I was on Preston Beach the other night watching the sky and the waves. The gull in the poem was patiently waiting for something in a temporary rock pool to be within its reach.
this shallowing rock pool
is
ever more exposed
to
the razor beak of the gull
who
practices patience
stands
stock still, for now
This second poem is a brief prose poem.
it
is ten to one in the morning and I am dancing around the kitchen as
if a soundtrack was playing inside my head given my movements I
suspect that it is a free jazz number
There's nothing much to say about either poem. They are what they are. Little snapshots of a life. There's a new Mountain Goats lp out and here's John Darnielle singing songs and talking about it.
May you have a wondrous Summer Solstice. Here's a poem I wrote some time ago. I thought it may have been the prelude to something longer but nothing has surfaced. The details of the gridlock and car pollution I drew from a holiday in Porto. The air quality was variable due to the car exhaust.
Night
in the steep streets of this river valley
contain
his dreams, earthbound.
He
trudges through juxtapositions of the day’s events,
citing
their sources, silently to himself.
Often
as not the day brings gridlock.
Lines
of idling engines to contribute
to
the tightness of his lungs.
Such
is the life he lives these days.
I am running a poetry workshop at the Tropical Pressure Festival on 12th July. The festival is at Mount Pleasant Eco Park, Porthtowan, Cornwall. It promises to be a wonderful weekend of amazing music. The last time I was there the quality of the poetry produced at the workshop was excellent. You can read about it here.
Here is the festival headlines LA-33 ripping it up.
This is a true story. Me and my sister went to change the flowers on the family plot in February and the vases and Christmas flowers had been stolen. I'm not sure about the poem, but I like the starkness of the telling. This next one is all fiction. It wrote itself over a couple of weeks but the form eluded me until I hit upon the prose poem layout.
casual crimson
the three billion cells that collectively composed his person
suspected this new red shirt is the business
as
he walks the town to divine the best spot to be seen in
the
rain has other ideas and forces his feet into the nearest sports bar
to
sip blood warm beer and stare at real life on the big screen
there
is nothing else
he
will not get to fly his kite heavier as it is than the wet air
wisdom
descends and he knows why his shirt was so reasonably priced
the
fabric’s dye had stained his skin a deep crimson
and
then he knows in his bones that the outcome of this night will
replicate itself across all his weekends
and
that it welcomes him into the kind of life he never imagined would be
his
The phrase to fly one's kite is an old saying means to have a good time. It seemed to suit to the poem. Here's Anna Ternheim.
I wrote this poem quite quickly, like the last post, it came from a collection of random words picked haphazardly from several unconnected books. Working with a limited number of words can be liberating. Once the basic idea is down on paper you can expand on it in any way that you think works.
Just One of Those Things
when
the sea returned
the
lovers had gone
to
create energy their own energy
in
a rented room
then
to part
on
some street corner
late
in the afternoon
in
a press of people too preoccupied
with
keeping the wolf from the door
for
the intensity of their farewell
to
ever be noticed
the
lover’s regular roles awaited
the
end of their embrace
I am not sure that the title works. It does not seem to add or enhance the poem... I find titles to be difficult. I wanted the poem to capture a moment, something fleeting. A miniature, I suppose, as opposed to a big idea.
Also as mentioned last post both Kathryn Williams and Anna Ternheim are touring in the autumn. I may see you there. Also on a really positive note Ryley Walker is playing some dates in America. He has been 75 + days sober and sounds very positive. I wish you all the best Ryley. Here's the man himself in Utrecht last year. What music!
