ON THE NIGHT OF THE FIRE

The shameless crime minister after being told his proroguing of Parliament was unlawful now claims that he is with the people against the elite. I have to question exactly what he means by "the people." Would these be the people who went to Eton? Or those lucky enough to study at Oxford? I am incredulous that the product of such privilege can have the audacity to claim he is not of the elite. If he had any honour he would resign. That is the real will of the people.
Like our present political difficulties here is a poem with no ending. I have been working on this for some time. I like the idea of a dream within a dream and have tried to incorporate it into this poem.

On the night of the fire

he had dreamed himself in France,

the endless beach plucked

from some forgotten summer holiday,

his dream child self stood in disbelief

saying: I do not want to grow into you.

It’s too late, he replied, you already have.

Smoke began to smear the cloudless sky,

as the alarm jostled him back into their bed

then out of it again.

Holding his wife’s hand they ran downstairs

and out of the front door.

Flames rose in the darkness,

they would lose all they had worked for.

Later stood by the fire tender,

clutching a red blanket about her,

his wife took on his teenage face

and looked at him with disgust.

He was thankful the fire alarm

jerked him back to the hotel

into the disgruntled shuffle of guests,

across the wet car park to assembly point B

as the board was reset, apologies and thanks given.

He shrugged it all off.

I have been toying with the idea that the protagonist is a morally bankrupt politician but I cannot quite get the ending. I suspect this is because I want to tell rather than show.

In direct contrast to the self serving, venal political elite determined to profit from the nation's distress here is Ryley Walker. Stunning.

Until Next time.

BETWEEN THUNDER AND THE ECHO

I have just discovered this is my 500th post.  I don't normally take note of such numbers but 500 seems like an achievement. I looked to get an estimate of how many poems there are on this blog. Given that there are a number of revised poems, reviews and interviews I would suspect there are at least over three hundred poems.
That really is amazing. I'll leave it up to you to decide if any of them are any good.
Here's to the next 500!
Now  the poem that gives the post its title.

in this still air not a tree shivers

we walk empty streets of paused lighten

and when the rain does come

we are caught in the open

between the thunder and the echo

our clothes far too thin for the wind

which saws through the skin

to pare each bone

This is not a finished poem. I feel it needs to go somewhere but at the moment I am not sure exactly where. It has description but I am not sure it has a tongue to tell its truth. 
Watch this space.
Now a second poem I wrote a couple of weeks ago in Teignmouth.

Teignmouth Poem Number 1

when glimpsed through these trees

the pier could be a bridge

connecting the drab and the mundane with

anywhere you care to dream of

some place of lives lived by other rules

where people tell their truths

and do not meet just to say goodbye

Again I feel this poem needs time to breathe. Sometimes the poem arrives whole and other times, like now, I have to leave them to acclimatise. 
Here's a track from Kathryn Williams' Anthology. It is proving a balm given the political turmoil our crime minister and his jolly gaggle of privileged poltroons are causing. 
Kathryn is touring the UK at the moment. If you get the chance go and see her, she's wonderful live.

Until next time.

SOMETHING TO DREAM ON

I'm just back from a couple of days in Barcelona. Nothing has changed here. The crime minister still plays the scoundrel's populist card. Words fail me.
Here are a couple of small poems I wrote while I was away.
I simply wrote what I saw.

Barcelona

morning

four sharp taps on the pressure vessel

his second or third percussive announcement

pulls me from my sleep

no need to ask if it’s the gasman

plying for trade in the street below

afternoon

this square is built over a car park

which precisely occupies half the area

people huddle in the remainder

to talk eat drink love

by a water fountain

tainted by petrochemical fumes

And here is a small poem I wrote the other week when in Teignmouth.

teignmouth poem number two

he enters with bubble wrap

a poster framed

for the fireplace alcove

something to dream on

when he is back in the real world

Again I saw a man with a bubble wrapped painting walk past me into a cafe, I was sat at a table outside. The poems are there but we have to look.
Here's a collaboration between Johnossi and Anna Ternheim.

Until next time.

BUT FOR THE WAY THE LIGHT FALLS

copyright David Hockney

The country continues to be torn apart by a gang of public school educated elitists, who are hell bent on riding rough shod over all democratic process in the name of the people's will. We all know how these things usually play out...

I am not sure where it sprang from but the other day I suddenly had an image of David Hockney's Mr and Mrs Clark and Percy. A superb painting and one of my all time favourites. 

I could see the painting in my mind's eye and had the sudden rush of awareness that this is what Ossie Clark will be best remembered for. I wrote this over several drafts.

Mr and Mrs Clark and Percy

this is how you will be best remembered

not for all those dresses you designed

[already hoarded by the few]

not for your sad, slow decline

or the wife who left you

but for the way the light falls onto your face

I had a couple of opening lines:

if we can stagger through this
survive the great extinction
and that is far from certain

I like them as an opening but think they probably belong on another poem. One about how our politicians are incapable of responding to the Climate Crisis.
One of the skills every poet needs to develop is having the confidence to pare the poem down to its bare essentials.

Here's a very different poem that I've been working on this week.

A 10% Chance of Rain

one in ten

good odds I think

so walk out

coatless

hatless

with an umbrella

and at the furthest point from home

precipitation

there is worse to come as I remember

the washing is on the line...

This photograph is from a bar in Oregon I visited the other year. The decor drew on 1984.  Rather fitting for this week as reality is coming to resemble " a boot stamping on a human face-forever."

On a lighter note Anna Terheim has a new song out. 

There are still tickets for her London show in November.

Until next time.