A MOODY INTENSITY

I am a little tardy in posting this week as I have been preoccupied with the details of my new collection, more on this on Tuesday. Suffice to say I have a fifth book coming out which you can order either as a book or an e-book. Today's poem comes with assistance  from the Secret Poets. You can read the earlier draft here.

IT COULD BE CATCHING

There had been an outbreak of poetry

thankfully it was only a villanelle.

The symptoms were a moody intensity,

giving his life an ABA frequency.

He was quarantined in a cheap hotel.

There had been an outbreak of poetry

and his choice of rhyme revealed uncertainty,

he was unsure if they worked that well.

The symptoms were a moody intensity

to which the nurses responded with flattery,

how he longed to get out of his cell.

There had been an outbreak of poetry

how long it would last none could tell.

The symptoms were a moody intensity

to which they suggested psychiatry

as his rhyming scheme was shot to hell.

What's changed? Well it is no longer a villanelle, Liz suggested that as the rhyming scheme was "shot to hell" it could just stop. I thought that was a wonderful idea. The spacing has also changed.

I was saddened this week to hear of the death of Toumani Diabati. The world is the poorer without him. He was an amazing musician. I have some wonderful memories of seeing him play live over the years. He will be missed.

Until Tuesday and the information of how you can order my new book.  

ALL THE WAY TO WAKING

If my last post was two poems written at a workshop that appeared unheralded, then this post's poem continues the unexpected arrival theme. I wrote it in the middle of the night, when I had just awoken from a dream. 

I felt I should know this place

the beach looked too beautiful to be real

as I looked I realised it was the same perfect wave

that kept repeating its surge to the shore

and that stars that wheeled in the sky

sparkled like diamonds cast on midnight blue velvet

I asked my friend [whom I’d never met before]

sure is it not a mix of the two

part nature and part enhanced by the artists

the studio employed to ensure

it looked like what an audience would expect

in my pocket the magistrates wrist watch

weighed as heavy as unconfessed sin

my friend slapped me on the back

in a manner no one ever had

tender

underlining our unspoken bond of years

let’s get going you’ve got to give me the loot then bring me back

we walked to the old van

the darkness nestled around us

the soundtrack had yet to be added

we drove in silence all the way to waking

No I have no idea where it came from. I'm not even sure I can identify the constituent parts. I like the dreamy, half familiar feel of it. I thought of entitling it Day For Night after that technique films use to turn daylight into night. Dream for Night was another contender, but neither seems to do it justice.

May De Vitry has a new album out. Her fourth since the Stray Birds broke up. They are all worth a listen.

Until next time.    

PERFECT IMPERFECTION

I participated in a writing workshop last week. The focus was on the fantastic,  exaggeration, amplifying beyond belief. it was fun. I managed to write two poems [neither of them a tall a tale].

I like walking barefoot on the beach

even though the sky is always out of reach

the seals stay in the blue green below

and never whisper what they know

as the tide gives then takes away

the transient land on which you cannot stay

This was just a piece of whimsy. One of the other participants had told me they liked walking on the beach and it became six lines of fantasy. This second poem arose from another exercise. I had to write about a person talking to their reflection in a mirror. 

PERFECT IMPERFECTION

there is comfort in the chipped cup

on its mismatched saucer

and in the teapot’s wonky spout

that will never ever pour proper

embrace the world for what it is

near enough can be good enough

I was thinking that the person was too critical of themselves, trying to be too perfect and that led to my celebration of the imperfect. Much of the time near enough is more than adequate. Let's not give ourselves too hard a time.

Here's Natalie Merchant with Sister Tilly.

Until next time.

THERE HAD BEEN AN OUTBREAK OF POETRY

A rather silly poem this week. The first line [the title of this post] popped into my head and I was away. I thought the villanelle form lent itself to the idea [and the second rhyme]. Having such a clear structure made writing the poem more straight forward. 

There had been an outbreak of poetry

thankfully it was only a villanelle.

The symptoms were a moody intensity,

giving his life an ABA frequency.

He was quarantined in a cheap hotel.

There had been an outbreak of poetry

and his choice of rhyme revealed uncertainty,

he was unsure if they worked that well.

