FIGHT OR FLIGHT

I've been moving the lines of this poem about trying to get it as clear and concise as I can. You can read the earlier version here.

CHARADE

I almost bump into Carey Grant

In the toilet of a cinema in Warrington

his image is all over one of the walls

look at the enlarged whites of his eyes

He’s in such a pickle

frozen in black and white and panic

Definitely flight or fight mode

who wouldn’t be

He’s being chased

by a crop dusting aeroplane

And is stuck in the re-creation

of someone else’s nightmare

As if he didn’t have enough

of his own to be going on with

I've changed some of the lines about and I think I'm finally satisfied with it. As I get older I find myself tinkering with poems in a manner I don't think I would have when younger. I suppose it's the distance from the poem that enables me to see other possibilities in the words.

Here's another enchanting song by Brooke Sharkey. You can buy her new album here.

Until next time.

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.