A MOODY INTENSITY

I am a little tardy in posting this week as I have been preoccupied with the details of my new collection, more on this on Tuesday. Suffice to say I have a fifth book coming out which you can order either as a book or an e-book. Today's poem comes with assistance  from the Secret Poets. You can read the earlier draft here.

IT COULD BE CATCHING

There had been an outbreak of poetry

thankfully it was only a villanelle.

The symptoms were a moody intensity,

giving his life an ABA frequency.

He was quarantined in a cheap hotel.

There had been an outbreak of poetry

and his choice of rhyme revealed uncertainty,

he was unsure if they worked that well.

The symptoms were a moody intensity

to which the nurses responded with flattery,

how he longed to get out of his cell.

There had been an outbreak of poetry

how long it would last none could tell.

The symptoms were a moody intensity

to which they suggested psychiatry

as his rhyming scheme was shot to hell.

What's changed? Well it is no longer a villanelle, Liz suggested that as the rhyming scheme was "shot to hell" it could just stop. I thought that was a wonderful idea. The spacing has also changed.

I was saddened this week to hear of the death of Toumani Diabati. The world is the poorer without him. He was an amazing musician. I have some wonderful memories of seeing him play live over the years. He will be missed.

Until Tuesday and the information of how you can order my new book.  

ALL THE WAY TO WAKING

If my last post was two poems written at a workshop that appeared unheralded, then this post's poem continues the unexpected arrival theme. I wrote it in the middle of the night, when I had just awoken from a dream. 

I felt I should know this place

the beach looked too beautiful to be real

as I looked I realised it was the same perfect wave

that kept repeating its surge to the shore

and that stars that wheeled in the sky

sparkled like diamonds cast on midnight blue velvet

I asked my friend [whom I’d never met before]

sure is it not a mix of the two

part nature and part enhanced by the artists

the studio employed to ensure

it looked like what an audience would expect

in my pocket the magistrates wrist watch

weighed as heavy as unconfessed sin

my friend slapped me on the back

in a manner no one ever had

tender

underlining our unspoken bond of years

let’s get going you’ve got to give me the loot then bring me back

we walked to the old van

the darkness nestled around us

the soundtrack had yet to be added

we drove in silence all the way to waking

No I have no idea where it came from. I'm not even sure I can identify the constituent parts. I like the dreamy, half familiar feel of it. I thought of entitling it Day For Night after that technique films use to turn daylight into night. Dream for Night was another contender, but neither seems to do it justice.

May De Vitry has a new album out. Her fourth since the Stray Birds broke up. They are all worth a listen.

Until next time.    

PERFECT IMPERFECTION

I participated in a writing workshop last week. The focus was on the fantastic,  exaggeration, amplifying beyond belief. it was fun. I managed to write two poems [neither of them a tall a tale].

I like walking barefoot on the beach

even though the sky is always out of reach

the seals stay in the blue green below

and never whisper what they know

as the tide gives then takes away

the transient land on which you cannot stay

This was just a piece of whimsy. One of the other participants had told me they liked walking on the beach and it became six lines of fantasy. This second poem arose from another exercise. I had to write about a person talking to their reflection in a mirror. 

PERFECT IMPERFECTION

there is comfort in the chipped cup

on its mismatched saucer

and in the teapot’s wonky spout

that will never ever pour proper

embrace the world for what it is

near enough can be good enough

I was thinking that the person was too critical of themselves, trying to be too perfect and that led to my celebration of the imperfect. Much of the time near enough is more than adequate. Let's not give ourselves too hard a time.

Here's Natalie Merchant with Sister Tilly.

Until next time.

THERE HAD BEEN AN OUTBREAK OF POETRY

A rather silly poem this week. The first line [the title of this post] popped into my head and I was away. I thought the villanelle form lent itself to the idea [and the second rhyme]. Having such a clear structure made writing the poem more straight forward. 

There had been an outbreak of poetry

thankfully it was only a villanelle.

The symptoms were a moody intensity,

giving his life an ABA frequency.

He was quarantined in a cheap hotel.

There had been an outbreak of poetry

and his choice of rhyme revealed uncertainty,

he was unsure if they worked that well.

The symptoms were a moody intensity

to which the nurses responded with flattery,

how long it would last none could tell.

