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.

A LITANY OF BUTTONS

This poem has had a long gestation. Some poems need time to feel their way to a conclusion. The rare ones arrive nearly fully formed but others take months, or longer to coalesce. 

Just A Little Insight into Her Beauty

No one saves buttons these days

to rescue a garment in a 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 the jar one move or other

and there were many, 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

I am too close to this one to talk much about it. I'm not sure this is its final version but it will do for now. 

Ryley Walker has just released a live recording of a show at the Phoenix in Exeter. It was an excellent evening. Here's a recent recording.

Until next time.

GATEWAY TO THE LUCK

I think this poem draws on vague childhood memories. I have a hazy notion of looking for a four leaf clover in the playing field near my childhood home that I have turned into this.

It was the topic of our summer

one we would return to every so often

as we sat in the central school playing field

looking at the clover

counting leaves one two and three

on the lookout for number four

the rock solid gateway to the luck

You told me that your uncle once known a man

whose life had been turned around

more luck than he knew what to do with

We renewed our search

the days were long the field was large

our prize glittered just beyond our fingers

It is far from complete. The last line is in question, I am not sure that I can get away with clover glittering. I thought of tangible but it worked even less well. I think this poem has legs though. We await developments.

Plumes has a splendid new album out, you can buy it here.

Until next time.

BRIGHT CURLED CRISP

Autumn has definitely arrived in Devon, it should have, you cry, it's November! Well, yes it is, but it's been unseasonably warm recently. Here's a poem about the season.

AUTUMN

The leaves were leaving

right angles in the wind

bright curled crisp

they fly from the branch

Then circle as if unsure

of what to make of this word freedom

only to fall

heavier than the thought

Briefly they will jewel the pavement

Nothing to say about this poem really. This next one is another in the long line of poems about writing poems. 

It comes down to the poem shouting at you

oi! over here!

As it mimes a metaphor

that you only half appreciate

You are just the hapless scribe

whose hands are full

Recording every word

as best you can 

Again it is just a little observation. I think I am in a period of writing miniatures. Small, self contained facets of lived experience. I hope they chime with you. 

Here's Ben Webster and Oscar Peterson.

Until next time.

 

UPPED STICKS

I recently went to Morlaix for the weekend, it was a flying visit. I had been there about five years before and I thought I had retained a reasonably accurate mental map of the town. I had not. It did provoke this poem.

FIVE YEARS LATER

At least two buildings had upped sticks

and shuffled across the square

to present different vistas

of their architectural features

All the roads have been rerouted

and the town centre must have shrunk in the rain

so that when we returned

our mental maps were astray

Try as we might

we were lost

and could not find our way

This is a first draft. I think the ending can be improved and I'm not sure about the layout. Watch this space.

Both Chris Cleverly and Boo Hewerdine are on tour at the moment, so I've a busy a busy week coming up as they are playing in Devon on different nights. Here's Boo live earlier this year with Yvonne Lyons. It takes a while to get going but it's worth it. 

Until next time. 

THE DAWN WAS FRESH AND CLEAR

 A personal history poem first this post.

21^st BIRTHDAY POEM

Colours erupted in the wet sky

the fireworks arrived on time

as we toasted my birthday

in malt and Moroccan

Time started to leapfrog

a series of stuttering memories

that I could later never quite sequence

but the dawn was fresh and clear

I walked home

leaving a set of footprints

on the dewed grass

that eventually led me here

This is something I've been looking at for a couple of weeks and please regard this as a first draft. I think it's pretty straight forward reportage. The events happened at a festival back in the 70s and it did conclude with fireworks.

I don't know where this one comes from. It wrote itself and I don't know what to make of it. 

Elvis said to Elvis in the Clones For Hire stockade:

I’d never have gone and done it

if I’d have even had half an inkling this would be my fate

I’d have sacked that bastard Colonel for a start

Marilyn Monroe sighed:

You always say this before they retune your head

but you never ever act on the impulse

or think about the situation we are all in now

She was called away to another job

she was the most popular of the Heritage Clones

The other Elvis sighed

and wished he’d stuck to driving trucks

It did make me smile though.

Iron and Wine were excellent. Here's a video of him live.

Until next time

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.