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.