I LOOKED FOR HOURS

A change of plan since the last post. I met with the Secret Poets at the weekend and with their help ironed out the issues I had with two recent poems. I cannot stress how useful a sympathetic group of poets can be to improving your work. Take this first poem, two posts ago I had been saying that something was not right with it, thanks to the Secrets the problem has been identified and solved.

INNER SPACE

When he began to forget who he was

He took up mirrors

reflected on his reflection

Blanket wrapped the hours pass

gazing at his likeness

He is his own space telescope

the universe before him

And each eye a new world

to be examined in turn

One then the other

this one then that

Consumed by more than silence

he floats untethered

Ever diminishing

A new single first first line not only sets the scene, giving the information necessary for the poem to be understood but also compliments the final line in the layout. This next poem has been even more radically altered. You can read the earlier version here.

PAINTED MOON POEM

It is a circle on plaster

that cannot cause seas to rise or fall,

is of no use for agricultural purposes,

and sheds no soft light on lovers.

As they cannot land on it

thankfully astronauts

do not need to tell Huston

they have a problem.

I looked for hours

but could not discern a face

or locate the Sea of Tranquillity

even though the night was still.

The first stanza has gone. The poem is now more concise and the third stanza has been restructured. Thank you Secrets yet again.

Sadly I missed Alea Diane when she played a London gig recently but here she is with Paloma.

Until next time.

THEFT

I am a magpie, I take attractive words I have heard, the stories of others and attempt to make something else from them. Regular readers of this blog will know this already. Perhaps there are only a finite number of stories in the world and each new one is simply a variation? Anyway, here's a poem about it, very meta. You can read the first version of this poem here.

THEFT

On more than one occasion

I have taken a conversation

because it was there

attractive words hung in the air

and cast them in ink on a page

I was discussing the next poem with a friend recently and I was prompted to add a line. You can read the last version here. 

INNER SPACE

He took up mirrors

reflected on his reflection

Blanket wrapped the hours pass

gazing at his likeness

He is his own space telescope

the universe before him

And each eye a new world

to be examined in turn

One then the other

this one then that

Consumed by more than silence

he floats untethered

Ever diminishing

I'm still not certain about this poem. Does it stand alone without the reader needing any extra knowledge? I think it needs to go away for a time.

Maya De Vitry is touring at the moment. Here she is from earlier this year.

Until next time.

CAUSE SEAS TO RISE OR FALL

I'd been thinking about a recent poem, that something was not quite right, but I couldn't think what. Then I realised that it was the line: to ensure the sun did not reflect as the sun does not reflect, but that its light is reflected off other objects. This led me to reappraise the whole poem. You can read the earlier draft here. 

PAINTED MOON POEM

They painted a moon on the wall,

well away from the windows, of course,

to ensure the sun could not be reflected

as cold silver light into the room.

It is a circle on plaster

that cannot cause seas to rise or fall,

is of no use for agricultural purposes,

and who would want to wish upon it.

Thankfully astronauts

do not need to tell Huston

they have a problem

as they cannot land on it.

I looked for hours

but could not discern a face

or locate the Sea of Tranquillity

even though the night was still.

Now it has an extra stanza and may be complete. I shall put it away for a time and we shall see. 

Katheryn Williams has a new album out. Here's Mystery Park.

Until next time.

HE TOOK UP MIRRORS

Somewhere in my thoughts the idea of the space telescope and dementia came together. I suspect it is because people who have dementia can spend time looking in a mirror at their reflections. It is a common occurrence. 

INNER SPACE

He took up mirrors

reflected on his reflection

Blanket wrapped the hours pass

gazing at his likeness

He is his own space telescope

the universe before him

And each eye is a new world

to be examined in turn

One then the other

this is one then that

Consumed by more than silence

he floats untethered

The difficulty I had was that the poem was very wordy and needed to be pared back. There were a number of lines that I liked that fell by the wayside. I used to keep these separate convinced I could use them somewhere. I haven't yet. 

The Mountain Goats have a new album out. I'll leave you with a track.

Until next time.

HOW TO STAND

I was looking at a poem I had thought finished when I realised it still needed work. You can read the last version here. I then discussed it with a friend and concluded it really needed alterations.

YOU PLAY THE HAND YOU’RE GIVEN 1

Tallinn Old Town – Friday afternoon

What catches your attention

as you turn a corner

is the woman with the camera

chivvying the others into shapes

she sees on a screen in her head

It’s only then you notice the Bride

in ivory silk with a bouquet to match

being told where to stand

how to pose

who to look at

when to smile

and you wish her

against all the odds

a happy life

I've removed the word bossy as it was not needed, too much tell, not enough show. I felt I'd missed a trick by not using how, why, what and when. Also my friend suggested a triptych - watch this space. 

