SOLO SAILOR ON A LIMITLESS SEA

I have been playing about with an idea for sometime now and I think I have managed to get it into a rough order. I think it's self explanatory.

If he was alone on a storm tossed sea

he would call out to Jesus

wouldn’t we he asked with certainty

[this was the place to pause in the lesson plan]

There could only be one way

fall onto your knees

and start to pray to your redeemer

It was all wasted on me

Stuck in a trough of towering waves

solo sailor on a limitless sea

how had I ended up there

Exactly what was my backstory

I could never make sense of the Trinity

and this latest example of faith

was totally beyond me

I refused to go to confirmation class after that

The metre isn't quite there nor I suspect is the ending. Watch this space.

Brian Wilson passed away last week so I shall leave you with a classic. Thanks Brian.

Until next time.  

WATERLOGGED RICE

Here's an autobiographical poem about food. I've been vegetarian since the 70s and the lack of preprepared food caused me to develop my cooking skills. 

MY COOKING ADVENTURE

It began with rice and veg, a suitably earnest dish, taken from the pages of a second hand macrobiotic cook book

The dense and contradictory Introduction defeated me and so I never completely understood the philosophy

What the hell, I just jumped in and started to cook

The serious food of 1970s vegetarianism gave way to obsession, to make the perfect souffle which in turn led to a pasta machine

Then the subtleties of the mezze and authentic regional dishes from the subcontinent

Now I am old, I have the moves, I can do it all from scratch without breaking into a sweat

and I’m a long way from the days of underdone vegetables and waterlogged rice

The poem assembled itself from the first line and I am not sure that it has the right ending. Over half a century a person should be able to develop their skills if they so desire. I wanted to capture how serious the food was back then. This is definitely a work in progress.

Pollyanna has just released a deluxe version of her ep Man Time, needless to say it's superb. You can listen to it here. I leave you with Diamond Ring.  

Until next time.

CIRCLED THE EARTH

I do like a sauna and I've been enjoying the new crop of seaside saunas that have popped up in the south west. I was sat in the Blackpool Sands sauna the other week and began to write this in my head.

The pop up sauna

is all varnished pine and dry heat

in truth it is a big barrel

laid on its side

near the tideline

I’m sat sweating inside

I look out the porthole

on what could be a moonscape

I think about Yuri

and Valentina

who circled the earth

in capsules the size

of a large washing machine

just to be the first

So the poem mentions Yuri Gagarin, as many of my poems do. Valentina Tereshkova was the first woman in space and I saw her actual capsule in the Cosmonaut Exhibition in London. It was very small. I've not much to say about the poem. It's a bit too new to make sense of. Watch this space.

I leave you with a song about a spaceman by Bob and Carol Pegg.

Until next time.

 

WHO WOULD COURT MISFORTUNE?

Some poems are based on real life, some are not. This is one of those. Not sure about the ending.

ELEPHANT ORNAMENTS

My father would have none of it

china elephants holiday gifts

they always bring bad luck

and who would court misfortune?

There were moments when a child

that I sensed elephants in the living room

the drum taut tension of things unsaid

I knew not to ask

I had an interesting discussion with a friend about last post's poem and was prompted to make a number of changes.

For Euan and Murray

I am carrying you

into your dreams

This is

my walking spell

the same circuit

of forty two steps

Again and again

around this room

And as we move

all I ask of you

Is to close

those tired eyes

Then you

will cross the border

Don’t worry

the whole wide world

Will still be here

when you awaken

What do you think? Does it work better? I think so. Thanks Nel.

Here are Everything But The Girl.

Until next time.

CROSS THE BORDER

I had thought this poem complete but the Secret Poets made so many suggestions that I realised it need a total overhaul. Thank you Secrets. You can read the original here.

For Euan and Murray

I am carrying you

into your dreams

This is

my walking spell

I walk the same circuit

of forty two steps

Again and again

around this room

And as we move

all I ask of you

Is to close

those heavy lidded eyes

Then you

will cross the border

Don’t worry

the whole wide world

Will still be here

when you awaken

Making the layout into couplets works well. The individual words have a chance to breathe and overall it adds to the charm-like quality of the poem. I do think it is now complete. 

Here's a new song from Anna Ternheim.

Until next time.

SEA GLASS

Do you ever wander along a beach looking for sea glass? I do, it helps that I'm lucky enough to live by the sea. Though I've just discovered that sea glass can be found by the banks of rivers, though it is less frosted than glass smoothed by the seas, and is known as beach glass. Here's a poem about sea glass.

FLEETING

Amid the silica

sea glass

on its way back

from bottle

to being grains on a beach

Towards the end

of this transformation

I hold it in my hand

and admire the ocean’s lapidary

I'm not sure this is complete. It is meant to be a description, the mystery is in the beauty of each unique piece. Here's a connected poem about finding a Spanish pop bottle on the beach.

