AND NOW YOU ARE GONE

A revised poem this post. thanks to Paul Mortimer for his observations on how the poem should look on the page. You can read the first draft here.

Closure

At first I thought you slept,

lost in the self-profiling bed,

amid the necessary machinery

that crowds your room these days.

Can't say how I knew,

something kinetic had gone,

slipped away in that last sigh,

the one I missed, stuck in traffic.

We wait for the duty nurse to sign you off.

Mourning begins,

as if everyday we had not wished you

to be at peace.

And now you are gone,

leaving the four of us

with our individual beliefs of what comes after.

I don't want to talk about the origins of this poem.
I do however want to thank all of you for visiting this blog since it began in May 2011. 
I looked at the stats the other day and was delighted to discover that over 500,000 people have visited the site since then.
Thank you all.

I leave you this week with Laura Marling singing Wild Fire.

Until next time.

FAST CAR, FULL STOP

 A poem from my imagination this post. I was writing without reflecting. The aim being to fill two sides of paper with a stream of consciousness. The poem arose from this exercise.

Fast car, full stop,

rubber on the road.

Too late hands shake

as adrenalin kicks in,

and you are left with thoughts

of what might have been.

Elsewhere it happened.

There you are dealing with the consequences.

Further along the other way

there was no emergency stop,

no man in a red care telling you

to get your eyes tested and more besides.

You sense all of this,

just as fleetingly it is gone.

Slowly the chemicals in your bloodstream disperse.

If every poem is a unique work then this particular poem mines a familiar seam for me. I have been fascinated by the concept of a multiverse since I read about it in science fiction back in the 1960s.
I have been listening to Kathryn Williams this week. Her last record Greatest Hits, Songs From The Novel. Some friends had sent me a copy of Crown Electric and that had prompted me to buy the new lp when I was in Totnes recently.
Here she is with Laura Barnett taking about their collaboration.

Here she is singing Heart Shaped Stone.

Until next time.

EVERY WAKING DAY

Today's poem arose out of a couple of lines in a Mountain Goats song:

Like someone who's found a small town to escape to
Keeps one eye on his abandoned, former self.

The song is Spent Gladiator 2.
I was thinking what it must be like to be that person. I immediately thought witness protection and it grew from that.

he walks around his car

eyes search for small changes

find none

he drives the dawn streets

to black coffee in a white mug

comforting warmth in chilled hands

this is the only habit he salvaged

from the car crash of his first life

when faced with that choice

he traded loyalty for freedom

and ponders the decision

every waking day and into each night

This is a work in progress. I was imagining you would have to change your habits completely to reduce the possibility of detection. I wondered if you would either be haunted by the deal you had to make or never think of it.
It seems appropriate to leave you with The Mountain Goats.

Until next time.

THE UNACKNOWLEDGED

Strangely the "thousands of pounds", by which my MP claims her constituents are better off under the draconian austerity of the Conservative government, has to arrive at my house...

Keen readers will know of my love for Catalunya and the Iberian Peninsula in general. Here are some other Barcelona inspired poems. 
Today's poem [title-less yet again] mentions The Cafe Zurich, a well known meeting spot and place to watch the world go by.

I'm in the Café Zurich, under the famous clock,

through the windows Barcelona is a festival of brollies

beneath in the February sleet.

The constant rush hour of Plaça de Catalunya

is hardly dented by the fleeting winter weather.

In liminal spaces, the unacknowledged

sell cheap umbrellas to people racing time.

When I was last here in June

the trade was in fake handbags and sunglasses,

laid on a cloth that could be bundled up

if the Guarda Civil walked by.

Each season has its own crop.

You arrive, we kiss, and step outside,

just two stories among many.

As I am writing about Catalunya I have to comment on the high handed manner in which Madrid has dealt with the Catalans. I fear that if Catalunya gained independence they would be in the same limbo as the UK is over Brexit. But come on Madrid! You can't just lock up the whole of the elected government!

Here is Ana Brun from her new LP of covers.

Until next time.

