Friday, 25 October 2024

DECONSTRUCTION OF THE HEART

This week I attended a new local spoken word evening. It was an interesting event, although I could have done without the drunken man in the black overcoat and hat who talked all the way through the evening oblivious of what was taking place around him. It is unusual to encounter such a level of self-absorption. He was talking about the great Sam Cooke some of the time and insisting that his swan song, A Change is Going to Come, was entitled A Change is Coming... Close but no cigar.

With the assistance of the Secret Poets I have redrafted this week's poem. You can read the pervious incarnation here.

THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY


A Friday night hotel bar

he’s a couple or three drinks ahead of me

his every word is big voiced into his phone


he is deconstructing his heart


I’m the other side of a flimsy partition

trying to camouflage my listening ear


I can’t pull out pen and paper

to record his every heartfelt word


Can I?


The poem wags a finger in my face

Whispers: this one’s not going to happen

As you can see I have removed a line that was superfluous and respaced the poem. I am still not sure of it amounts to anything serious, but I am satisfied with it. 

I suppose given the poetry evening events I should leave you with Sam Cooke. 

Until next time.         

Friday, 18 October 2024

HITS, HEADLINES & IDLE SPECULATION

Have you watched any of those biographical films that seem to be being made with increasing regularity these days? Films that purport to tell the story of a musician who has died? I've watched a couple over the last year and the experience has prompted me to write this.

we should know better

but we gather round the flat screen

while a life we think we know

through hits and headlines and idle speculation

and where we were when we heard they’d died

is played out before our eyes


The actors get the set pieces perfect

follow the live footage

better than we remember

but the director has their own ideas

and the script has been negotiated through

the demands of all of those who outlived the subject


we know better but still we watch

as if hoping for a different outcome

On both occasions when I began to watch I said to myself that this will not be my sort of film but I persevered anyway. Neither was. We all have our own idea of a narrative and to make a film you have to ensure that none of the people involved who are still alive are libelled so the film must walk a changing line. I think the poem needs a title, any ideas? 

I'm looking forward to seeing Iron and Wine in Bristol in a couple of weeks. His new album is well worth a listen.

Until next time.    

Friday, 11 October 2024

THE NEAR HORIZONS OF A SMALL TOWN

I ran a poetry workshop this week in Kingkerswell Library and I'd like to thank the people who attended and made it such an enjoyable morning. Thank you. This poem was begun in that workshop.

THE NEAR HORIZONS OF A SMALL TOWN


By Widnes Bus Garage

a mock Tudor pub

we never went in the bar

too full of bus drivers and mechanics

talking tickets, fare stages

bemoaning bus stop politics


But the snug had a jukebox

famous amongst our crowd

you stocked it with imports

to maximise income

you’d figured out the angles

rode the 70s for what they were worth


I imagine you today

balder

older

slightly embittered

at how it all turned out


it’s all rubble now

so much flat waste land

As you can see it still has many miles to go before it is able to stand on its own two feet and go out into the world. What I have not been able to do, so far, is to complete the narrative of the individual I am thinking of. The specific manner in which their life changed. 

This next poem is a redrafting. Actually I have removed a line which I think makes the poem read better. You can read the last version here.

INTERSECTION


the sun is in my eyes

but the rain falls

it’s one of those days


showers

and a winter angled sun that blinds

so the wedding party


appear to materialise

out of the glare

in small groups


impossible heels that

click click click towards you


dressed to the nines

coats held over hairdos


I should not be surprised

the bells have made announcements


and here on the cracked pavement

our lives intersect

and just like that diverge again

Once again thanks to the Secret Poets for their invaluable insights.

Sachal Vasandani has a new single out. 

Until next time.

Friday, 4 October 2024

THE FIRE IS ASH

I met with the Secret Poets this week and their excellent constructive feedback has enabled me to revise some poems. You can read the last draft of this poem here.

THE MORNING AFTER EDEN


you wake


amazed

you had managed to sleep

after all that palaver


the fire is ash

damp grey in this drizzle

no hope of cajoling a flame


then you realise you are naked

and that is a sin


he wakes


the recriminations begin

and carry on to this day

The last line has been removed and there is less focus on the sin of being naked. It is now tighter and hopefully a better poem. This next poem has also been changed, you can read the last version here.

 “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 barm cake

Again the last line has been removed. There was some discussion as to whether there was a need for food critics or if it weakened the overall poem. Apparently barm cake is now correctly spelled.

Here's Chris Cleverly, the sharp eyed amongst you may spot me in the crowd.

Until next time.