This Solstice has set me thinking about the cycle of life and death. I think some part of us returns to the earth after we die, clad in a different form, to learn more of life. This post's poem is about that process and it recycles a line from a poem that did not work. I always keep those lines that seem powerful, that have a good image or that are simply too good to loose. I was in a car on the motorway, thankfully not driving, when the idea came to me. As usual I am not certain that it is in its finished form but here it is.
As
a murmuration of starlings swirls at sunset,
turning
in the reddening evening air,
so
shall we gather again at the cessation of this cycle,
to
regroup and refresh in that timeless space,
before
we return for one more round of carbon life and love.
Was
it not ever so?
Give
thanks
I leave you with a 1979 video of Leonard Cohen singing So Long Marianne.
Greetings this Winter Solstice. How has your day been? I was up at 5am and driving to Avebury, in Wiltshire, the largest stone circle in Europe. These past few solstices I have been to Glastonbury and Stonehenge but this year I felt I had to return to Avebury.
There was quite a lot of low cloud but when the sun rose it was wonderful. For me there is something special in the Winter Solstice, it feels like the start of the year.
Bazooka Joe was a type of bubble gum when I was young. Last night I ran a workshop and this is what came out of it.
Bazooka Joe
the
summer stretched out on long June evenings longer than pink bubble
gum drawn between finger and thumb and I was unable to imagine the
number of Monday's to come before school reduced the time to forty
five minute segments and the night would last longer than the day
The workshop was a repeat of the one I had attended the other week. This time it led me to think about my teenage years. That heady sense of the endless summer. I also produced this.
A
Series of Movements
My
hand writing
mother's
signature
D.
Tobin [Mrs].
The
walk to the sports field,
having
to stand on the touch line,
a
forged sick note went only so far.
Pass,
tackle and try.
Knowing
the P.E. teacher
had
given up on me.
I do not like sport even now. When I was at school I would forge notes to avoid playing. Neither piece is finished but I think they stand as they are. Thanks to Paul Mortimer for helping to pull them into shape.
I have just received the new Anna Ternheim live lp and am off to listen to it.
To carry a torch for someone is an old slang phrase for having unrequited feelings for another. It's a phrase I haven't heard for years but it came into my head recently and prompted this.
He carried a torch for me
far
longer than was healthy.
I
knew this by the cards,
and
the telephones pleading cry in the night
that
I stopped giving answer to.
Forty
years would pass before I watched
his
father cross Bold Street,
and
I saw the man he had grown into.
I
did not rush outside,
nor
did I think of him again.
He
carried the torch.
Seated
in the anonymous window
of
a nameless tea-house,
I
hid beneath a sun
that
sucked the light from his hand.
Bold Street is in Liverpool. I imaged the narrator sat in one of the tea houses there suddenly seeing a person from her past walk by. this is only the first draft- watch this space. I was listening to Serafina Steer today. Here's a live video.
Vidar Norheim is a multi-instrumentalist, singer song writer. He first came to my attention through his work with Lizzie Nunnery, he produced her two albums, arranging and playing on both. Live he was a sensitive and skilled professional who enabled Lizzie to concentrate on communicating with her audience. I'm going to cut to the chase here [and leave you to follow the link to his band Wave Machines], Vidar has just released his first ep and it is as good as you would expect from such a consummate musician. It sounds like nothing else around at the moment, melodic, organic and with a great delicacy, a lightness of touch to it that simply draws you in. Just what you would expect from a musician named Norway's most promising song writing talent in 2011. Every note on this ep feels like it has been placed in the correct position, it sounds so natural, it's a joy on the ear.
First up on the ep is the title track, Blind Carbon Copy which is a sublime piece of synth pop. Lizzie Nunnery provides an intriguing set of lyrics that add to the tension as the song unfolds. It is a lovely track and Vidar's accomplished vocals are perfect. Sirens is another piece of sophisticated pop that should be coming out of every speaker in the land. Vidar has produced a perfect synthesis of lyrics and music. 10 More Miles is an interesting love song with lyrics by Lizzie. Crystalised too is a lovely song.
