A GLASS HOUSE HOLIDAY

I've been researching slang this week because I realised that the poem in the last post had an incorrect term in it for an officer. The term I used - temporary gentleman referred to soldiers who were promoted to the officer ranks in the First World War. It highlighted their fleeting status and the high attrition rates of that conflict. I looked at a fascinating wiki. I must thank the author[s] for their comprehensive list.

THE CLASS STRUGGLE

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 television

years and years later and

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

I still don't think this poem is quite there yet but it reads better. I am now going to put it away for some time. I appear to have got my mojo back at the moment, for which I'm thankful.

Been listening to Scott Walker this week, going back to the first four LPs.

Until next time.

TEMPORARY GENTLEMAN

I've been working on this poem for a while. It is based on a memory that just  popped into my head one morning. I can't remember the circumstances that led to the fitter I was working with as an apprentice, telling me about his National Service but the dilemma he faced that night stayed with me.

THE CLASS STRUGGLE

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 how

I spent it guarding Vulcan bombers in Yorkshire

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

and I’ll have your bloody balls on toast

if you bloody defy me and

it wasn’t a bad billet save

for that one night when a temporary gentlemen

[that’s was how they referred to conscripted officers]

rocked up and demanded to be let into the hanger

looking down his nose at me all received pronunciation

getting redder in the face and

then it was get out of my way

I’ll have you on a charge so I moved

and then I hit him with the butt of my revolver

did I mention we were armed guards

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 temporary gentleman

never saw a Vulcan either only on the television

years and years later and

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

This is a rough draft. The Vulcan bomber was part of the UKs nuclear deterrent. It was a rather elegant shape. I am sure that the poem will change and I think that it is worth persevering with. Watch this space.

Here's Baba Maal.

Until next time.

ENERGY TRANSFORMS

This is a revised poem and it owes much to the input of the Secret Poets. Once again thank you chaps. You can read the last version here.

FINALS

with mirrored steps

we walk side by side

turn   in slow motion

this dialogue of movement offers

a split second vision

of all the rehearsals to come

the walls will hold our sound

the floor our footfalls

the air our breath

we will never fade

though all come to stillness

energy transforms

how fragile is the house of now

a time of endings

our finals     farewell

I was not happy with the poem and discussing with the Secrets clarified the structure of the poem and exactly what I wanted to say. Thank you once more. The looking glass steps had to go for clarity, you cannot hold on to those words which obscure.

This second poem has had the lines tightened up and I think works the better for it. You can read the earlier version here.

TAUNTON STATION ONE MIDNIGHT

we three strangers could be the last people on this earth

cold to the bone in the post midnight chill

the silence of the station is as deep as sleep we miss

individual in our anticipation we wait for the last train anticipating the last trainas we wait

then the light

rounds the bend

yawns to a stop

is this the carriage door

the one you will explode out of

telling tales of jostling platform changes

that lead to cheek by jowl overcrowding

no seat until well after Bristol

of course it isn’t

you walk up to me

we hug and walk home

I've been playing the American Dreamer box set a lot. Laura Nyro has been someone who I have listened to since I was a child. Here's some footage of Laura at Monetary I've just come across.

Until next time. 

JUST TO BE ON THE SAFE SIDE

I was looking at an old poem the other day and thinking I could do better. I'll let you decide. You can read the earlier version here. 

LET THE TRAIN TAKE THE STRAIN

it is clear the train company worries about me

this is why they advised [twice] me to hold the handrail

at all times when I climb the station stairs 

counselled that I must carry water on my journey

as this weekend’s weather will be unseasonably hot

and suggest should I feel unwell

then I must disembark at the next station

as this will make it easier for them to aid me

obviously they have heard that I forget things these days

and so repeatedly remind me

in these times of heightened tension

not to leave my luggage unattended

because if I do the security service may damage

or blow my case to smithereens just to be on the safe side

it is also pointed out that I should stand behind the yellow line

and let people exit the train before attempting to enter

and to mind the gap at all times

as I am now in the quiet carriage I must not play my music

talk on my phone or annoy the other passengers

it is a shame the railway company

does not practice what it preaches

I remember the circumstances in which I wrote it clearly. I was travelling to Swanage in Dorset one summer's day on the train and was struck by just how many announcements were made. I hope the poem is rather tongue in cheek. What have I done? Well, I think I've clarified the ideas more fully than in the last version. 

I've been listening to Breathe Owl Breathe recently. They've always been a band I've enjoyed and I've found this video you may like.

Until next time.

YAWNS TO A STOP

Here's a poem about meeting someone off the train late at night. I attended a workshop about trains last week ran by The Write Box poetry group. Thank you Bob and Sue.

we could be the three last people on this earth

cold as the bone in this post midnight chill

the station is as silent as sleep

then the light

rounds the bend

yawns to a stop

is this the carriage door

the one you will explode out of

telling tales of cheek by jowl overcrowding

no seat until well after Bristol

of course it isn’t

we hug and walk home

The poem is pretty straight forward [aren't they all]. It is based on a real incident of collecting my eldest daughter from the station. She arrived on the last train and the place was deserted. It's not complete yet, needs a rewrite or two. 

Here's Hurray For The Riff Raff. The new album is excellent.

Until next time.