THE SILENCE OF THE GREAT EXTINCTION

I woke up on Thursday morning feeling that I was living in the final chapter of Christopher Isherwood's Goodbye To Berlin. 
The bad people have won. The callous, mean spirited, utterly ruthless, neoliberal, careerist politicians have acted with characteristic disregard for democracy. Words fail me.
I can only see the situation becoming ever worse. We can prepare to wave goodbye to the National Health Service, the few remaining employment rights we have and get ready for the end.
None of these politicians have the gravitas [or the intelligence] to save humanity from catastrophe. Be that from the environmental breakdown, species extinction or the ever increasing greed of the few.

Here is a revised poem.

the silence of the great extinction

settled on the shoulders of the survivors

as if for the first time

they could see all that had been lost

and so set to refashion their world

shipping in from beyond the stars

mechanical birds to jewel their skies

and fill a space long vacated

by sinew and bone

feather and wing

having captured the thermal

see how their propellers idle

as they spiral ever higher

to spectrograph heaven with their metal tongues 

You can read the original here.
I have altered the layout [thanks to the Secret Poets for their input] and tried to make the final stanza flow more smoothly.
At this moment, if I am honest, I don't see our species surviving. We seem hell bent on making the situation ever worse. Hope packed its bags and left some time ago.
I leave you with John Coltrane.

 

WATCH THE TOWN CONTRACT

I spend a very enjoyable afternoon this week picnicking with the Secret Poets on Babacombe Downs. It is always a joy to meet up and the conversation and constructive feedback is superb. Thank you.
Here's a revised poem. You can read the earlier draft here.
There have been a number of changes, though I am not sure the poem is finished.

on first hearing that the 256 bus route has been discontinued

1. so called progress

trumpeted efficiencies

planned changes

equals

more people fewer buses

the 256 has run its course

now joins the other phantom routes

those ghost transport numbers

that fade when the last driver dies

and the final passenger forgets

2.

autumn comes to Wolverhampton

the chill of looming winter

at the concrete finger bus stop

Rachel waits most week days

for thirty years or more stoic

buses are as regular

as politicians promises

there is no poetry on the number sixteen

just smudged windows

through which to watch

the town contract

A couple of lines have been changed around to aid the poem to read more fluently. Reading your work aloud is essential. You need to hear the sounds of the poem. Poetry was after all an oral art form.
For me the poem captures the times. Our high streets contract and coarsen. We are a collection of individuals not a community.

I received my copy of the Kathryn Williams Anthology yesterday and what a treasure trove of delights it is.
At 20 cds I'm still working my way through the beautiful music it contains.

Until next time.

MECHANICAL BIRDS TO JEWEL THEIR SKIES

Today's poem arose from a writing exercise.
I took a blank piece of paper and wrote whatever words came into my head until I had filled it. No stopping, no thinking about the contents and no criticism. I just wrote.
Then I read it and wondered if there was a poem lurking in there.
This came slowly out.

the silence of the great extinction

settled on the shoulders of the survivors

stalling all thoughts of celebration

as if for the first time

they clearly saw all that had been lost

as if for the first time

so set to work

shipping in from beyond the stars

mechanical birds to jewel their skies

and fill a niche long vacated

by sinew and bone

feather and wing

see how their propellers idle

as the thermal spirals then ever higher

to spectrograph heaven with their metal tongues

I got the idea of mechanical birds to jewel the skies and the propellers from the writing, the rest evolved over a couple of weeks and many revisions.

Here's The Mamas and Papas.

Until next time.

THE INTENSITY OF THIS FAREWELL

I  was in Teignmouth the other Saturday sitting on the Back Beach soaking up the sun and reading the paper. I noticed a wedding party waiting by a restaurant. The party consisted of the bride and two bridesmaids. I wondered what would happen if the groom failed to appear and this little poem wrote itself on my phone.

sun on silk

pearled bodice luminescent

a bride on the back beach

where is her groom?

Timing is everything

and this wait fuels her doubts

gulls circle

the tide goes out 

The rest of the wedding party arrived as I was writing thankfully.
I think you have to be open to whatever words arrive and make of them what you can.
This second poem was revised with the assistance of The Secret Poets. I owe them many thanks. You can read the previous version here.

Just One of Those Things

when the sea returned

the lovers had gone

to create 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

for the intensity of this farewell

to ever be noticed

The poem has lost the final two lines. It has also lost the fifth line in the middle stanza. We discussed whether it added anything to the poem by introducing the situation of the people in the crowd and decided that as the poem was a miniature that the focus was best kept on the lovers. 
If you can find a group you trust and respect then the benefits to your writing are infinite. 

Here's some Radio Tarifa. It doesn't seem twenty years since their first album came out. How times speeds away.

Until next time.

THE SUNDAY SINGER OILS HER VOICE

A small poem for starters:

the sunday singer

oils her voice

all of saturday

after midnight chimes

you can hear her sing

as if all was right with this world

monday morning 

brings the usual sorrows

The poem wrote itself on Saturday. No idea where it came from.
On Tuesday I met with The Secret Poets once again and I am grateful for their assistance with this rewrite. You can read the other version here.

The Sniper’s Dilemma

for Colin

He is still paying our bill,

you can see it in his eyes,

Goose Green to Belfast

and more places in between.

How does a man who cares

steer his heart through such times?

Focus on the practical,

strip and reassemble what you can

with eyes closed in the dark

and repeat for Queen and country.

Part of him is always there on that cold island,

reflecting on what they told him,

the target or two of ours.

In the blackness of this sleepless night

he hears those words again:

two of ours or him.

Whats changed? The last line has gone, the third stanza has been altered [hopefully to make it read more clearly] and the first stanza has lost it's final line.
It is my small tribute to a friend.

Here's a song by Liz Lawrence. 

Until next time.