What my poor descriptions of these four songs have not described is the quality of musicianship and the luscious soundscape that Vidar has created single handed. This guy has chops to spare. This ep is a triumph and ends with a brief instrumental that just perfect. Blind Carbon Copy is that rare artifract, a perfect piece of art. Thank you Vidar.
It's been a great end of year for releases by independent artists, already we have had Brooke Sharkey's superb second album, then there's Vidar Norheim's ep to come next week and hot off the press is the wondrous debut ep by Somerset's premier surf band Palooka 5! The 4 tracks on this beautifully packed ep are fabulous. Palooka 5 leap from the speakers, firing on all six and you have to dance. They take no prisoners. The ep kicks off with La Mancha a superb piece of surf music. The pace does not let up and we are straight into Little Frathouse, a great dance tune, that is followed by Dropzone, which could be the theme tune to a 60's crime show. Then we are presented with the kinetic beauty of Cindy joined a Surf Gang.
Lyrically Cindy sees the band narrating the rock and roll epiphany of said Cindy. This is prime stuff in deed, every home should have a copy.
Musically Palooka 5 don't put a foot wrong. The guitar magic of T. G. Baigent channels the spirit of Dwayne Eddy and Dick Dale and quite frankly guitar licks doesn't get any better than this guy. The organ of A.J. McCallum is quite simply stunning, harking back to the glory days of garage rock but still managing to sound like no one else. All this is held together by the rock solid, on the beat drumming of the great S. P. Bide. The ghost of Ed Cassidy is sitting on his shoulder- yes, he's that good. Also rock solid is the dynamic bass guitar of H. P. Banes. The drums and bass are so tightly meshed you'll believe in telepathic communication. Rounding off this triumvirate is the soulful vocals of B. E. Baigent.
Music doesn't get much better than this. These are the best live band in Somerset.
Famous people become commodities when they die. Their discourse, their story so to speak, can be shaped to suit the ends of others. Look at how John Lennon has been shaped, or Bob Marley, or any of a hundred others. This has been especially true of poets, whose stock can rise or fall according to the needs of the current age. You only have to visit Stratford Upon Avon to experience the full flowering of the heritage industries. It was thoughts like this that led to this post's poem.
Poets are better when they're dead.
Personal
life picked over
for
proof of something or other.
Private
papers pillaged, not burned,
to
provide the evidence
for
opposing intellectual arguments.
A
dead poet is a commodity,
clay
to be shaped by critics fingers.
A
really good one can sustain an industry:
biographers,
academics, guide books, guides,
taxi
drivers [who picked the poet up regular like]
and
houses bought for a grateful nation.
Then
simplistic television,
built
around the available footage,
that
somehow misses the point.
Yet
within the clamour,
if
you are patient enough,
the
poet's words will retain their truth.
I think that we are in danger of losing sight of the real treasure, the beauty of the individual's creation and our relationship to it. This week I've been listening to lots of Anna Ternheim while I wait for her new live album to arrive. Here's some live songs recorded in Paris. When will she play the UK?
I was fortunate to attend a writing workshop with Harry Parker this week. It was excellent and I would recommend his book Anatomy of a Soldier. It is beautifully written and thought provoking. One of the exercises based around memories prompted this. I remember mercury puddles on the mezzanine, mirrored, like water with attitude, that ran down a slope faster than a raindrop, splitting into hundreds of molten ball bearings that left a smear on the metal plates.
I've been revising this poem. You can read the first draft here.
it was one of those days
an
i'm living in a novel type of day
that
brought the realisation
he
was a minor character
whose
only function
was
to be bumped off
by
a more interesting protagonist
an
act that would illuminate
a
particular facet of his killer's personality
such
days are not good
his
head rests on the cold window pane
it
is 4:13am not yet light
he
will wander through today's chapter
carrying
a sharp sliver of sleeplessness
Essentially I've changed the layout, I was not happy with the one long line. I think this version allows the poem to breathe and it is easier on the eye of the reader. Tomorrow sees the launch of Palooka 5's first ep. I leave you with them playing La Mancha. They have to be one of the best live bands around at the minute.
