deck of buses as they bash their way through overhanging branches. 

THERE ARE NO STRAIGHT LINES IN NATURE

Buses hate trees

for trees are everything buses are not

growing as they will where they will

anchored as they are to just one spot

Given half an opportunity

a bus will punch its way through

intent on curbing their spread

aiming to impose a rigid geometry

Because buses are contained

forced to live regulated lives

forever trammelled to timetables

made to fulfil others expectations

Whereas trees don’t care

they were here yesterday

they will be here tomorrow

I've been working on this poem for about a week now. The rhyme in the first stanza happened by chance and I could not sustain it across the other three. If I consciously think about rhyme then the essence of the poem disappears. You'd think after writing for over fifty years now I'd have got the hang of it. It appears I have not. 

As I was pasting the poem the AI program offered to rewrite it for me:

Nature harbors no straight lines

Buses resent trees

for trees embody all that buses are not

sprouting freely, wherever they desire

rooted firmly in a single plot

Offer them the slightest chance

and buses will barrel through

determined to halt their wild growth

seeking to enforce a strict order anew

Buses are confined

bound to live by rules

eternally shackled to schedules

crafted to meet others' views

But trees remain indifferent

they stood long before today

and they'll stand long after, unfazed

Well, all I can say is thank you Copilot... Here's Boygenius. 

Until next time.

THE FLAVOURS OF THE NIGHT

Here's a poem that I was not happy with. You can read that version here. I put it away for six months and this is the result:

I was in Lisbon when I found myself

thinking about the Liverpool Stadium

for in the second hand shop window

was a copy of Barclay James Harvest Live

and I could taste the flavours of that night again

It wasn’t the best time I saw them

that would have been Sheffield 1974

the Time Honoured Ghosts tour

it was just a piece of my past

making it large from out of nowhere

Then going away again

to wherever it had come from

I'm still not sure it captures the exact mood I was after. It's that Proust madeleine idea, where something suddenly and unexpectedly takes you back to a forgotten incident and in that split second you are right back in the middle of it.

Holly Ebony's album has been out for a year or so now and we've listened to it a lot. It's well worth catching her and her band live. Here's The Rains Came.

Until next time.

JUST ANOTHER STATISTIC

I took a train to Runcorn recently and wrote these two poems about the trip.

In Stafford there were train spotters

older men cameras slung round their necks

no pencils, no spiral bound notebooks

They take note of the rolling stock

record every serial number

in search of the big score

One took my photograph

as my carriage slid by

just another statistic

in a sea of dates, times and tonnage

All the train spotters were older men, I wondered if younger people collect train numbers? This second poem is reportage of my return and the fact the station was closed due to the signalling equipment being broken. Decades of private ownership and the trains don't even run as efficiently as they did for Sherlock Holmes. Aren't tory policies marvellous.

when I got to the station

people were pouring from inside

a man told me the signals were toast

I almost didn’t believe

asked a woman for confirmation

early Thursday Runcorn town

the wind nags at you

bound to wear you down by noon

I know how such days play out

a single unexpected side step

and life is once more a struggle

I am not sure about either poem. I shall put them away and see if they survive future scrutiny.

Were you at the All Points East Festival last Sunday? I was and the Decemberists were superb. My daughter commented on just how good Colin Malloy's singing was. You can judge for yourself.

Until next time.