A WINDOW DISPLAY FOR THE SOUL

I have a number of half ideas for poems that I have never managed to complete. Here are some of the ones that just about made it. 

Shoes I had been reliably informed

should be a window display for the soul

bright, clean and in good condition

Mine had seen some action

I would fail that particular test today

I think I made up the saying. My mother used to say clean shoes are the mark of a gentleman. 

His van had I am a child of God, 1 John 1.3 painted on the side

It was perhaps because of this he blocked a three car parking space effortlessly

His neighbours had other ideas about his parentage

I actually saw a van with the quotation painted on its side [and yes it was blocking three parking spaces].  

THE DYNAMICS OF A PAPER BAG IN THE RAIN

The paper bag functioned as it was designed to until I was half way home

Slowly it began to swell then sag then spilled half its contents all over the slick pavement

I paid 25p for the privilege and I almost yearned for the old days of cheap plastic

But not quite

I wrote this last one after I picked my books up off the wet pavement. 

Chip Taylor died on Monday. He finally lost his battle with cancer. His beautiful, humane, honest music is still with. Thanks Chip for all the truth, the beauty and the humanity you brought to this world. We need it now more than ever. I make no apologies for playing these songs once again.

Until next time.

JUST THE LUCK OF THE DRAW

Certain poems never feel quite finished. Take today's rewrite. I was doing a reading recently and read what I had thought was the finished version only to be dissatisfied with the whole thing. You can read that version here.

MURDER MYSTERY

I have arranged all this

sent out the invitations

Cobbled together a costume

to mirror the part I play

Here we are at table

all nervous laughter

We face each other

across the place settings

You are the married woman with secrets to hide

art imitates life

Your husband's role is as a trendy vicar

just the luck of the draw

Events unfold

follow the printed script

You could have done it! The vicar cries

points at you across the table

You’re having an affair!

The penny has dropped

The cat is out of the bag

I study your eyes

wait for your response

You denial sounds convincing

art imitating life

Then all attention turns to me

as I am revealed to be the murderer

There is much changed. I have tried to simplify the story, changed the layout and hopefully made it clearer. I wanted to emphasise that the narrator knows more than he is saying and the husband less. Probably time to put it away for another twelve years!

The Wave Pictures have a new album out. Here's House Painted Blue.

until next time.  

HOW TO CORRUPT YOUR OWN COUNTRY

I woke in the middle of the night with the germ of this poem circling inside my head. I got up and sketched the bare bones in the light of a street lamp.

HOW TO CORRUPT YOUR COUNTRY

• start with the teachers. Make them mouth your new lies. Fashion the curriculum until it mirrors your twisted logic and hate is triumphant

• control the media. This goes without saying. Pass laws that make truth telling illegal.

• silence all who dare to disagree. Show trials can be effective, as can framing the innocent. If this fails fall back on the death squads.

• have neighbour inform on neighbour, brother on sister. Offer incentives to ensure that none will know who they can trust.

• once all this is achieved, begin to purge those closest to you. The corruption you have condoned will provide real evidence.

• try to sleep at night, if you can. 

It is an angry poem. How many times have individuals sought to destroy democracy? Probably since we invented democracies. This is a work in progress. I worry it is too hectoring, far too much tell and not enough show. Plus it is essentially a list poem and it is difficult to pull off a list poem without it sounding simply a list!

Iron and Wine have a new album out, Hen's Teeth, a great title.

Until next time.

THE GREAT AND THE GOOD

I collect phrases I like, ones that I hear or read in books. The trouble is I usually do nothing with them. The other day though, I decided to use one that has been knocking about for some time as a writing exercise. I do not remember where the phrase the unpopular provincial museum came from but it sparked this.

THE UNPOPULAR PROVINCIAL MUSEUM

Neither the locale nor the architecture

is anything to write home about.

