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.

A CERTAIN HUNGER

A couple of Saturdays ago I was once again judging the poetry/creative writing competition at Winscombe Michaelmas Fair, as I have for the past seven years or so. Paul Mortimer gave me hand this time, thanks Paul.
As we stood admiring the jam sponges we got to talking about how they are selected. Neither of us knowing anything about the judging of cakes. So we decided that this would be a good subject to write a poem about.
I spent part of the afternoon writing a list of words and phrases which I thought might make it into the poem or at least be a starting point.

The next day I wrote this:

The Song of the Sponge Cake Judge

This morning I ate no breakfast

for the task requires a certain hunger

and must be approached with respect.

Half can be discarded on first glance,

for perfection is exacting.

Never forget this is science not art.

Television has a lot to answer for,

it creates lazy illusions.

If it were that easy,

everyone could do it.

The list of words gave me the voice for the character. I wanted someone who did not subscribe to the idea that cookery is art.
I think the poem could be about there, but it will go away for a couple of months now.
Here is Sufyan Stevens.

I think Carrie and Lowell is a stunning lp.
Until next time.

CHARM

I awoke the other morning with the idea for this post's poem half formed in my head. It was a memory from childhood.
The second stanza wrote itself as I played about with the idea.

Matter of factly

my mother wraps a strip of bacon around my finger.

Just enough raw meat to encircle,

instructs me to will the wart away,

to hold the flesh to my skin

for the required number of minutes.

Invokes an ancient charm,

as her mother had before.

Time unfolds, slow, fast.

Then I am directed to hang the bacon

on a bush in the yard.

On waking this morning,

for the first time in who knows how long,

that memory returned.

It has no follow up,

no proof of efficacy,

but there is no wart on my finger.

I checked, just now.

I just looked up wart charms and discovered it is quite a common superstition.
As I say I have no memory of the charm working. 
Here is Leonard Cohen.

Until next time.

LATE FOR WORK

Here is a memory transformed into a poem.
The story is true.
I just want to clarify a couple of points beforehand.
Bagging room is slang for the tea room. The place where you have your tea and lunch breaks in the factory. It is either Widnesian or Runcornian slang and very specific to a small area of the North West.
Franz Fanon was involved in the Algerian War for Independence. He wrote The Wretched of The Earth, which explores the dehumanising effects of colonisation and offers a path forward for post colonial countries and people.
Marcus Garvey promoted pan-African unity and founded the UNIA-ACL.

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, a little man,

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.

It is a very loud sound,

turns, walks away

and I am left sat there shamed.

By the end of that decade,

he will have emigrated to South Africa,

claiming that Britain is done for.

That he wants to taste the good life

and bring up his kids somewhere with a future.

I, meanwhile, will be an undergraduate,

reading Franz Fanon and Marcus Garvey.

The poem came pretty much as it is. I have been revising it all week.
Here's the wondrous Ryley Walker with a new song.

THE SIGNIFICANCE of DRAGONS

I've been toying with an idea for some time now. It began with the title and I have been considering what it means.
This is a very rough draft.

The Significance of Dragons

is woven into our RNA

a souvenir of our oppression

before the liberating asteroid

provoked alternatives

that led old men to decide

who was to be sacrificed

was carved into the prow

of every longship

spreading terror

has shaped this land

sculptured its contours

over long centuries

so give thanks

so give praise

I am sure there is more to say, but this will do for the moment.
I saw Ryley Walker last Saturday. He was wondrous. Here is a video of Roundabout from the gig.

Try to catch him live. He is incredible.