There had been an outbreak of poetry

how he longed to get out of his cell.

The symptoms were a moody intensity

to which they suggested psychiatry

as his rhyming scheme was shot to hell.

There had been an out break of poetry,

the symptoms were a moody intensity.

The next step for this poem is to take it to the next Secret Poets meeting and see what they make of it. I'm not sure I will do anything more with it.

Here's The Wave Pictures, a true classic.

Until next time.

ADRIFT IN THE FOG OF LIFE

I've been struggling with this poem for a couple of months. I am not sure it works.

top of the hills

highest point for miles

this house with glass walls

I came to map the valley

note the car’s headlights

see people like ants below

but the air thickens

water logged

opaque to observation

it leaves me like everyone

adrift in the fog of life

The genesis was the couple of days I spent outside Vichy in a house on a hill and yes, the fog/low cloud obscured the view. I suspect that I am not clear about what I want the poem to say. It definitely goes into the drawer for a couple of months.

Here's a rewrite of a poem I featured two or three posts ago. I've changed the layout. I think the poem breathes easier now. 

FOURTH THURSDAY IN CATALUNYA

I am crossing the square

a bell begins to repeat three solemn notes

on the terrace in front of the church

there are knots of people

grief shock disbelief no one smiles

I turn the corner see a white hearse parked

flower tributes surround a pine coffin

there is a cross carved into the lid

the occupant is in no hurry for the service to begin

as I look at the local architecture

I keep returning to the one who waited

my mind asks if they had walked down this street

did the Modinisme buildings become so familiar

that they ceased to take in the details

or even notice them at all

when I recross the square

the church doors are closed

it is as if nothing had happened

I have been listening to the Laura Nyro boxset a lot. With any boxset you have to give the individual albums space to speak to you. There are many riches to behold. This was always a favourite.

Until next time. 

THE DEMOB TAILOR

This post's poem was sparked by someone asking if I had ever been to Venice, sadly I have not.  I remembered my father saying he had visited in 1945, after the War in Europe ended. He had been with the Eighth Army since El Alamein  and he was given leave that summer. I didn't mention this in the conversation but it set me thinking and a couple of days later I wrote this.

FAMILY HISTORY

finally the shooting stops

Charlie gets the train to Venice

where the sandbagged statues

tax his imagination

he’s seen so much these past six years

after all that khaki and the hard won miles

he goes to La Scala

as opera never fails

to bring out the beauty

they’ll ship him home soon

and he’ll slip some silver

to the demob tailor

who’ll cut his suit

with a little more care

Charlie will wear it

like they all did

down the dance

on a Saturday night

where he’ll meet my mother

and then my story begins

I think this is definitely a work in progress. I have a difficulty with the rhythm, and it doesn't feel complete. I think this is one to take to the next meeting of the Secret Poets and see what they make of it.

Mdou Moctar have a new album out. Here's the title track.

Until next time.

GRIEF SHOCK DISBELIEF

When I was in Catalunya recently I noticed a funeral taking place and that sparked a poem. A good poem has the ability to make the personal universal. I hope that is what I have done here.

FOURTH THURSDAY IN CATALUNYA

I am crossing the square

a bell begins

three solemn notes on repeat

on the terrace in front of the church

there are knots of people

grief shock disbelief no one smiles

I turn the corner see a white hearse parked

flower tributes surround a pine coffin

there is a cross carved into the lid

the occupant is in no hurry for the service to begin

my agenda today is to look at the local architecture

my mind keeps returning to the one who waits

asks if they walked down this street

had the Modinisme buildings become so familiar

that they ceased to see the details

when I recross the square

the church doors are closed

it is as if nothing had happened

I had not seen a white hearse before. In my insular ignorance I had taken it for granted that all hearse's would be black. I think it was the realisation that this white vehicle was a hearse that crystallised the scene I was observing. I also had never seen the coffin [and its occupant] waiting at the side of the church for the service to begin. 

Modernisme is a term applied to Catalan architecture of the early twentieth century. I am not a great fan, but the style has its moments. That particular Thursday I was looking at some homes built between 1900 and 1920 in La Garriga. If you are ever in Catalunya they are worth a look.

I caught a gig by Nogen when I was in Vic. Here they are with a song entitled Glastonbury.

Until next time.