From the opening track Your Tomorrow you can tell this is a special album. The space, the soundscape and Brooke's peerless voice captivate. This is Brooke's second album and it is possibly the best thing I've heard this year. Lyrically Brooke continues to develop, we are presented with images that are enhanced by the music. There is a dream feeling to this album that spills over to the cover photograph.
There is a feel of the liminal, Brooke sings from the borderlands, the threshold of something other. She is: living out of boxes..holding both hands out for rain... There are no straight lines: Now I cannot seek you out Cos you still owe me that kiss On my peach lower lip In the morning you were gone And: I wanted to beat each and every boundary And dig the surface of eternity, But when I returned, I felt the cold Brooke has such an individual vision, the lyrics repay reflection. I am still unravelling the songs. The sound palette has broadened since One Dress. There is an organic feel to the arrangements, nothing present is not necessary, no note is superfluous. This is about as good as it gets.
Adam Beattie stands out for both his bass and guitar playing. Jez Houghton's French Horn is just perfect, and Brooke sings like no one else you've ever heard, slipping effortlessly between English and French. You can buy the CD here, and this is the link to Brooke's website. If you only buy one CD this year let it be this one, you will not be disappointed. Here, to whet your appetite, is Brooke and Adam.
I was depressed to read yesterday that here in the UK universities employ up to three quarters of their teaching staff on zero hour contracts. Organisations using such shoddy strategies should be ashamed of themselves but in this present state of affairs they appear to regard it as a good business model. It is not. Humans deserve better. Since the crisis of 2008 employers are expecting their staff to do more work for less money. Trans National Corporations pay pitifully little tax and contribute even less to the common good. Such a situation is not sustainable. This poem was forming in my head before I read the latest shameful statics.
SHAVING TIME
Today,
as every other,
it's
the 6:30 am hurtle,
50
in the 30 zone.
Zero
contracted,
a
quart of tasks pours
into
his pintpot of hours
He
juggles rent and food,
fuel
and debit,
hand
to mouth.
There
is no trickle down,
there
is no end,
it
will get worse.
Bleak, is it not? But bleaker still is an article in Science that reports a study into the 94 ecological processes that are the basis of healthy marine, freshwater and terrestrial ecosystems. Unfortunately 80% are already showing signs of distress and response to climate change. You can read about it for yourself here. We appear incapable of treating members of our own species fairly let alone of curtailing our destructive behaviours. There will be a price to pay for our actions.
he swapped his wife for the radio
by
acrimony not by choice
and
here he is in the night
twisting
in memory soaked sheets
balancing
recrimination
against
sleep
the
pressure of the night
compress
the voice on the World Service
dream
switch
to
a grandstand view
of
his hopes falling at the first hurdle
then
dead horse heavy
he
is trapped beneath
it
will take years to get free
I have revised this poem. You can read the first draft here. Discussing it with the Secret Poets led me led me to expand the middle stanza. Hopefully this makes it clearer.
Bob Marley came to mind as I wrote this post. The lines: think your in heaven, when your living in hell seem to me to sum up the perspective of those with the power.
I was as surprised as anyone to hear that Leonard Cohen had died. I never met the man but I owed him a great deal. I was 12 or 13 when I first heard him. The second album had just come out and I was sold. The lyrics, the music and the implied lifestyle seemed so attractive. I made the decision that I too would be a poet. I have never looked back. He was inspirational in many ways. The dedication to his art; his willingness to spend years distilling a piece into perfection; his celebration of God; his humour and humanity. Leonard was always never less than excellent live and at times he was transcendent.The 1979 tour and the first 2 performances of his comeback in 2008 in Manchester spring to mind. I would like to extend my condolences to his children Adam and Lorca. Our thoughts are with them at this time. Thank you Leonard. You will be greatly missed.