The symptoms were a moody intensity

to which the nurses responded with flattery,

how long it would last none could tell.

There had been an outbreak of poetry

how he longed to get out of his cell.

The symptoms were a moody intensity

to which they suggested psychiatry

as his rhyming scheme was shot to hell.

There had been an out break of poetry,

the symptoms were a moody intensity.

The next step for this poem is to take it to the next Secret Poets meeting and see what they make of it. I'm not sure I will do anything more with it.

Here's The Wave Pictures, a true classic.

Until next time.

ADRIFT IN THE FOG OF LIFE

I've been struggling with this poem for a couple of months. I am not sure it works.

top of the hills

highest point for miles

this house with glass walls

I came to map the valley

note the car’s headlights

see people like ants below

but the air thickens

water logged

opaque to observation

it leaves me like everyone

adrift in the fog of life

The genesis was the couple of days I spent outside Vichy in a house on a hill and yes, the fog/low cloud obscured the view. I suspect that I am not clear about what I want the poem to say. It definitely goes into the drawer for a couple of months.

Here's a rewrite of a poem I featured two or three posts ago. I've changed the layout. I think the poem breathes easier now. 

FOURTH THURSDAY IN CATALUNYA

I am crossing the square

a bell begins to repeat three solemn notes

on the terrace in front of the church

there are knots of people

grief shock disbelief no one smiles

I turn the corner see a white hearse parked

flower tributes surround a pine coffin

there is a cross carved into the lid

the occupant is in no hurry for the service to begin

as I look at the local architecture

I keep returning to the one who waited

my mind asks if they had walked down this street

did the Modinisme buildings become so familiar

that they ceased to take in the details

or even notice them at all

when I recross the square

the church doors are closed

it is as if nothing had happened

I have been listening to the Laura Nyro boxset a lot. With any boxset you have to give the individual albums space to speak to you. There are many riches to behold. This was always a favourite.

Until next time. 

THE DEMOB TAILOR

This post's poem was sparked by someone asking if I had ever been to Venice, sadly I have not.  I remembered my father saying he had visited in 1945, after the War in Europe ended. He had been with the Eighth Army since El Alamein  and he was given leave that summer. I didn't mention this in the conversation but it set me thinking and a couple of days later I wrote this.

FAMILY HISTORY

finally the shooting stops

Charlie gets the train to Venice

where the sandbagged statues

tax his imagination

he’s seen so much these past six years

after all that khaki and the hard won miles

he goes to La Scala

as opera never fails

to bring out the beauty

they’ll ship him home soon

and he’ll slip some silver

to the demob tailor

who’ll cut his suit

with a little more care

Charlie will wear it

like they all did

down the dance

on a Saturday night

where he’ll meet my mother

and then my story begins

I think this is definitely a work in progress. I have a difficulty with the rhythm, and it doesn't feel complete. I think this is one to take to the next meeting of the Secret Poets and see what they make of it.

Mdou Moctar have a new album out. Here's the title track.

Until next time.

GRIEF SHOCK DISBELIEF

When I was in Catalunya recently I noticed a funeral taking place and that sparked a poem. A good poem has the ability to make the personal universal. I hope that is what I have done here.

FOURTH THURSDAY IN CATALUNYA

I am crossing the square

a bell begins

three solemn notes on repeat

on the terrace in front of the church

there are knots of people

grief shock disbelief no one smiles

I turn the corner see a white hearse parked

flower tributes surround a pine coffin

there is a cross carved into the lid

the occupant is in no hurry for the service to begin

my agenda today is to look at the local architecture

my mind keeps returning to the one who waits

asks if they walked down this street

had the Modinisme buildings become so familiar

that they ceased to see the details

when I recross the square

the church doors are closed

it is as if nothing had happened

I had not seen a white hearse before. In my insular ignorance I had taken it for granted that all hearse's would be black. I think it was the realisation that this white vehicle was a hearse that crystallised the scene I was observing. I also had never seen the coffin [and its occupant] waiting at the side of the church for the service to begin. 