A COMFORTING DISTANCE

Two posts ago I wrote about the death throws of Neoliberalism. It would seem that my MP does not agree. Last week she stated in Parliament that the people of her constituency [that's me and mine] are "thousands of pounds" better off under the Conservatives. My own experience and that of my friends does not confirm this statement. Perhaps we are living in a mirror world, where everything happens the other way.
I do not usually reprint a poem but I am making an exception to celebrate the "thousands of pounds" by which I am better off.

Trophy

Afterwards I can track the switch,

exactly where one thing became another,

when suddenly compromised, I seemed to collude.

I picture myself on her website, my smile an endorsement,

a trophy of seized photo op.

She wears her ambition as if it were acceptable.

As I take umbrage, she says:

You don’t know anything about me.

This is both right and wrong.

I know the flag she drapes across her shoulders.

It is as blue as privilege and disdain.  

Apparently she has since claimed that she was highlighting how specific Budget policies are helping working people. 
Can't say they have affected me or mine yet...

Here is the poem I wanted to showcase this post.
It came out of nowhere and I've been revising it for some time now.

he is a big man

and fills the opened door

feel the air

moved by his mass

the argumentative lens of the camera

slung around his neck

points from his chest

slow footed across the public space

he spills on to the sofa

uncomfortable

unless his hands holds objects

he raises the camera

begins to look at the world through the tiny screen

a comforting distance

the stutter of the shutter

bounces round the room

Last night I saw Boo Hewerdine in Totnes. As usual he was superb. I am leaving you with Patience of Angels.

Until next time, unless of course I manage to discover the "thousands of pounds" by which I am apparently better off...

THE LOCKER ROOM of LOST POEMS

The idea for this post's poem came in a rush, along with the title. I find titles difficult at the best of times. It is a skill to balance the poem with a title that does not give the game away, or offer a false set of expectations.
Once I had the title/line I let the poem steep in the back of my head for a couple of days. Then I spent about two weeks refining/revising the language.

The Poem's Disdain for the Poet

Above the layers of dream that hang thick over the city,

above the strata of hope that curves convex into the troposphere,

lies the locker room of lost poems.

The one's that die between thought and pen,

those no poet could shepherd on to the page.

It's a bleak affair. Metal lockers,

those thin wooden benches, bolted to the vinyl tiles.

And what an atmosphere - lost anticipation spiked through with regret,

where they mumble, where they grumble.

Oh, the poems disdain for the poet

when she fails to make them fly,

when he gets their words down wrong.

For the promiscuous poet can always follow another set of clues,

while they are written off forever.

I excised a line near the end of the process that I really liked, although it was not a fair description: like a roomful of Pete Best's.
Never having met the man I thought it was too nasty to use. For those younger readers Pete Best was sacked from The Beatles on the eve of them signing to Parlaphone. 
Anna Ternheim has just released a new LP All The Way To Rio [in Sweden at least, it comes out in the UK on the 1st December]. I can't find any videos from it on You Tube so here's a live version of her first hit [in Sweden] Shoreline.

Until next time. I am off to listen to my Swedish copy.

HISTORY IS A WORD BANGLE

We are living in the death throws of Neo-Liberalism.
Austerity has been hitting the UK hard now for nearly ten years. I wonder as to the point of it? It is not as if the country were more solvent than it had been, it is not. The NHS is being slowly starved of funds and opened up to asset stripping vultures in the name of choice. The examples of Tory-misrule are all around us.
Today I read that 15,000 scientists in 184 different countries have signed a Warning to Humanity. We have to change our ways or face extinction.

 The poem this post is about how history is everywhere, ubiquitous yet ignored.
England's Glory was a brand of matches when I was a child. I've actually just done a search and discovered they still exist!

England's Glory

Clock back Sunday morning,

it could be bin day, but it's not,

Mafeking Terrace in the rain,

the silvered pavement a foxed mirror.

Walk down Sabastapol

across Inkerman.

Flashcards for past lives

and history is a word bangle

these streets wear blind.

There was a second stanza but it didn't add anything to the whole.
Here's the first few lines.