The walls are lined with portraits

of people you’ve never heard of,

presumably the great and the good,

poorly executed by artists whose enthusiasm

outweighed their ability.

This one it is claimed won a Bronze,

another a cap for his country,

here it is secure, pinned to the wall,

for the few who visit to see.

It all adds up to a feeling

that nothing has ever happened here,

which given the times we live in,

adds to its attractiveness

and makes it a desirable and safe place to live.

I think the description of the museum needs to be more detailed, more damming, so that the turn at the end of the poem is more unexpected. Given the uncertainty surrounding every aspect of life at the moment who would not wish to be somewhere dull and safe?

Maya De Vitry is recording a new album at the moment. Here's a recent live recording.

Until next time.

ALWAYS A DAY BEHIND

I don't usually use the voice recorder on my phone to jot down ideas as I think the act of speaking them out loud somehow fixes them in the moment. I find the fluidity of pen and ink more malleable. This first poem was an idea I had that died in the air.

The car he drives reflects his haircut

an attempt to be fashionable in some parallel world

he staggers towards tomorrow

knowing he will always be a day behind

Pretty misanthropic really. It was meant to be light but it doesn't work. This next one I've been working on for some time. It is based partly on a real incident. 

There was no instant gratification I can tell you

you needed a working knowledge

an understanding of F-stops

shutter speeds

how to read a light meter

Back then you needed to plan

you had to rustle up a dark room

to improvise on your feet

Patience that’s what you needed

and a little luck that you’d caught the exact moment

I ask you who would want

to photograph their plate of food?

His voice incredulous ripples

across the terrace for all to hear

at least those who understood English.

I’m over the other side

in the shade by the tree

taking in his every contemptuous word

and I not about to tell him

at times I have photographed my food

Again it is meant to be tongue in cheek but feels clunky. I think this one may have legs. Watch this space.

Alela Diane has a new album coming out, you can order it here. 

Until next time.   

OF COURSE THERE WAS SMOKE

I don't have much to say about this poem as I think it's quite self explanatory. I will say that if you can find a copy of any of the Uncle the Elephant books then read them, you won't be disappointed.

THE PRIZE GIVING

There we were in the bookshop

you me and the book seller

That celebration evening

the end of our three years study

It could have been a dream

some bibliophiles best fantasy

We huddled in the backroom

of course there was smoke

an ember passed from hand to hand

and then another

In honour of the occasion

we decided to award ourselves prizes

[in other less colourful circles

I think they call it stealing]

You chose Gunter Schuller on jazz

such a thick tome

Serious

so at odds with our evening

My eye fixed on Uncle the Elephant

a particular warm memory of my childhood

I have it still

the pages aged and yellowed

I read it to my children

but did not tell them how I acquired it

This is the first draft I am prepared to exhibit. It may change. Watch this space.

I watched the Judee Sill documentary the other day. It was both amazingly beautiful and very sad. 

Until next time.

I CALL YOUR NAME

A couple of weeks ago I said I would take a poem to the Secret Poets for their opinions on it, we met last week. You can read the previous incarnation of the poem here.

IN SEARCH OF A MISSING CAT

Electric light in a bramble tunnel

that links parts of my geography

in a way I had no idea of until now

All the while I call your name

that little whistle that denotes your dinner

Thankfully the rain has stopped

Strangers offer suggestions

shake their heads

wish me luck

The emphasising beam of the torch

seems to increase the distance

space becomes infinite

I decide to return home

check the house on the off chance

only to discover a sleeping kitten

amid the chaos he has made

of pulled-up carpet and underlay

in the middle bedroom behind the shut door

Pleasingly there was not much to change. In the fourth stanza "spaces become infinite" has changed into "space becomes infinite". Most discussion centred on the word locked and how much it was different to shut. The bedroom door had been shut not locked. The word shut carries less negative connotations than locked. The poem is now complete. Thank you Secrets.

Here's Murray Head with Affair Across a Crowded Room.

Until next time.