Here's a poem that I have tried on more than one occasion to make work. I was too close to see that I was attempting to do too many things in the one long poem. The mixed messages confused and cluttered. This is the latest attempt:
He is hovering the architectural model, in cramped space, stooped, the vacuum on his back a sleek black jet pack. There's me with new eyes, seeing this for the first time, wanting to be in that building, looking down as the nozzle sucks dust from the green baize grass. I'd think the Kraken has woken to steal the globe from us.
Then I'd wander through those gardens in the strange settled silence of a world swept clean.
I thought I saw an old friends face in a glass door the other day. It was only magical thinking. It led me to write this:
a cosmic ray a magic thought
in the glass a face is caught
double take my mistake
their uniqueness reasserts
It isn't anything special but I believe we must keep our poetry chops in order by writing. In a way it doesn't matter what you are writing - write then sift through it, search for the leads, the potential gems among the dreck.
Here's another example. I lent a friend a Brian Patten collection, Armada, the other day. As he opened it an old photograph so discoloured it resembled a negative fell out. I have no idea who the people are. It was amongst my grandmother's possessions and my sister cannot identify the men in the photograph, I am destined never to know. Reflecting on the event I wrote this.
it slips from the book cellulose acetate a blackening ghost this paper negative cut loose from all context dimly shows two men in sailor suits who smile and pose
I am left with questions for people who are dead
Here's Brooke Sharkey. She was wondrous last Friday night. You can get her new album here. Next post is a review of it.
Here is a poem that arose from the first line, it snaked around my skull for a week or so before gracing the page. At the moment that seems to be how I write, thoughts before ink so to speak. I used to write everything down immediately. I don't think one way is superior to the other, the main thing is to acknowledge the idea. The second half of the poem came later and I am not sure that it is clear. It took a couple of drafts to arrive at the layout. I think the spacing adds to the effect.
he swapped his wife for the radio
by
acrimony not by choice
disillusion,
breakdown, loss
and
here he is in the night
twisting
in memory soaked sheets
balancing
sleeplessness against recrimination
the
pressure of the night compresses the World Service
dream
switch
to
a grandstand view
of
his hopes falling at the first hurdle
then
dead horse heavy
he
is trapped beneath
it
will take years to get free
I have just received the new cd by Brooke Sharkey and I am off to see her tonight in Totnes. It is truly excellent and I shall be reviewing it next week. She just gets better and better,
A couple of hours after I'd sketched out this post's poem I read an article which described how a number of people believe that our reality is a simulation created by others, presumably future humans. It sort of fits with this poem.
it was one of those days
an
i'm living in a novel type of day
that
brought the realisation he was a minor character whose only function
was to be bumped off by a more interesting protagonist an act that
will illuminate a particular facet of his killer's personality
such
days are not good
his
head rests on the cold window pane
it
is 4:13am not yet light
he
will wander through today's chapter carrying a sharp sliver of
sleeplessness
I have no idea if those people are correct and to be honest I do not care. I think the myths we tell each other about the world we live in mirror our technological development. Let's just give thanks and praises for being here.
To that end I leave you with one of my favourite singers Martha Tilston. She's touring at the moment.
An unusual poem this post. I shall leave you to read it for yourselves.
For
Ollie
In
the morning there was loss.
He
had hoped it would be different,
that
the luminous green coral
which had formed baroque knots
on
his ceiling the night before,
would
still be there... It was not. The
scales had fallen on to his eyes once more.
The
shamanic pattern that had overlaid his vision
and
granted him glimpses of a truth
so
much older than human time had fled.
There
had been communion then,
there
would be again.
I think we are all connected by the land we live on to the changing season's, but we have forgotten to listen as they ancestors once listened. This inability to hear has taken us out of step with the land. Here is a very rare video of Jaki Whitren from 1973. This was a small hit. I had the LP. She only made the one. What a voice!