The recruiting drum is silent,

the yellowed skin hangs slack,

we no longer follow the flag my boys.

We are individuals isolated by our differences

The danger for me is that I can become determined to make it work then you have to cut your losses.
I have been listening to some old African pop music this last couple of days including an old lp by Devera Ngwena Jazz band. After my depressing post here's something to dance to.

Until next time.

CONFLICTING CURRENTS

This poem wrote itself very quickly. I've no idea where it came from. Sometimes poems spring forth from the subconscious almost complete.
I've reworked it a number of times, but it was essentially whole when it arrived.

Realisation

Imagine the blank page as a quagmire.

Conflicting currents of quick sand

lie beneath the smooth white surface,

over which you must lay word after word.
The right ones for this poem will snap into place.

There is a temporary refuge in such words

[and let's face it you do like order,

the comfort of a sheaf of sorted poems,

firm in your hand when you stand to read],

not this pit of snake letters,

that writhes in your cupped hands.

And has led you into this swamp.

Whatever. You are here now,

so wizard word your way to solid ground.

Writing about the act of creation is nothing new, though every time we create it is different. I suppose it's like that old saying that you can never walk into the same river twice.
Thanks to Paul Mortimer for his constructive feedback in putting on a final sheen.
Here's The Nits from a long time ago.

Until next time.

ARTHRITIC QUESTION MARKS

I was listening to the weather forecast getting it wrong the other Saturday which led to this.

Last Saturday

The weather forecast bullied them into carrying umbrellas,

arthritic question marks they waved at the blue sky,

while muttering that it is better to be safe than sorry,

17% of which will be forgotten on trams and in bookshops.

A typical Saturday really.

Discussions with Paul Mortimer concerning amoeba led me to revise this poem.

A Small Step for a Man

As usual the Americans were busy,

semi-secretly murdering monkeys,

no say, one way passengers,

locked into war surplus V2 rockets.

It kept the newly naturalised Nazis happy,

hidden out of the way at White Sands, Arizona.

Still the Soviets top trumped them,

proudly sending a stray dog into space to die.

There was no stopping either of them after that.

It was like Noah's Ark in reverse.

How many animals could they send to their deaths?

So let's not forget the monkeys,

the rabbit, the rats, all the fruit flies

and not forgetting forgetting the amoeba,

who came to realise

that a small step was a step too far.

Here's the Mountain Goats with one of my favourite tracks off Goths.

Until next time.

SOMETHING KINETIC

No preamble today. Straight into the poem.

Closure

At first I thought you slept,

lost in the self-profiling bed,

amid the necessary machinery

that crowds your room these days.

I can't say how I knew,

something kinetic had gone,

slipped away in that last sigh,

the one I missed, stuck in traffic.

We wait for the duty nurse to sign you off.

Mourning begins,

as if everyday we had not wished

you to be at peace

and now you are gone,

leaving the four of us

with our individual beliefs of what comes after.

Here's REM with Half a World Away from BBC Two's Late Show.

Until next time.

TOP TRUMPED

I've mentioned the Operation Paperclip before. It was a top secret strategy to bring into the USA and the UK useful Nazi scientists of dubious virtue. Among those so sanitised were Wernher von Braun and his V2 rocket engineers. The fact that they had used slave labour to build the V2 was glossed over.
Once in America they were sent to White Sands. The OSE was simply relieved that the Soviets had not managed to capture them.
They spent the end of the 1940s testing V2 rockets with monkeys locked inside them. The Soviets were doing similar things.
Neil Armstrong, when he first set foot on the moon, said it was a small step for a man.
This weeks poem is about of all this.

A Small Step for a Man

As usual the Americans were busy,

semi-secretly murdering monkeys,

no say, one way passengers,

locked into war surplus V2 rockets.

It kept the newly naturalised Nazis happy,

hidden out of the way at White Sands, Arizona.

Still the Soviets top trumped them,

proudly sending a stray dog into space to die.

There was no stopping either of them after that.

It was like Noah's Ark in reverse.