A pop bottle from Spain

has ended up on the strand

half full of grey water

the plastic label worn but readable

it has travelled so far to be recycled

As I pick it up I notice

a sea green glass pebble

that I place in my pocket

Do people still say pop? Or is it beverage, or some such other word? Anyway this bottle travelled from Spain across the Atlantic to Torquay, where it was recycled. A rather epic journey.

I found this live footage of Shelagh McDonald recently. It's beautiful.

Until next time.

TOMORROW WILL TAKE CARE OF ITSELF

Yesterday was the 80th anniversary of the end of war in Europe, VE Day. I was going to repost a poem about my father in that day but I ended up revising it instead. You can read the last attempt here. 

8^th MAY 1945

The Ivy Benson band will not play

in the Alexandra club this evening

everyone is too busy celebrating

the end of the war in Europe

The conflict has taken Charlie

from Runcorn to Rome in

two thousand and seventy seven days

with many stops in between

Tonight is a little sigh

a brief respite in hostilities

Charlie parties with the band

tomorrow will take care of itself

The Ivy Benson Band was an all female big band. The story is true, they did not take to the stage that night but partied the night away in the Alexandra Club along with my father. Here's what they sounded like.

And I cannot close without a reprise of D-Day Dodgers.

Until next time.

AS COMPLEX AS LIFE

Here is a poem that came to me in a dream. I think it is pretty self-explanatory. I shall thank the Secret Poets, yet again, for their support and observations. 

POEM FOR CHRISTINE

I dreamt of you last night.

We were living in some far city,

I had something to do with the university

where Leonard Cohen was going to give a reading

in the lecture space atop the library,

all very informal.

There were the usual barriers that dreams put up

to ensure they are as complex as life

but the sun shone and the people had enough to eat.

Anyway when I arrived he had begun.

Thinking back on it now I am awake,

I can see he was a collage

composed of the dozen or so times I saw him,

morphing from a younger man in the 70s,

to the old man who never stopped touring

and back again in the space of a poem.

Though I was close enough I couldn’t ask a question

or get him to sign the copy of Selected Poems

that had appeared in my hands.

He was there and then gone

and you never arrived.

Though the world carried on I waited

until they locked the building.

The sun had set the night was warm

and our children came to collect me.

I thought of you somewhere in that city

as I rushed back towards morning.

Some poems write themselves [with a little bit of help]. Thank you Secrets.

Here's a new video of a song I've posted many times. Take it away Murray.

Until next time.

 

WEASEL WORDS

I don't seem to be able to let this poem be. I've had a couple of goes at writing it over the years but a definite version seems to allude me. It is based on the conceit that an avatar of mine is conjured in the head of the man who sold us all down the river with all the horror that comes with the phrase.

INSIDE THE HEAD OF THE MAN WHO SOLD US ALL DOWN THE RIVER

His weasel words of self aggrandisement

once again conjure me into existence

and I am told where to stand and what to say

His take on our shared history

his reality

mine would be more cutting

But I am a simple iteration

concocted to speak his words that big him up

with a vocabulary I would never have used

Elsewhere on the planet

the actual me gets on with my life

and never thinks of him

My subconscious must still be processing an event from my past. Will it ever produce and acceptable version? This next poem I've revised the third stanza and a number of other lines. Hopefully it reads better.

PRECARIOUS

He served he said

they called him sailor

he’d seen it all when in the navy

and told us so

at every turn of human nature

We worked the same gig

nine months on promises

then just before the big buyout

they let us all go

messaged us the news

Shut up shop and fled

and that was that

the half hinted at rewards

so much empty sugar

Me and him  well

we sat on the platform all night

hoarding what we had left

waiting for the dawn

new day new chances

He told me he’d lasted six whole weeks

never made it past the harbour

bought himself out of the service

and lived his life on the ripple

a stuttering sequence of jobs

Then he asked me

how do you make your way

when the waves rise then topple

how do you stand in a sinking sea

I shook my head

I had no answers

I have to thank the Secret Poets for their assistance in clarifying this poem.

Here's Hurray For The Riff Raff.

Until next time.

SO MUCH EMPTY SUGAR

I've been writing this poem for some time, jotting down odd lines as they entered my head. I don't know where the idea came from. It was just an image of two men talking, after being made redundant yet again, and one man confessing his secret. 

