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.

AS YOU DID IN THOSE DAYS

This poem began as a stray thought. I was looking at the cacti in the utility when and image of a flowering cactus popped into my head from my schooldays. Eventually I fashioned it into this poem.

THOSE DAYS, THESE DAYS

Mr Farr on the bus from Penketh

briefcased as usual

all scuffed tan leather,

he’s on the top deck smoking

[as you did in those days]

with a cactus in a paper bag

he was a succulent man

prickly but fair he told all the school

That week he showed each class

the just about sprouting cactus flowers

and proudly informed us

this is the first time in seven years

and were we impressed

I cannot remember being very

but the event managed to lodge

somewhere inside my head

Over half a century later

for reasons I cannot explain

I have two cacti on a window ledge

that flower every six months

as regular as clockwork

I think they realise that the jig is up

and they’d better get on

with it while there’s still time

Most of it is taken from life. Mr Farr [who has appeared in another poem] did live in Penketh, and he was one of those people who enjoyed smoking cigarettes. Six foot plus tall, he used to say it was a good job smoking stunted your growth. We children would laugh at that. I think that this draft is not quite there. Watch this space.

Here's Calexico and Iron and Wine. I can't believe it's so long since they first recorded together.

Until next time.

YOU NEED NO MAP

Happy New Year. This is the fifteenth year of the blog. It has run for longer than I would have believed possible when I began it in 2011. Here is another meta poem about writing.

NOTES TO THE READER

I will not tell you how to read this poem

punctuation is not my strong point

besides I would not be so directive 

There are no instructions buried within

the pattern of the words on the page

is of my choosing

You must make them

speak inside your own head

or give voice to them wherever you are

I know you have the skill

you have read poems before

you need no map

The poem has been kicking about for some time and is nearly there I think. I truly have no  suggestions for how you read my work. Trust your ear and don't expect the first read through to be the best.

Here's the late, great Kevin Ayers.

Until next time.

WE TIPTOED AROUND

Happy Solstice. It was overcast and damp here, so there are no photographs of this year's first sun. I am going through a period of rewrites, my attention is on what I have already written. You can read the last incarnation of today's poem here. I thought, upon rereading, that it was clumsily laid out. This led me to making a number of changes.

ELEPHANT ORNAMENTS

My father would have none of it

“China elephants as holiday gifts?

Oh no, they always bring bad luck.”

And who would openly court misfortune?

When a child there were moments

I sensed elephants in the living room

the drum taut tension of things unsaid

We tiptoed around their slumbering forms.

Usually I try to pare any poem back as far as I can but this one seemed too bare. I felt I needed to highlight who was speaking, to differentiate the opinion holder from the narrator. I do not think it is finished...

I leave you with a seasonal Alela.

Until next time.