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.