Modernisme is a term applied to Catalan architecture of the early twentieth century. I am not a great fan, but the style has its moments. That particular Thursday I was looking at some homes built between 1900 and 1920 in La Garriga. If you are ever in Catalunya they are worth a look.

I caught a gig by Nogen when I was in Vic. Here they are with a song entitled Glastonbury.

Until next time.

PLASTIC ROSES

This is another poem I wrote in Catalunya recently. I did in deed walk into a bedroom and find a bouquet of plastic roses. They looked so sad.

pink plastic roses

arranged at the factory

cast in a cheap crystal vase

now they have sun damage

their too bright artificial colours are faded

dust clings to the creases

have I ever seen anything so sad?

I am not sure

they would give a divorce a photo-finish

I speak from experience

I am in a rented room

for reasons I will not go into

I open the wardrobe

place the bouquet on the floor

close the door

get on with my life as best I can

This is a character poem. I think that some readers may assume everything the poet wites is directly autobiographical, that when the poet uses the first person, they are talking about real events from their life. This may not be the case. As I said above my response to seeing the plastic flower arrangement was to think how forlorn they looked. However this was a pivot point, something to explore rather than record my own feelings about the stimulus. I am not sure I will do anything with this poem. Sometimes simply writing the poem is all that is necessary.

Here's Shawn Colvin with Another Plane Went Down.

Until next time. 

PEOPLE A CONTINENT AWAY

Here's another poem I wrote on my recent trip to Catalonya. It was another of those writing exercises I set myself. I sit in a square and make notes about my impressions of the place. This usually involves much people watching.

The quiet of the afternoon is broken

by an American who talks too loud

to people a continent away.

I attempt not to listen so focus on the view

it is of an impossibly beautiful blue bay

with the Pyrenees to the left some of which still have snow.

The signage informs me today is voting Sunday.

While his back was turned the square has filled with Germans

who busy themselves taking photographs.

He wanders down a side street

his voice bounces off the smooth walls

until he disappears around a corner.

I have debated with myself about whether or not the line about voting Sunday needs to be in the poem. On one hand it gives a regularity to the stanza length, but on the other, it is a piece of information that is not relevant to the overall poem. Perhaps I am too influenced by Chekov's Gun, which states that all irrelevant information should be removed as it detracts from the clarity of the work.

I leave you with a classic piece of psychedelia courtesy of Amory Kane.

Until next time. 

FEEDING THE DEVIL

My Mother told me when I was a child that I should never put bread on the fire as doing so would feed Satan. I was never convinced but I obeyed my Mother's directive. As I got older it just seemed a waste to burn bread. The memory of her injunction prompted this.

 “Never, ever, put bread on the fire.”

My mother was adamant about this

“Not even two day old stale crusts

because you’re feeding the Devil.”

In winter she would burn vegetable peelings

they would smoulder on the coals

deprive the room of heat.

I used to wonder about the menu in hell

whether Satan longed for a soft white balm cake

and took his wrath out on the nearest food critic.

I wrote it quickly, the ending about the food critic just appeared. By the way a Balm Cake is a soft white roll from the north-west of England. It's a regional delight. Here's a little poem I've been reflecting on for a while.

early morning empty room

the sound of one door opening

will ripple this silence

appreciate the echo

of each footfall

and the day begins with laughter

 

It began with the title on Monday at work. I arrived in the rehearsal space first and noted the echo. It is a small observation/memory. I think it will go no further than this post.

I'm going through a Murray Head phase again. He's just released a live album and it set me listening to his back catalogue. Here's a live recording.

Here's the original.

Until next time.

ALL HE HAD TO DO WAS ACT

This is one of those poems that come from a stray thought, just as you are about to fall asleep, that prompt you to get out of bed and write them down. I played with the phrase for a while and I'm not sure this present lay out does the idea justice but that's for future reflection. 

after he had carefully read the small print, three pages of dense, legalistic type he decided to reorder his life as the experience so far had not been what he had been led to expect no it had been uneventful, dull even, he felt bored surely he had picked out something better when he had perused the brochure back in the pre-existence café something more exciting than this monotonous round of bills and work

the response came quicker than he had expected

an assessor was sent round replete with theodolite and all manner of esoteric equipment and began to measure every aspect of his situation this did not take long

after that nothing happened for quite sometime until a letter arrived informing him that he was actually living the life he had picked out from all those possibilities the letter went on to say very politely, that it was possible for him to change his life any time he wanted to

all he had to do was act

The poem grew from the idea of reordering one's life. A conceit that it is possible to simply send it back if it doesn't fit. Watch this space for another draft.

