IN THE BELL TOWER

This time a poem about climbing [or failing to] a cathedral's bell tower.

It is sort of slightly true, well the bare bones are.

I am not quite sure where the poem came from. The title arrived and the poem sketched itself out quickly.

In the Bell Tower with Dorothy

The lift, an antique thing

of chrome and satin steel,

as old I gauged as I was then,

shot us up towards the sky.

Deposited in a strange shaped place

my split second realisation that

this convex floor was the concave ceiling

I had dizzed my eyes upon moments before.

In my head something broke

the calm chalk grains in my ears

became a snow storm.

The vertical skewed to a sudden steep angle.

Dorothy, unphased, fearlessly

strode past warning signs

that screamed of danger

lurking each side of the path.

All I could sense was the space below,

the long fall through empty air,

and so on hands and knees I fled back to the ground

to wait for her with my shame.

The poem is too new for me to have a clear perspective on it. I am going to take it to the next meeting of the Secret Poets and get their thoughts on it. Any comments welcomed.

Here's Josh Rouse.

Until next time.

NO BLADES RUSTED INTO SCABBARDS

A sombre poem this post. It came from the first line that popped into my head one morning unannounced. 

Epitaph

we will behind leave no swords

blades rusted into scabbards

no carefully considered grave goods

to make our afterlives bearable

our ending will be obvious

before they sink the first exploratory trench

a whole geological strata of near indestructible waste

of things we once thought we needed

It is very much a tell not show poem. I think at times that this is the only way to get the message over, bluntly.

Palooka 5, those giants of psych-surf have a new mini-album out. I shall be reviewing it next week, but for now here's a taste

Until next time.

SCINTILLA

As you can see from the photograph, we have shadows cast into our sitting room, sometimes from the sun reflecting on a building and sometimes from the buses that turn the corner by our house.

That's what this poem is about.

scintilla

as the buses turn the corner

they catch the sun and bounce the light

straight into our sitting room

as the driver turns the wheel

patterns of leaves stroke the walls

move so fast and then are gone

in silence this morning

I await the next illumination

My apologies for the large spacing but I have not worked out the updated blogspot controls.

This the poem from the last post with a slight change to the layout courtesy of The Secret Poets.

“Freedom is what we do with what is done to us.”
―Jean-Paul Sartre

the first day without socks

gifted a freedom he had not anticipated

it was true there was a price to pay

in rubbed skin for each step taken

but over time the rims of his shoes softened

his ankles calloused

and even the monolithic plastic soles

previously immutable

slowly took on the contour of each foot

the world limped along

economies faltered

and him by the side of the road

failing to flag down a lift

the rain started

so he began to walk

from somewhere to somewhere else 

We discussed putting a space before the last three lines to emphasise the immediacy of the situation.

Here are the Wave Pictures. 

Here's a newer tune.

Until next time.

THE FIRST DAY WITHOUT SOCKS

I've not been writing anything new this week. Sometimes it goes like that. I always say you have to experience life to write about it. Actually I've been painting the dining room, so not much experience there.

Here's a poem I've been working on for a couple of weeks. 

“Freedom is what we do with what is done to us.”
―Jean-Paul Sartre

the first day without socks

gifted a freedom he had not anticipated

it was true there was a price to pay

in rubbed skin for each step taken

but over time the rims of his shoes softened

his ankles calloused

and even the monolithic plastic soles

previously immutable

slowly took on the contour of each foot

the world limped along

economies faltered

and him by the side of the road

failing to flag down a lift

the rain started

so he began to walk

from somewhere to somewhere else

I was thinking about the economic consequences of the pandemic. How it will change our lives. How we respond to the place we find ourselves.

This next poem was an exercise I set myself while I stood in the queue for my greengrocers. Usually I try to write about the place I find myself when I'm abroad but this is me here in Torquay.

1^st Saturday after the Lockdown

framed face in first story window

cell small

hinged open to the max

smoke blooms

lost in grey sky

smells like weed from down here

in the Saturday line up

third in the queue for the greengrocers

It's interesting to just try and record what is around you. It makes you look at the world anew.

I got the new lp by Dinosaur, a British jazz group this week. It is boss. I can't take it off the turntable. Here's Mosking. 

Until next time.

SMALL PARCELS OF USE AND MEMORY

This poem arose from an idea about anxiety, it's not like there isn't enough to be worried about at the moment, but I was thinking of a person driven to distraction by planning for the worst.

Actually the first two lines were doggerel:

should the earthquake strike at noon

will you be in the dinning room?

Not very good at all.

What Can Be Saved?

omens fill his head

in the night he wakes

makes mental notes

what can be saved?

memorises the locations of

pens

passports

the thin roll of various currencies

should that live in the bedside drawer?

or be at hand by the front door?

but what if the flames prevent

him getting down the stairs?

he maps alternate routes

decides on small parcels of use and memory

scattered throughout the house

he can be at peace

now at least

As usual I do not think this is the finished poem. I start by writing them in a book longhand and revising them until I think they have a structure. I then put them onto the computer and play about with layout. At some indeterminate point they are then ready to show the world. Mostly I work by intuition, and I suppose experience.

Here's the stupendous Ryley Walker. A whole concert! He's got a couple of new downloads at Bandcamp. Here's the link.

Until next time.