WEIRD EXHIBITIONS THAT DON'T EXIST

Two recent found poems this post. Actually they are not strictly found poems as I have elaborated on the original sentences. The first strictly speaking has a found title. My friend Rex uttered the words as I explained why we had gone to Bakersfield in California. I had been under the impression that there was a collection of Georgia O'Keeffe paintings there. There wasn't. The author of the guidebook had been lazy when researching Bakersfield, it was a touring exhibition. We had a similar experience in Spain one year. We had to wait in 44 degrees C temperature to again be informed that what we had come to see had been a touring exhibition four years before.

Weird Exhibitions That Don’t Exist

I have searched for them

either side of the Atlantic,

steered by guidebook

to an out of the way community centre

somewhere in Bakersfield

and crossed the border

from Portugal to Spain,

hunting for touring exhibitions

travel writers claimed were permanent collections.

They are tales of family holidays

and sometimes when we are together,

we laugh about the bar we sat in,

playing cards, drinking water,

waiting for the 5pm opening

that Iberian August.

I am not sure the poem is anything like complete.

This second one came from the same evening and Rex talking about his student days in Brighton. I added the second half.

we’d come in drunk

and play our music loud

the guy downstairs

he was totally cool about it

cause he’d get in drunk

and play his music too loud

and we’d wake up in bed

and smile

cause it was liberating

in the afternoon

cause no one got up early

after nights like that

we might meet on the stairs

and smile and nod

and that’s what life was like back then

This poem is about there. It is only a quick piece but it captures a certain moment in life.

I literally wrote the first part down as he was talking. Some times I think being a poet is all about seizing the opportunity and running with it.

Sadly Ryley Walker has had to cancelled his April European tour due to health issues. I'd like to wish him a speedy recovery and just say our prayers are with him. Get well soon Ryley.

Until next time.

BLACK TEA

I must be thirsty, all the titles refer to tea lately.
A revised poem again this post.
You can read the original here.

House Clearance

The enormity of it all just stops you

dead in your tracks,

one long life lived

and here you are in the hallway

wondering where to start,

wishing it were simply a woollen jumper

with one loose thread you could unpick.

Of course, it’s not that easy

so you walk through the rooms,

upstairs then down,

make a cup of tea

sit at the kitchen table

drink it black,

because the milk has gone off.

The last three lines have been altered to allow the poem to breathe.
Thanks to Paul Mortimer.
I'm working on a poem at the moment but I'm not ready to show it to anyone. Watch this space.

I've just discovered an hour long set by Arthur Lee and Love at 2003 Glastonbury Festival [or Pilton, as those of us who have lived in Somerset refer to it].
Here's the whole show.

Until next time.

MAKE A CUP OF TEA

 

A revised poem courtesy of Paul Mortimer. Some of you may be aware that Paul is a very fine poet and was a member of Juncture 25. Since the ending of the Juncture 25 me and Paul have continued to meet and offer each other constructive feedback. 
Paul suggested that the last two lines of this poem were opened up to allow them to speak more clearly. You can read the previous draft here.

House Clearance

The enormity of it all just stops you

dead in your tracks,

one long life lived

and here you are in the hallway

wondering where to start,

wishing it were simply a woollen jumper

with one loose thread you could unpick.

Of course, it’s not that easy

so you walk through the rooms,

upstairs then down,

make a cup of tea

sit at the kitchen table

drink it black,

because the milk has gone off.

I think it works better.
I have no idea where the poem came from. Sometimes they write themselves. I always think it's best to get the poem down on paper without thinking/reflecting on what is coming out. Once you have got it on the page then you can start to work out exactly what you want to do with it.

Last weekend I was in Deal, Kent and while I was shifting through record boxes I came across a copy of the Chambers Brothers Time Has Come Today. Fantastic music. Needless to say I snapped it up.
Here's a live version. Let's wig-out man.

Until next time.

SPACES OUR LIVES ONCE OCCUPIED

Another revised poem today, once more thanks to the Secret Poets.
This is the third revision, you can read the earlier drafts here and here.

At The Leechwell

Did we believe less?

Was your faith the greater?

You, who turn away,

make the sign of the cross

at the sound of the bell

as we walk to the well,

burdened as we are

by the double curse

of disease and The Fall.

Cold water,

cold morning.

No cure,

no change,

no blessing from above.

We turn back towards the leper house,

moving slowly through the spaces

that our lives once occupied.

The layout is the most obvious change, that and the substitution of leper house for lazar. The Secrets were of the opinion that it made the poem more immediate. There was also discussion around the double negative of disease and The Fall. Those of a more grammatical bent will appreciate that the Fall and disease are not a double negative. Again it made the poem more accessible and for that I give thanks.

Here is Anna Ternheim with an orchestra.

Until next time.

LIVING BY THE WATER

So much for my claim last post that I was going to put the poem away in a drawer for some months. Instead I took it to a meeting of the Secret Poets and received some first rate constructive feedback. Thank you Secrets.
I'd actually just finished reading a book about collaboration, called Help! by Thomas Brothers, which argues that Duke Ellington and The Beatles were the outstanding composers and performers they were because they knew how to collaborate with others. It's an interesting and positive argument. I know I derive a great deal from sharing and discussing with other poets.

Living by the Water

His last great splendid had sailed,

he walked the changing shore,

watched the waves,

kidded himself that a life

lived beside the water kept it real.

Eventually it sank in.

His last great splendid had sailed

and here he was,

quenched in brine and red biddy,

discovering he was the wrong side of a sea

too deep to wade, too far to leap.

The sun had set, the night was cold.

So what's different? 
The layout is changed and two lines have been removed. You can compare the previous version here. In the third line in the second stanza I have removed the word illusions as it was thought to be superfluous.
I think as a poem it's about there.

Here are the Fab Four with Penny Lane. Oh for the days of psychedelia! I was eleven in 1967, just discovering music and I thought it would be like this for ever.

Until next time.