TALKED OF NOTHING IN PARTICULAR

Seasons greetings! This post's poem contains a dialect word local to Runcorn - baggin'. I can find no online definition. In the 1970s when I worked in the chemical industry the common term for the food we brought into work was baggin', so the room you ate your meal in was known as the baggin' room. 

At Castner-Kelner Chemical Works in the 1970s,

the baggin’ room of K-Unit Maintenance,

was not conducive to the reading of great literature.

No thick tomes, with dense plots

and serious titles were to be seen,

for we were not there to broaden our horizons

but to repair broken down machinery.

So we were offered no clues about those books

that may have helped us understand,

why we were there in the first place,

in overalls and educated only to a specific level

that meant we could maintain the unit

but that offered no other possibilities.

So every breaktime we drank tea

and talked of nothing in particular.

The poem is concerned with access to education and how in those days people's opportunities were less. The school I attended was designed to provide the workforce for the factories and manufacturing industries. Opportunities for tertiary education were more limited. This version is a draft. It may make it to a further draft, at the moment I cannot see what to do with it. Time will tell.

On that note I will leave you with a Bob Marley song.

Until next time.

REINCARNATION BLUES

There's a lot to be said for sharing your work with others because they will not be as familiar with it as you are and will see the flaws. This revised poem benefitted from being discussed with friends. Thank you Secrets. You can read the pervious version here. 

REINCARNATION BLUES

It was lucky that we had the gramophone,

separated as we were by time,

and you could leave me messages

in the canyon spirals of shellac discs,

cunningly wrought as they were from insect resin.

Eventually I happened upon them

in fire sales of bankrupt stock.

Then with a growing fascination,

in the backrooms of second hand shops

that litter the fading ports this side of the warming sea.

You described your love for me

in the words of Tin Pan Alley tunes,

spry three minute miniatures that chronicle

the moves of smiling men who could never be me,

and the heartbreak from their treachery.

You see I arrived too late though not by choice.

You had jumped impulsively from the Bardo

as the drop zone came into sight.

I hesitated. Too late I followed.

Half the globe away your siren songs had long been sung.

You were gone decades ago

and now I have the hands of an old man

with a face that almost matches.

This time around we got out of step.

Mistiming, loneliness are the lessons we lived this life to learn.

Like the revised poem last post, this poem too has gained punctuation and lost some words. It reads better now. It is I think complete. 

Here's the Ezra Collective, get dancing.

Until next time.

FIVE YELLOW STARS

I met up with the Secret Poets this week. We try to meet every four to six weeks. As usual they were able to offer constructive feedback on  my latest poems. This one lost part of a line and gained some punctuation.

BUTTONS

Who saves buttons these days

to rescue a garment in time of need.

Your mother did, in a big glass jar.

Studiously she cut them off those labels

the ones we only notice when they make us itch.

I’ve never told you this before,

too embarrassed,

too distressed,

because I mislaid it one move or other

after her death.

All I can offer you is this,

a litany of buttons you will never see,

pearl white, little maroon, big wooden buttons.

Oh, and the five yellow stars

she meant to put on the jumper

she never had the chance to knit you.

You can read the other draft here. I think this poem is as finished as it will ever be. Thank you Secrets.

Here's Astrid Williamson. Her latest album is excellent.

Until next time.

  

YOUR SIREN SONGS HAD BEEN SUNG

Sometimes in that half awake borderland I dream poems, occasionally they appear near fully formed, this one did not. I had the bare bones [though at the time, it was just a screed of words on a page] and I let the idea percolate for a time before attempting to shape it. 

It was lucky that we had the gramophone,

separated as we were by time,

and you could leave me messages

in the canyon spirals of shellac discs

cunning wrought as they were from insect resin

Eventually I happened upon them

in fire sales of bankrupt stock

then with a growing fascination

in the backrooms of second hand shops

that litter the fading ports this side of a warming sea

You described your love for me

in the words of Tin Pan Alley tunes

spry three minute miniatures that chronicle

the moves of men who could never be me

and the heartbreak that results from their treachery

You see I arrived too late not by choice

you had jumped impulsively from the Bardo

as the drop zone came into sight

it was obscured by turbulence I hesitated

half the globe away your siren songs had been sung

This time around we got out of step

you are gone decades ago

I have the hands of an old man

with a face that almost matches

mistiming, loneliness are the lessons we live this life to learn

Essentially I was thinking of a couple with a karmic bond - an intense relationship between two people that is rooted in past lives or lives. My semi-dreaming state thought about what would happen if they were separated by time but connected through early recordings. I was thinking of 78's telling a story to the one who was born later. 

Does it work? I think the idea is basically sound but it may need revision. I shall show this poem to my colleagues the Secret Poets. Watch this space.

Here's another old psychedelic band, please ignore the awful cover. Blonde On Blonde deserve better art.

Until next time.