I was at Finisterre in Spain a couple of weeks ago. My guide book informed me it was the western most point of Europe, so I walked to the lighthouse to see. I wrote this poem while I was looking at the scene.
the western most point of europe
for
some people once the end of the world but not today
three
coaches and sixty one cars
have
disgorged the crowd that I walk into
the
lighthouse is long since redundant
and
not as popular as the gift shop
people
clamber over the rocks
as
far west as they can go
brandish
selfie sticks
then
smile in the camera click
It can be interesting exercise to write what you see in a new environment. I have done it on a number of occasions, this being one of them. I shall put up another next week.
The graffiti on the left hand side of this monument made me laugh. I was listening to Midlake the other and realised that it is seven years this month since I saw them at End of The Road.
They are sorely missed, especially Tim Smith. Until next time.
I was in an airport last week flying to Madrid. Airports, these days, are non-smoking zones-thankfully. As I was sat having a drink my eye was caught by the furtive actions of a man at a nearby table. He was vaping from an e-cigarette. He inspired this poem.
In the Airport Bar
with
stealth he draws on the silver tube
suckles
the comforting vapour
his
furtive eyes alert me
to
his transgression
exhaling
is more problematic
a
shallow breath of steam
pity
and annoyance mingle in my head
I
keep my my addictions in line
iron
hand on their necks
for
now
People watching can be lead to some interesting poems. Here is a revision. Thanks to the Secret Poets for their constructive feedback.
Poem for C
Given
the economies
of
supermarket squash
and
the cheapest of vodkas,
it
had always been
how
much could he drink,
in
the shortest amount of time,
to
keep ahead of blacking out,
to
avoid the grey dawns
when
monochromatic migraine
immobilised
him in a space
where
he could do nothing
but
relive it all over again.
I
met him in the fragile truce of sobriety
he
called his jigsaw days.
He
placed his pieces
into
shapes that just might work,
into
patterns that had eluded him on the drink.
Some
events, he confided, never end,
so
you have to find different ways of getting on with it.
You can read the first version here. What has gone is the tongue twisting description of the hangover. Though to be honest I have read the poem at a number of events and I managed to deliver them without slipping up. But less is definitely more. If you can find a group or a person you trust to offer constructive feedback you work will improve immeasurably. I played Fairport Convention's second album recently, it's an old favourite, here's Book Song.
I am unsure about this post's poem. I suspect it may need more editing. However I feel that now is the time to unveil it. Conflicting perspectives. The poem arose from an exercise I set myself; to write about a once familiar room, to focus initially on the fabric of the room and let the centre be peopled as and when.
A familiar space.
Painted
polystyrene ceiling tiles,
the
unforgiving light from a fluorescent tube
that
emphasises the carpet’s swirling colours
forever
locked in a garish conversation
with
the bright, busy wallpaper.
These
days, this room
seems
to stoop, like you.
A
contraction that mirrors the years I have spent
living
with a
calm predictability
in
places where the walls merely whisper.
Every
time I enter this room
the
bulge in the floor is more pronounced
and
catching my eye, you always say
Whoever
lives here after me can mend it.
Sat
there watching reruns of cookery on tv
I
wonder if this is how a mountain begins,
those
first tentative probings before
the
fault line suddenly fractures in cathartic release
and
half of the house is either side
of
this new, stupendous great divide.
Perhaps
the carpet is pregnant, near full term,
about
to give birth to something
patterned
with swirls and flowers?
Then
again maybe not.
The
cookery programme unfolds,
an
enthusiastic presenter in a pretend kitchen.
I think it needs to go away for a time, distance may grant insight. I end this post with Anna Ternheim and Lars Winnerback singing Little Lies.
I recently read Peter Fankopan's History of The Silk Road. It was an interesting history book. One aside that caught my imagination concerned a European ambassador being sent to make a treaty with a Sultan and the presents brought possibly included a gift of dodos. This struck me as a really powerful image. Over a couple of weeks I produced this poem.
The Gift of Dodos
was
an after thought,
a
knee jerk reaction,
on
the part of the Captain
when
the ambassador informed him
of
the Sultan’s jewelled throne,
with
peacocks free to strut about the palace,
more
beloved than all the tax payers
who
matched his weight in silver
every
birthday weigh-in.
On
the shore a disdainful dodo scowled,
wised
up to the hazards sailors presented,
and
when the mood came upon them
they
could run like the wind.
Our
day’s labours netted seven maudlin specimens.
Then
the cook declared the hen bird the cleverer,
asserting
we had caught a muttering of males,
easily
hoodwinked, far more stupid.
He
had been here before, in 1599 and again in 04
and
was well versed in their culinary possibilities.
With
an eye to the weather,
the
Captain decided that they would have to do,
ordered
them below, well away from the chickens.
Seven
sour faced fowls, seasick the whole voyage.
By
the time the pilot took us in to harbour
I
had scrubbed the last one clean,
scorn
writ large on it’s face,
too
dispirited, by this point,
to
even attempt to bite me.
We
herded them through the streets.
Locals
stopped to watch
their
unsteady sea leg progress.
Needless
to say the Sultan was unimpressed
with
the fractious dodos chasing his peacocks,
fouling
his fountains and crying.
A
keening lament for their lost freedom.
It is of course totally fictitious. The poem wrote itself. At times the best strategy is just to write, with your critical self silenced and sort it out once the ideas are on paper. Late the other night I was listening to Iron and Wine. Here's Boy With A Coin.