Sometimes poems write themselves. Sometimes I do not know where the ideas come from. Sometimes they arrive almost fully formed. This is the case with this weeks poems. They were written on successive days. I have no idea where my head was, nor what sparked their genesis.
When she was older
their
marriage over
the
children a pawn
in
their ongoing game.
She
would tell her lovers
how
she had spent her
twenties
middle aged
building
her dream house.
Never
brick by brick
those
skills were bought in
plumbers
and plasterers
as
need dictated.
Her
husband to be
owned
a spit of good land
so
visions filled her head
of
a beautiful house.
As
if geography
could
grant them happiness.
The
tradesmen built well
for
that was their skill
the
walls straight and true.
The
opposite of the life
lived
within them.
She
would hurry home late
checked
her phone to leave no trace
he
would work and drink
occasionally
unfaithful.
Life
accrued around them.
One
day in her thirties
she
claimed she saw with new eyes
walked
out, took the children
he
had to sell the house
to
cover costs and her demands
on
his last night there
amid
all the packing cases
he
taunted himself
with
alternate endings.
He
left the key with
the
estate agent
then
drove away
his
life packed in his car.
It seemed to me that my main function with this poem was to sort out line lengths. I am not sure if it is complete. I suspect that it nearly is. The next day this arrived.
To Make Matters Worse
She
announced that this was typical of him,
a
behaviour to be expected at such a time,
one
that placed him at the centre.
He
had never opened his mouth,
and
so remained silent,
chalked
the day up in the column
Reasons
to leave her.
She
had no idea she had been weighed and found wanting again.
I think the phrase "weighed and found wanting" surfaced, quickly followed by the kernel of the poem. It does not happen like that often. It is not long until the launch of Brooke Sharkey's new album so here's a couple of live videos to whet your appetite.
This is a video of a house concert. Sterling stuff. She's playing London's Jazz Cafe on the 27 October and St. John's Church in Totnes 28th October. I'll see you there.
Here is a revised poem. You can read the last draft here.
Taking the Tow Path from the Allotment
Just
before the main road crosses over,
on
a day so still,
the
canal could be a ribbon window on a submerged world,
I
see a tent upside down, under the water,
all
taut with tensioned poles, slowly sliding by.
The
days after the flood must have been like this.
The
works of man obliterated,
less
debris each sunrise.
I
decide on a photograph,
reach
for my phone,
then
realise there is a man
camped
under the bridge,
sat
stock still in the chaos of his life,
and
I stop.
He
stares into the pellucid waters,
his
face tells his story,
and
I walk on,
past
the three people with the bottle of Lambrusco
and
little else,
back
into my own life.
The beginning is now, I feel, clearer. The second stanza has lost the last two lines which took the poem off in a different direction and the last stanza has been tided up. Thanks must again go to The Secret Poets for their invaluable assistance. On Wednesday evening Juncture 25 met for the first time in a while and Gram Davis facilitated a fascinating workshop out of which this poem came.
1976
How
do I get there?
And
where is there anyway?
I
am here.
This
is not the place I want to be.
[At
this point please note:
I
have no powers of reflection.]
His
situation is alien to me,
I
invent the reasons after I act.
I
know there are other ways to live
so
stop eating meat and start to drop acid
search
for a door to else where,
anywhere
but this northern industrial town.
I
know there cannot be an afterlife
but
I meditate twice a day
to
seek an enlightenment I would not recognise
if
it rang my front door bell.
There
is a way out, but not his path,
he
kept borrowing to pay what he owed until he ran away.
I
will leave under my own steam,
but
not just yet,
four
years will pass before I find my trajectory.
This is very much the first rough draft. In the workshop we were asked to think about a specific year and to answer a number of prompts. I have no idea why I chose 1976. I am refining the poem- watch this space. In view of this posts title I think a little Jackson Browne is called for. Here is Before The Deluge as performed by Moving Hearts from 1984.
I have to include a live clip of Christy Moore singing what has to be one of the most moving songs about political prisoners.