Archie Fisher died last week. He was a folk singer I'd liked since the early 70s. Here's the song that introduced me to his work.

Lo Borges also checked out of planet earth as well. I adored his work with Milton Nascimento on Clube de Esquina. This is Tudo O Que Você Podia Ser

Until next time. 

THOUGHTOGRAPHY

When I was a child I read a magazine article about a man who could hold photographic plates to his head and think images on to the paper. The resulting  fuzzy dream like black and white images fascinated me. Years later I wrote a poem about it. You can read it here. Recently I discovered that his name was Ted Serios. I was surprised to see the images again and wrote this about it.

THOUGHTOGRAPHY

See him hold the plate to his forehead

drunk as a skunk with

eyes screwed shut

and he must sit down when the task is done

He will produce images time and time again

and be called charlatan for his trouble

I’ve walked down such captured streets

tottering along with migraine head

searched through the blurred black and white

but can never stay long enough to find you

I think that a common theme of my work is the act of searching for another who is not there. The poem is too fresh for me to assess. Watch this space, it might well return.

I've been avidly listening to The Decemberists lately. They are one of my favourite bands. 

Until next time. 

THE MEN SHRUGGED

Spacing is important, it effects how people perceive a poem. Some poems can look too compact, at other times, too much air and the poem can appear slight. The previous version of this poem was probably too squat. You can read it here.

SALT

They found it where

he said they would

A day’s digging in the field

dirty brown crystals

It was, he maintained

proof there had been an ocean above our heads

To begin with it was whispered

he had placed it there himself

but as the seam expanded

and gave up pound after pounds worth of profit

They accepted it was natural

though none would go as far as to agree

this land had once been the sea bed

He claimed we limit ourselves

settle for the least we can

In the spring he left for who knows where

The men shrugged

content to hollow the earth for coin.

Thanks must again ago to the Secret Poets for their invaluable perspectives. I'm still not sure that the poem is in its final form but it's getting there.

Here's Ruben Blades with Pedro Navaja. 

Until next time.

A PAINTED MOON

I was at a gig on Saturday evening and the venue had a moon painted on the wall above the stage. It inspired this poem.

PAINTED MOON POEM

They painted a moon on the wall

well away from the windows, of course,

to ensure the sun did not reflect

cold silver light.

A circle on plaster

that cannot cause seas to rise or fall,

is of no use for agricultural purposes,

and astronauts do not need to tell Huston

they have a problem

because they cannot land on it.

I looked at it for hours

but could not discern a face

or locate the Sea of Tranquillity

even though the night was still.

I jotted down my thoughts about the moon and spent some of Sunday turning it into a poem. I don't think it's a game changer but it has some merit.

It was a Holly Ebony gig and she was excellent. If you get the chance to see her, take it.

Until next time.

REALITY WAS SOMETHING DIFFERENT

A redraft this post, with thanks to Nel for her very pertinent comments. You can read the previous draft here.

INDOOR FIREWORKS

Undeniably the box held promise

a sun bleached label with wonky grammar

overprinted with geysers of bright light

Reality was something different

A splutter of iron filing sparkle

a brief magnesium flare

as the house filled with smoke

I was grateful back then

there were no smoke detectors

some life lessons are best learned early

To be honest I looked at the poem prior to our discussion and had decided that two of the lines needed to be swapped about. However, I cannot stress the importance of constructive feedback from people you trust.

I'm reading Wishing On The Moon by Donald Clarke, a biography of Billie Holiday. I leave you with These Foolish Things.

Until next time.  

WHAT DID NOAH THINK?

About forty plus years ago I wrote a [bad] poem about Noah that contained the line "the world through Noah's eyes" that went on to draw tortuous comparisons between the Biblical Flood and the placement of cruise missiles in the UK. Yes it was as awful as it sounds. The other day that line about how the world must have looked to Noah popped into my head. These days I know more about the myth it was based on, which is mentioned in The Epic of Gilgamesh. The later was version tailored for the Old Testament during the exile in Babylon.  

RETREAD

What did Noah think?

Parachuted into a borrowed myth

to make it tell their own tale

What a tight script

no wiggle room

He did as he was told

and when the land was dry once more

he plants vines

tends his crop

ferments the harvest.

It takes the edge off

I wondered how Noah must have felt, shoe horned into an existing tale, replacing Utpanishtim as the person who builds an ark and saves humanity. Afterwards he apparently, according to the Bible, he was the first wine maker.

