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.