How many animals could they send to their deaths?

So let's not forget the monkeys,

the rabbit, the rats, all the fruit flies

and the amoeba,

who came to realise

that small step was far too steep.

I have been working on this poem for some time. It has benefited from being left in a drawer for a couple of months. When I came to look at it again I could see the flaws.

The photographs were taken at a reclamation yard in Somerset that used to have an old missile amongst its stock.
Here is the wondrous Annabelle Chvostek. Any chance of a tour of the UK?

Until next time.

BLUES TO GREYS

I wrote today's poem over the course of a day, returning to add and alter lines as the day unfolded. 
The inspiration came from being stopped by a traffic accident. As I reflected on the time I spent in the traffic queue looking out of the window I made my thoughts into this poem.

Night slips into dawn,

Russian blues to greys.

Each brake light neon red,

a stilled steel wave

stopped on the crest of the hill.

Most solo driven,

lonely bubbles of plastic and glass,

whose digital clocks countdown

until, at some point, we move,

to crawl past the cones.

I try not to see the trembling woman

but glimpse her new complication,

a wrecked car,

yellow metal skin ripped open.

In two seconds I have passed by.

The day is light,

the open road leads me

back into the details of my life.

As usual there is no title. Perhaps I should be one of those poets who simply number their work. It would be easier.
I am not sure if it is complete. I intend to put it away for a couple of weeks then see what it looks like.
Here is 13 minutes of superb music from Brooke Sharkey.

Until next time.

SUNDAY BEFORE THE ELECTION

I've been working on this post's poem for some time. Ever since the election in fact. Again it's based on real life experiences.
I just want to say that I really respect the people who work as care staff. Without their committed, conscientious and kind work this country would grind to a halt. They deserve to be recognised and paid a decent wage for the long, unsocial hours they are expected to work. This poem is not about those people.

Sunday Before the Election

I need the toilet

is how you greet me

two staff take you

the other inmates stare

thousand yard - no one at home stares

at the screen which dominates the day room

with its Songs of Praise rerun

you return

sit

I need the toilet

Are you sure? You've just been

staff cover annoyance

sigh

take you

the hymns continue

you return

sit

I need the toilet

You've just been I saw with my own eyes

I need the toilet

I ask the staff

apologise

somehow the tv has changed to rolling 24 hour news

Theresa May is telling me I need to tighten my belt

you return

two minutes sitting

with me trying to tell you about the family and

I need the toilet

they take you again

mouths flat lines

I watch the screen

you return

and tell me you need to go to the toilet

I have run out of words to talk at you

I have run out of any stray detail of my life

or of my children's lives

that could possibly hook you

and draw you back to us

from the screen Theresa points her finger

I kiss your head

and leave

I have been listening to Tanita Tikaram again this week. 
Here she is with probably her most famous song.

Until next time.

A THICK, PINK WINDOW

Thanks must go to the Secret Poets for their help with revising this poem. 
You can read the original here.
I was unhappy with the final line and when we were discussing the poem as a whole Fanon's book The Wretched of The Earth nominated itself as a better ending.
Thanks chaps.

TURN of THE COAT

I'm late for work, but it doesn't matter

as it's the early 70's

and I'm a member of the labour aristocracy,

top of the pile, an indentured tradesman.

So I stop at the paper shop,

and on a whim, buy the Financial Times.

A thick, pink window on an alien world.

Tea break, in the baggin' room,

the shop steward,

full to the brim with us and them,

tells me:

This is not our paper,

this is for them with the money.

Why are you, a working man,

buying the bosses paper?

Curiosity, I reply.

Just looking beyond the tools

at how other people live.

He shakes his head, tuts.

A very public sound

-turns, walks away.

By the end of that decade,

he will have emigrated to South Africa,

claiming that Britain is done for.

He wants to taste the good life,

to bring up his kids somewhere with a future.

I will be an undergraduate,

reading The Wretched of The Earth. 

Those of you who follow this blog will know of my championing of Ryley Walker.
Here is a short film about him.

Here he is live.

Until next time.