Here's an old song by Moving Hearts that I think I've posted before.

Until next time.     

GEYSERS OF BRIGHT LIGHT

Indoor fireworks, do you remember them? I thought they were a thing of the past but a quick search has informed me that they are available today. I bought some once and needless to say was disappointed. I was thinking about the incident recently and it led to this poem.

INDOOR FIREWORKS

Undeniably the box held promise

a sun bleached label with wonky grammar

overprinted geysers of bright light

Reality was something different

a splutter of iron filing sparkle

a brief magnesium flare

As the house filled with smoke

I was grateful back then

there were no smoke detectors

Some life lessons are best learned early

I've had about four attempts at writing this poem. I think it's finally worth showing people. At the time the whole house stank of smoke. I wonder if indoor fireworks have improved. I shall not be finding out anytime soon.

Danny Thompson died last week. He was an amazing bass player who played with everyone you could think of. Here he is with John Martyn.

Until next time.

SIDESWIPE

I was saddened to hear of the death of Brian Patten this week. I can't claim to have known the man but we talked on occasion and he was complimentary of my poetry. He was generous enough to offer to write something more for the blog the last time I saw him read. I don't know why I did not take him up on his offer, I suppose I thought I could in the future, sadly it was not to be. Here he is in full flow. 

I've actually just got back from Catalunya and this was the last of the posts I'd written before I went. Have you ever had one of those experiences when something catches you off guard and evokes a forgotten memory that is so strong it knocks you sideways? That is what the following poem attempts to capture.

SIDESWIPE

Out of nowhere a song knocks me off my feet

and I am miles ago and years away

You are asking me what ever is up

because I look like I’ve seen a ghost

I stare at you mute

because that’s exactly what has happened

Everything vanishes as I tumble towards today

I've been struggling with this one for a couple of weeks. I've been writing down lines as they have occurred to me and I still think it is not quite in focus. 

Here's a short video featuring The Wave Pictures live. They are on tour at the moment and well worth catching.

Until next time.

THE PROCESS STOPPED

Here's a poem that describes a chemical plant shut down. It's a slice of my past, back in the 70s I worked as a tradesman in a chemical plant. Once a year the plant was shut down, it was a continuous process and some maintenance could not be undertaken while the plant was working.

SHUT DOWN

For the first time in a year

the process stopped

All was silent and the process men

got on with what had been put off

We were given our schedules

and took up our tools to repair and overhaul plant

Fourteen hour days or more

obligatory overtime for everyone

Within the designated time period

it was completed and slowly brought back on line

While we looked for leaks

and the inevitable mistakes of tired men

I have never heard a sounds like that before or since

like some great beast coming back from sleep

Process men ran the plant but during the shut down they were at a loose end. I am not sure what I will do with this poem. I think the drawer beckons.

Here's Laura Gibson. 

Until next time.

AN OCEAN ABOVE OUR HEADS

The following poem evolved in my head over a couple of days before I put pen to paper. I had been thinking about a salt mine in Poland I had visited years ago and how we humans create holes in the ground.

Salt

They found it where he said they would,

a day’s digging in the field, dirty brown crystals.

It was, he maintained, proof that some time before

there had been an ocean above our heads.

To begin, with it was whispered, he had placed it there himself

but as the seam expanded

and gave up pound after pounds worth of profit

they accepted it was natural

though none would go as far as to agree

this land had once been the sea bed.

He claimed we limit ourselves

settle for the least we can.

In the spring he left for who knows where.

The men were indifferent,

content to hollow the earth for coin.

I have to thank Nel for taking the time to discuss this poem and for making a number of excellent suggestions. I actually think this one is complete. 

Toumani Djabati died recently and is missed greatly. I first saw him back in the 80s and have loved his music ever since.

Until next time.

ADDICITIVE APPLAUSE

This poem got me out of bed early one morning, I'm not sure it wasn't a dream.

IT’S THE APPLAUSE THAT’S SO DAMN ADDICTIVE

We had a number one in Italy, launched the next album there, performed the side long title track on primetime national tv

But that was back in the 70s, and I’m told the royalties are still in the post

Our glory days, back before the first break up as we lost traction amid the fashions changing

now we get back together when the accounts say its time and play venues like this

I suppose in part it's based on all those prog rock bands from the 70s, or possibly any band that is resilient enough to keep coming back. To be honest, I'm not sure what to do with it.

Here's Bronco, an English band from the early 70s who never got back together.

Until next time.