Friday 25 February 2022

LUNG WRECKED


 I was not happy with my last post. The poem was half formed. Here is a redraft.

lung wrecked in the wing back chair

my father was marooned in his house


he rewatched the programmes

he did not like the first time round


told me that there was a certain

safety in knowing what comes next


that brief whisper of exhalation

follows each creaking inhalation


his neural pathways began to short circuit

left in him sleeping an assisted sleep


until it is time to cast off

to sail into the deep

Some poems write themselves, others, like this one, require more work. I am happier with this version. No idea for a title. I think it should be something about a pause or a new cycle, but that would explain the poem before it is read...

Here is Louis Armstrong and Earl Hines with Weather Bird. This tune never fails to raise my spirits when I hear it.

Until next time.

Friday 18 February 2022

A BRIEF WHISPER

I have been writing about my parents recently. I do not know why, there are no anniversaries immanent. Sometimes one thought just leads to another. It can be that simple.

my father marooned in his house

lung wrecked in the wing back chair


his focus on the procession of his breath

the inhale silent

the exhale a brief whisper


he rewatches the programmes

he did not like the first time round


there is a certain safety in knowing what comes next


until the wiring in his head begins to short circuit

leaves him sleeping an assisted sleep


until it is time to shake his body off

he kicks off from the side

pushes out into the deep

My father had emphysema, it dictated his final years, but did not kill him. He died of a number of mini-strokes. I miss him. This poem is about his end days.

I am not happy with the layout. It looks cluttered, perhaps it reflects life? This is definitely a work in progress. I suppose setting myself the task of posting a poem  a week means there are going to be times when I am not happy with the draft. So watch this space.

Hurray For The Riff Raff has a new album out. I am eagerly awaiting the posty to deliver my copy. Here's Pierced Arrows.

Until next time.

Friday 11 February 2022

WALKED TO RUNCORN

The town of Runcorn is situated on the River Mersey across from Widnes. I was born in Runcorn, next to the Manchester Ship Canal which is separated from the Mersey by a wall. There have been a number of bridges built between the two towns, the oldest being the Railway Bridge. This poem is about being dragged across the Railway Bridge as a child.

she dragged me snivelling across the Old Bridge

my hand in hers my head not in her reality


for my Mother the wooden walkway was solid

immutable older then her 42 years


I only perceived the spaces between the boards

each held a view of the Mersey far below

and I expected to fall through every gap

somersault the thin air and be lost in the tidal race

cold swift and patient as I knew it to be


this was not to be the last time we walked to Runcorn

Thanks to the Secret Poets for their invaluable assistance. 

Here is a redraft, again with the Secrets help. You can read the first version here.

Witches


Witches want your empty eggshells

so they can sail to sea

and summon storms to drown the sailors.


This is a fact. I know.

I was born beside the water

in the shadow of the old Transporter Bridge.


My uncles worked the Ship Canal

tugmen, exempt from The Call Up

free to drink each St Monday dry.


My mother was at war with them

the hostilities endless.

I could never fathom the reason


and she was not the kind you’d ask

even when I was grown and she frail

with aching hands of knotted oak.


Besides by then we lived across the river.

A word to the wise though -

always break your eggshells.

The layout has changed, as have a couple of words.I suspect this is possibly the finished article.

Here's some Soca from Black Stalin.

Until next time.

Friday 4 February 2022

DRINK ST MONDAY DRY

As a child I was told to always crack my empty boiled eggshells, if I did not then witches would use them to sail the seas and drown the sailors. As I got older I asked about the practicality of sailing in an egg shell, how would you steer for example? I was told it was magic and witches could do it.

That memory was the basis for this poem.

Witches want your empty eggshells

so they can sail to sea

and summon storms to drown the sailors.

This is a fact. I know.

I was born beside the water

in the shadow of the old Transporter Bridge.

My uncles worked the Ship Canal

tugmen, exempt from The Call Up

free to drink each St Monday dry.

My mother was at war with them

the hostilities endless.

I could never fathom the reason

and she was not the kind to ask

even when I was grown and she frail

with aching hands of knotted oak.

Besides by then we lived across the river.

A word to the wise - always break your eggshells.

Yes, there was bad feeling between my Mother and her brothers and no, I never really got to the bottom of it. But then, that's families. Oh St Monday refers to an old tradition of working people not working on a Monday and treating it like a Saints Day. The practice died out by the time I was born in the 1950s. 

I have been working on this poem all week and it still feels fluid. I have another half finished about the old railway bridge that crosses the Mersey just where I was born.

That is perhaps for next week.

Annabelle Chvostek has just released an excellent version of Dance Me To The End of Love, a Leonard Cohen song.

Until next time.