ALWAYS A DAY BEHIND

I don't usually use the voice recorder on my phone to jot down ideas as I think the act of speaking them out loud somehow fixes them in the moment. I find the fluidity of pen and ink more malleable. This first poem was an idea I had that died in the air.

The car he drives reflects his haircut

an attempt to be fashionable in some parallel world

he staggers towards tomorrow

knowing he will always be a day behind

Pretty misanthropic really. It was meant to be light but it doesn't work. This next one I've been working on for some time. It is based partly on a real incident. 

There was no instant gratification I can tell you

you needed a working knowledge

an understanding of F-stops

shutter speeds

how to read a light meter

Back then you needed to plan

you had to rustle up a dark room

to improvise on your feet

Patience that’s what you needed

and a little luck that you’d caught the exact moment

I ask you who would want

to photograph their plate of food?

His voice incredulous ripples

across the terrace for all to hear

at least those who understood English.

I’m over the other side

in the shade by the tree

taking in his every contemptuous word

and I not about to tell him

at times I have photographed my food

Again it is meant to be tongue in cheek but feels clunky. I think this one may have legs. Watch this space.

Alela Diane has a new album coming out, you can order it here. 

Until next time.   

OF COURSE THERE WAS SMOKE

I don't have much to say about this poem as I think it's quite self explanatory. I will say that if you can find a copy of any of the Uncle the Elephant books then read them, you won't be disappointed.

THE PRIZE GIVING

There we were in the bookshop

you me and the book seller

That celebration evening

the end of our three years study

It could have been a dream

some bibliophiles best fantasy

We huddled in the backroom

of course there was smoke

an ember passed from hand to hand

and then another

In honour of the occasion

we decided to award ourselves prizes

[in other less colourful circles

I think they call it stealing]

You chose Gunter Schuller on jazz

such a thick tome

Serious

so at odds with our evening

My eye fixed on Uncle the Elephant

a particular warm memory of my childhood

I have it still

the pages aged and yellowed

I read it to my children

but did not tell them how I acquired it

This is the first draft I am prepared to exhibit. It may change. Watch this space.

I watched the Judee Sill documentary the other day. It was both amazingly beautiful and very sad. 

Until next time.

I CALL YOUR NAME

A couple of weeks ago I said I would take a poem to the Secret Poets for their opinions on it, we met last week. You can read the previous incarnation of the poem here.

IN SEARCH OF A MISSING CAT

Electric light in a bramble tunnel

that links parts of my geography

in a way I had no idea of until now

All the while I call your name

that little whistle that denotes your dinner

Thankfully the rain has stopped

Strangers offer suggestions

shake their heads

wish me luck

The emphasising beam of the torch

seems to increase the distance

space becomes infinite

I decide to return home

check the house on the off chance

only to discover a sleeping kitten

amid the chaos he has made

of pulled-up carpet and underlay

in the middle bedroom behind the shut door

Pleasingly there was not much to change. In the fourth stanza "spaces become infinite" has changed into "space becomes infinite". Most discussion centred on the word locked and how much it was different to shut. The bedroom door had been shut not locked. The word shut carries less negative connotations than locked. The poem is now complete. Thank you Secrets.

Here's Murray Head with Affair Across a Crowded Room.

Until next time.  

IRON FILING SPARKLE

The Secret Poets observed of this post's poem that it need the consequences of the indoor fireworks described. You can read the previous versions here and here. 

INDOOR FIREWORKS

Undeniably the box held promise

a sun bleached label with wonky grammar

overprinted with geysers of bright light

Reality was something different

A splutter of iron filing sparkle

a brief magnesium flare

the half remembered tang of a childhood chemistry set

I open windows onto a still night

the smoke refuses to disperse

as the damp air creeps in

Greasy smears everywhere

grey ash on the three piece suite

stuck to the curtains

The only thing I was grateful for back then

was there were no smoke detectors

to shatter our dumbfounded silence

Some life lessons are best learned early

As you can see the poem is now longer and more descriptive. I'm still not sure I am totally happy with it...

Here's Jacqui Dankworth with a wonderous version of an old standard.

Until next time.

THEN HER HUSBAND CHIPS IN

Here is a rewrite, I was not happy with the poem. [You can read the earlier version here] I made some changes to the layout then discussed it with a friend.

PROOF

Opinions were aired

for no other reason

than it was raining outside

and people have mouths

and a need to use them

One of those days

you know the sort

when the talk circled

then settled on Jesus

was he real

She thought he could have been

though wasn’t sure

whatever he was

he was only a man

the rest of it was made up

Then her husband chips in

what do you know

none of it was real

and you’re the fool

for thinking that it was

Those of us listening

looked away

were silent

we would rather

have been elsewhere

While I reflected on

how many times this conversation

must have happened

since that day

they went and nailed him to a tree

As you can see the stanza length has changed, some lines have been removed and others altered. I think the poem flows more easily now. I'm still not a hundred percent but I shall show it to the Secrets at our next meeting.

I was listening to Little Feat this week and I'd forgotten just how funky they were. Lowell George is sadly missed.

Until next time.

AMID THE CHAOS

A true story today. I thought I'd lost my kitten and went searching for him in the rain.

IN SEARCH OF A MISSING CAT

Electric light in a bramble tunnel

that links parts of my geography

in a way I had no idea of until now

All the while I call your name

that little whistle that denotes your dinner

thankfully the rain has stopped

Strangers offer suggestions

shake their heads

wish me luck

The emphasising beam of the torch

seems to increase the distance

spaces become infinite

I decide to return home

check the house on the off chance

only to discover a sleeping kitten

Amid the chaos he has made

of pulled up carpet and underlay

in the locked middle bedroom

I think I am rather too near this poem at the moment. That said, I think it is probably nearly there. One to share with the Secret Poets. 

I'm off to see Will Varley on Thursday. I'm looking forward to it. It's been nine years since the last time I saw him.

Until next time.

IT WAS RAINING OUTSIDE

Some ideas are like shooting stars they flash through my head and are never seen again. This one arrived and departed leaving me to fashion it into something coherent which took much longer.

PROOF

Opinions were aired

for no other reasons

than it was raining outside

and people have mouths

and a need to use them

One of those days

you know the sort

when the talk settled on Jesus

was he real

She thought he could have been

though wasn’t sure

whatever he was

he was only a man

the rest of it was made up

Then her husband chipped in

what do you know

none of it was real

and you’re the fool

for thinking that it was

Those of us listening

would rather have been elsewhere

[preferably with a drink in our hands]

and then I reflected on

how many times this conversation has happened

since that day they nailed him to a tree

Who has not questioned another's existence? The further from the event the more doubt. This may appear in a post again. I am not sure it's there yet.

Naissam Jalal has a new album out, it's well worth a listen. Here's Tear's in Delhi's Fog.

Until next time.