PRECARIOUS

He served he said

they called him sailor

he’d seen it all when in the navy

and told us so

in response to every turn of human nature

We worked the same gig

nine months on promises

then just before the big buyout

they let all us go

shut up shop and fled

The half hinted at rewards

so much empty sugar

spun of smiles and fine talk

messaged us the news

and that was that

Me and him well

we sat on the platform all that night

hoarding what we had left

waiting for the dawn

new day new chances

He told me he’d lasted six whole weeks

never made it past the harbour

bought himself out of the service

and lived his life on the ripple

a stuttering sequence jobs like this one

Then he asked me

how do you make your way

when the waves rise then topple

how do you stand in a sinking sea

I shook my head

I had no answers

It certainly isn't finished. Too many half set lines. I can't see a way forward at the moment. Like a fine wine, this tale needs time to mature. 

Lola and the Rhinos played their last gig last Saturday. We shall miss them.

Max Romeo died this week. His album War in a Babylon is a classic. So long Max thanks for the amazing music.

Until next time.

SOMEONE ELSE'S NIGHTMARE

I've always liked Carey Grant. He made acting look effortless. His timing was impeccable and he never seemed to take himself that seriously. He was a very skilled actor. The other week I walked into a cinema toilet and there was a huge frieze on one of the walls, a still from North By Northwest. That classic scene when he's been chased by the crop dusting plane through the maize field. The image set me thinking.

CHARADE

In the toilet of a cinema in Warrington

I almost bump into Carey Grant

Frozen as he is in black and white and panic

all over one of the walls

He’s in a bit of a pickle

look at those enlarged eyes

Definitely flight or fight mode

who wouldn’t be

He’s been chased

by a crop dusting aeroplane

And is stuck in the re-enactment

of someone else’s nightmare

As if he didn’t have enough

of his own to be going on with

The title Charade is a reference to another film he starred in, one of my favourites. I saw it when it originally came out in 1963 and many times since. Mr Grant had a terrible upbringing and appeared to only become at peace with himself in the 1950s following LSD therapy. I was wondering how a person with so many issues of their own dealt with being in another person's nightmare.

I was reading a series of articles recently in the Irish Examiner entitled Ireland in 50 Albums. It brought back memories of some bands I'd not thought about for years. The Stars of Heaven being one of them. Here's The Lights of Tetoan.

Until next time.   

WALKING SPELL

Some poems arise from the imagination, an idea, a line, an image that quickly writes itself. Other poems have a basis in fact and the ensuing poem may be an amalgam of many actual experiences. This poem is what it seems, a description of an event.

WALKING SPELL

I am carrying you into your dreams

this is my walking spell

whose power lies in repetition

I walk the same circuit

of the forty two steps

again and again around this room

And as we move all I ask of you

is to close those heavy lidded eyes

then you will cross the border

Don’t worry the whole wide world

will still be here when you awaken

I have not altered it much since the first draft. The focus has been on making it flow. Though it is still very early days, I think it is heading in the right direction.

Brooke Sharkey has a new single out. Frequent readers of this blog will know that I have supported Brooke over the years. It's good to hear her music once more. You can link to her website here.

Until next time.   

BLACK SCRAPS OF STEALTH

Last spring I spent a couple of days on the Costa Brava and one night I watched bats hunt in the twilight. The beam of a lighthouse catching them in mid flight. I stored the memory away knowing I would one day write a poem about it.

NIGHT HUNTERS

Unexpected the wind is in my ears

louder than my tinnitus ever could be

warm like a low power hand dryer

It must have picked up as night came

we’ve just left the restaurant

are by the squat light house

In the beam black scraps of stealth

strobe in and out of existence

it hurts to chart their orbits

and I question my eyes

all the way to the car

The poem percolated in my head for a long time I could vividly remember the bats but the words would not come. I've been working on this for the last couple of weeks. Watch this space.

Here's an early Elvis Costello song Motel Matches, I love the ambiguity of the lyric. He is a fine songwriter.

Until next time. 

JAMES LAST IS FIRST

This poem is a rewrite. You can read the last version here. I was never satisfied with the poem and recently rewrote it. 

Soundtrack for a Charity Shop

James Last is first

because you can usually find

one of his long players

in the record rack

alongside a Johnny Mathis,

both sold millions back in the day.

They front the line of budget classics

Beethoven’s greatest hits etc.

[capitalism camouflaged as culture].

I think I’d rather go to the

Fifty Top Tune Banjo Party

than listen to Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Requiem

every last copy is in mint condition

because nobody could face listening

to it more than once.

And all the prices have gone up

ever since the staff started googling Discogs,

just because a mint first pressing is worth real money

this scratched and battered reprint

has not the same value

but they never listen when you try to tell them. 

It is now longer than it previously was and I think the more conversational style works better. It also struck me that the opening line was reasonably funny. In the six years since I first had the idea to write about LPs in charity shops the times have changed. Vinyl is once more hip. I read in a survey of young people's music habits that having a record player was indicative being an authentic fan and apparently 80% of those interviewed owned decks. Just like when I was young. 

Speaking of those days I was listening to Smith, Perkins and Smith recently. They released one album on Island in 1972.

Until next time.