THE PUZZLE of THE BONES

A rather sombre poem this week. I think I should offer some explanation. Recently I read Ostland by David Thomas, a fictionalised account of a policeman in the late 1930's who ended up being tried for war crimes he had committed on the eastern front in Minsk. The man was sentenced to ten years in prison which is the approximate equivalent of eight hours for every person he murdered.The poem is my attempt to deal with the horror.

The Red Deer River, in Canada, Hell Creek and Como Bluff in America are all places where huge quantities of dinosaur bones were found. 

There is More Than One Kind of Mass Extinction.

I had wanted to work with stone,

to ponder questions of articulation,

solve an enigma of petrified remains.

The next train approaches the railhead.

My childhood had glowed with tales of boxcars

crammed with puzzle bones,

hauled from the badlands of the mid-west.

I am in the east, this train has crossed Poland.

The Red Deer River, Hell creek,

the Como Bluff bottleneck of body parts...

this happen chance of fossilisation.

My work now concerns resettlement.

The postcards have been written,

receipts given for belongings.

Dentists have scoured mouths for treasure,

guards eyes the piles of clothes.

I wait in line by the trench,

my loader is ready, the vodka to hand.

I put muzzle to shaking neck,

the carcass tumbles into the pit.

This day will pass in a haze of vodka,

the smell of shit,

black powder smoke

and a parade of faces.

I do not dream often and when I do

it is of resurrection,

of some other life discovering

the remains of our industry.

The broken skulls mineralised,

each deformed lead pellet a semi-precious stone.

Mismatched bodies, rebuilt from the surviving bones

will people a museum gallery.

I would be interested to know what you make of it. Thanks to Juncture 25 for their constructive feedback on the poems layout. On a lighter note here's Anna Terheim [and friends] singing an alternate version of Summer Rain.

THE BLESSING of IDENTITY

Two poems this post. One gives the title and the other was sparked by a memory. I have been painting my sitting room this week, as I worked this poem formed.

Our Front Door in 1974 was Purple

My mother liked her wallpaper.

Big, bold, complex patterns,

that repeated across the walls

confounding the swirling colours of the carpets.

They were busy rooms where people

smoked, drank sweet tea, commented on the neighbours.

My father could paper a ceiling,

an arcane art that died with him.

I paint the rooms I live in,

bold colours to be sure,

but calm in compared to my childhood.

The front door of our house was a deep purple in 1974, however I cannot find any photographs of it. Perhaps in a later post. This is a straight forward piece of work. I attempted to chart the changes in style but on reflection thought it weakened the poem. 

This next follows on from the last post, in fact, it was started before The Word for Wolf but I was unhappy with it. I think it works now. Your opinions would be welcome.

Words

No one has the complete works,

but piecemeal pickings to fill their magpie bags.

This works for me now.

Technical and emotional workhorse words speed understanding.

Some combinations replay my Mother's voice in my ears as I speak,

other times there are never quite enough though

I rummage through my cupboard I fail to nail the thought.

Over there, beyond comprehension are other things,

experiences I cannot begin to fathom,

they are lined up to receive the blessing of identity.

I envy people who can sustain the thread of a poem until it fills the page. I have rarely been able to do so. I often think if I had been an artist I would have painted miniatures.

I am leaving you with some Soca from the 1980's. Scrunter singing She Want Me to Sing in She Party. The reason for this selection is that I had my i-pod on shuffle as I painted and this came on, so I listened to it twice.

THE WORD for WOLF

The poem in this post came from the title which popped into my head last Saturday. The poem itself  took a little perseverance and I have to  thank the Secret Poets for their very helpful input. 

Here is draft number 64:

The Word for Wolf

It is the time to be given names.

The word for wolf has still to be spoken,

and for that, the as yet unnamed creature, is relieved.

In this moment it can be taken for what it is:

sleek; fleet of foot; strong of limb; wise of eye.

So far it has not been linked to acts of violence,

or to the degree of hunger a human might experience.

Fairy tales that hinge on physical descriptions have not been thought of.

There are no allusions to being dressed in the clothes of another.

All such metaphors wait to be uttered into existence.

This will change.

Look, lips shape the sound of the naming.

I didn't have any photographs of wolves to hand so you will have to make do with one of my cat. Not much resemblance I'm afraid.

I have been revising the poem I presented last week. Here is the latest version:

Grace and Danger

blues for the fisherman

Your private life is tragic,

but you've only got yourself to blame.

The drink and the drugs don't help,

save to amplify every bad thought.

Anyway, here you are,

the latest stop on a perpetual tour,

to advertise a record which isn't doing very much.

Then I walk up and in my innocence tell you

that on the back cover of a seven year old lp,

you and your wife look blessed.

What did I know?

You said nothing, your eyes told a story

I would decipher as I grew older.

She'd had enough of you, thrown you out, and

in your head you are writing the break up album.

Here, in Liverpool, someone is envying your life.

Again thanks to the Secret Poets and Juncture 25 for their feedback. very useful.

I am leaving you with a video by the Foreign Slippers.

WHAT DID I KNOW?

I seem to be on an autobiographical trajectory at the moment. This week's poem describes a conversation I had back in 1978.
You need a little background if you are not familiar with the work of John Martyn, a singer/songwriter who made his first album in 1968. He was a phenomenal guitarist and a big live draw, this popularity, though, was never translated into chart success. 

In 1970 he was hired to play on a proposed solo album by Beverly Kutner. They married and the album, Stormbringer! was credited to John and Beverley Martyn. It is an excellent record. After a nearly as good second album John returned to playing solo.

In 1977 Island Records released One World, an attempt to introduce John Martyn to a wider audience, though critically praised, it did not achieve the desired break through. By this point their marriage was also in difficulty. It was around that time that they separated. I my opinion One World was the last of the truly great records that he would release. 
I used to see him live every chance I got, catching him as many as four times on the same tour.

John Martyn's Blues

Your private life is tragic,

but you've only got yourself to blame,

the drink and the drugs don't help,

save to amplify every negative thought.

Anyway, here you are,

the latest stop on a perpetual tour,

to advertise a record which isn't doing very much.

Then I walk up and in my innocence tell you

that on the back cover of a seven year old lp,

you and your wife look blessed.

You say nothing, your eyes tell a story

I would decipher as I grew older.

What did I know,

or rather what would I discover later?

She's had enough of you, thrown you out,

in your head you are writing the break up album.

Here, in Liverpool, someone is envying your life.

That's it.

Here he is live from 1978. Enjoy

PHOTOGRAPHS and MEMORIES 6

 I've got carried away with the special effects on my camera phone as you can see. I like these photos though you are going to have to ask if you want to know where they were taken.