Mdou Moctar have just released a new album Funeral for Justice. Like all their albums it is essential listening. They just get better and better.

Until next time. 

THE HEAT OF OUR PRESSED BODIES

Travelling is always a great writing stimulus. I find myself much more inspired in new surroundings. I suppose its the novelty, the newness of everything. Here's a poem about being on a train.

the torch singer on the train

belts out another power ballad

with the energy of one

who has nothing else to lose

the carriage smells of weed

combined with the heat of our pressed bodies

he aims to hit that final note

but misses by a mile

smiling he passes around the hat

changes trains at the next station

to be replaced by an old man with a guitar

who plays sixty second versions of songs

that have half his audience singing along

and so we continue on to Barcelona

Yes it really did happen like that. Catalan trains tend to have musicians on them. I heard a good sax player on a train on the same trip. I hope I have struck the right note with this poem. I do not want to mock the singer, he was just trying to get by as are we all. 

Here The Growling Tiger from the 1930s with a song about trying to get by. Some things never change.

Until next time.  

TOP BLOODY SECRET

 Another poem that was enhanced by the wise comments of the Secret Poets. You can read the earlier version here.

TOP SECRET

a synapse sparks unbidden

sets the memory unrolling

and I am back in the 70s

an apprentice working with a fitter

old enough to be my father

he’s telling me about his national service

“I spent two years on an airbase in Yorkshire

guarding Vulcan bombers

and me a time served tradesmen

fully indentured

but the RAF needed security

for the new super weapon

it wasn’t a bad billet

and the sergeant told me that

no one enters that hanger

not even your grey haired old mother God bless her

because it’s top bloody secret that’s why

I’ll have your bloody balls on toast

if you bloody defy me

and it wasn’t a bad billet

save for that time in February

when I should have been at the dance with my girl

pulled the short one that night I can tell you

this one pip rocks up all received pronunciation

straight out of Sandhurst demanded I move aside

that I let him into the hanger and that is an order

looked down his nose at me

his face getting redder and redder

and then it was get out of my way

by God I’ll have you on a charge

so I moved aside and when his back was turned

I hit him with the butt of my revolver

did I mention we were armed

anyway the officer went down like a sack of spuds

and there was hell to pay

I barely escaped a glass house holiday

never knew what became of that officer

never saw a Vulcan either only on the telly

years and years later”

he threw his dog end away

it had stopped raining

so we left the shelter of the pipe bridge

and went back to whatever we were doing before the rain

They did not like the title. Thought it a little abstract. Nor did they like the enjambment. To be honest, reading it aloud in our meeting, neither did I. I think it is a better poem for all that but I am not sure it's completely there yet. It's going into the drawer for a little time. 

I leave you with Natalie Merchant live in 2014.

Until next time.

UNTIL HE FELL OFF

Thanks must go again to the Secret Poets for helping with this post's poem. You can read the earlier version here. 

CHOCOLATE CIGARETTES

We’d buy them at Parrs on the way to the matinee.

One of us would open a packet

and offer them round just like proper ciggies,

pretend to smoke until the end got too soggy

then peel the paper away reveal cylinders

of cheap chocolate pocked with holes.

Camel, Chesterfield, Lucky Strike.

A double whammy indoctrination

the normalisation of a lethal addiction

plus the superiority of American culture.

Well, I mean, that’s Elvis up there on the screen

riding the wall of death until he fell off,

one hot August night in 1977.

As you can see the poem has lost all the first verse [save for one line] and gained a title. There was some discussion as to whether I needed to include candy cigarettes as the focus of the poem was the chocolate variety. I think it is tighter now. Oh the joys of constructive feedback from people you respect. 

Here's Anna Ternheim live. 

Until next time.