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 there 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.

VERBAL GOLD

I've been working on this first poem since last Friday when it happened.

A Friday night hotel bar

he’s a couple of few 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

his every word is verbal gold

as he spills memorable phrases

I can’t pull out pen and paper

to record his every heart felt word can I?

Would anyone notice?

The poem wags a finger in my face

Whispers: this one’s not going to happen

Yes, I was sat in a hotel bar attempting not to listen to a man pour his heart into his telephone. To be honest, I think he was past the point of awareness that people could overhear him. The poem wrote itself the next morning. I've been working on this next one about the same length of time.

for the first time in years

he takes stock

of his head long trajectory

from home to here

what has been cast aside

internal inventory

remembers his mother’s prayers

lost somewhere

no going back

Not sure this is going to go anywhere. I like the idea of the protagonist losing his mother's prayers but think it's probably too tell, rather than show.

Here's The Byrds with Gunga Din. No idea what the song is about. It sounds amazing.

Until next time.

BOOK LAUNCH

I would like to thank all those who attended the launch party, last Friday, of my latest collection The Wait of Water. It was a jolly affair and it was well attended. The setting was the exhibition of Alison Wilson's lino cuts which illustrate the book. Thanks once again to Alison for her superb art work which raised the book to a whole new level.

If you would like to purchase a copy of the collection please contact me at thewaitofwater@outlook.com and I will be happy to post you a signed copy. The price is £10 plus p&p.

I shall be reading at the series of exhibitions of Alison's prints. Watch this space for details. Thanks to Chris for the amazing photographs.

RAIN WET ROAD

Here's a strange one. It's part tell, part not. There's a feeling of menace about the final line. I suppose it's a mirror of this poem.

he returns

to find a dry rectangle

on the rain wet road

nothing else

the police tell him

that little I

denoting fuel injection

was too attractive

to some student in the rain

easy enough

break a window

hot wire the car

when he got back she cried

after all that has happened

we could do with some luck

worse was to come

My car was stolen, many years ago, in Leeds. The police did say it would be a student who doesn't want to walk home in the rain. They located it in the middle of the night. Side window smashed, the glove compartment emptied. The usual. 

The poem is a series of arresting images and much is left unexplained. I think it's one for the drawer. Time will tell...

Here's Laura Gibson. I've been playing her albums lately.

Until next time.