CONSTANTLY PLAYING

Yesterday was World Book Day and was invited to give a reading in Ivybridge at the Tap Room. I'd like to thank all those that came and the Tap Room for having me. This first poem is a revised draft. Thanks, once again, to the Secret Poets for their assistance in fine tuning it. You can read the earlier version here.

BREAK TIME IN THE BAGGIN ROOM

In the 1970s, the K-unit Maintenance Baggin’ Room,

at Castner-Kelner Chemical Works,

was not conducive to the discussion of great literature.

We were employed to fix broken machinery,

not to broaden our intellectual horizons,

so there were no pointers to those volumes

that could have enabled us to understand

why we had been educated to a certain point

then handed overalls and told to get on with it.

We drank tea on our breaks

and talked of nothing in particular.

I think that it is as complete as it can be. Now it can join all those other poems I have written about K Unit over the years. This next poem is just a small observation. I was just thinking how some people's music must be playing somewhere in the world 24/7.

GLOBAL

they’re famous

they’re dead

and once in a while

you play the album

their popular one

that every other person owns

and without your realising it

you do your bit

keep their music

constantly playing somewhere around the globe

I nearly entitled it They're famous, they're dead but decided against it. I preferred something less bald. 

I suppose I should leave you with a Beatles song as they are the group I was thinking of [yes, I know only two of them have died]. 

Until next time.

EARWIGGING

I promise this is the last time I shall show you this poem, I think it's complete-phew! You can read the last version here.

In the 1970s, the K-unit Maintenance

baggin’ room, at Castner-Kelner Chemical Works,

was not conducive to the study of great literature.

We were employed to fix broken machinery,

not to broaden our intellectual horizons,

so there were no pointers to those volumes

that could have enabled us to understand

why we had been educated to a certain point

then handed overalls and told to get on with it.

We drank tea on our breaks

and talked of nothing in particular.

I think the tight punctuation aids clarity, as does removal of all extraneous words. That's always difficult, but it is worth asking yourself how the poem benefits from each word and being ruthless in removing excess.

the parking police walk up our street

earwigging I’m walking behind

it’s like this is the savannah

and we’re the apex predator

we give no one a second chance

let alone some third act of grace

a ticket on every window

and digital photographs of the crime

you can’t argue with technology

it’s a result every single time

This was just a little idea that occurred to me when I watched two traffic wardens walking up the road deep in conversation. The rest was fantasy.

I suppose I should play Lovely Rita by The Beatles to complement the second poem.

Until next time.    

STRAY WORDS SET FREE

 

I've been reading 1966 by Jon Savage and I think the section on burning The Beatles records sparked this post's poem. I've never understood the desire to burn books, I think it's a waste and some how makes the banned books stronger, more desirable. It's as if the people doing the burning are frightened or limited in their means of expression. 

THE BOOK BURNING

was everything you’d expect it to be.

Self-righteous men, always men,

directing the children, laden

with armfuls of the banned, damned books.

Casting them into the inferno

with a wide eyed giddy intensity,

ecstatic in this act of vandalism

we are burning books!

and the air is full of charred letters.

Stray words set free

from carefully constructed sentences.

The ink knows as it sizzles,

that every book is a temporary alliance

of print and wood pulp and glue.

If the men had been more patient

eventually it would have returned to dust

Does it work? I think so [otherwise I wouldn't be showing it], I wanted to show the different lengths of time that things last. The burning of books is a form of group insanity. I shall put the poem away for a couple of months, which usually exposes flaws. Watch this space.

Here are The Beatles.

Until next time.

A COLLECTION OF COLOURED PIXELS

I was visiting the National Portrait Gallery last Saturday and I had just found a seat in the café when I looked out of the window to see someone taking a photograph of the building. Simultaneously I realised I would be in the picture framed by the window. This thought led me to write this poem.

TOURIST

I will be in your photograph

the one you are taking now

of the grand facade of this building

as I am sat in the coffee shop

sipping green tea

looking out of the window

my face a collection of coloured pixels

caught on the screen of your phone

as you record every moment of your life

It's an early draft but I suspect it's almost there. I went to see the Paul MacCartney exhibition of photographs from 1963/4 and very splendid it was. I can't recommend the show enough. If you can get there it's more than worth a look. 

I also went to naifs for a meal on Saturday night. Honestly I cannot sing the praises of the cuisine highly enough. Every time I eat there the food is superb. It has to be the best place to eat in London. Here's another little poem I wrote in response to the wet summer we are experiencing.

the weather is changeable irrational non-negotiable

like an actor playing against type

who discovers joy in the chaos their character unleashes

There's not much to it. It arrived quickly. I think it captures the cold, wet summer we are experiencing here in the south west. Perhaps September will be dry...

I suppose I should end with The Beatles in all their glory.

Until next time.      

LIVING BY THE WATER

So much for my claim last post that I was going to put the poem away in a drawer for some months. Instead I took it to a meeting of the Secret Poets and received some first rate constructive feedback. Thank you Secrets.
I'd actually just finished reading a book about collaboration, called Help! by Thomas Brothers, which argues that Duke Ellington and The Beatles were the outstanding composers and performers they were because they knew how to collaborate with others. It's an interesting and positive argument. I know I derive a great deal from sharing and discussing with other poets.

Living by the Water

His last great splendid had sailed,

he walked the changing shore,

watched the waves,

kidded himself that a life

lived beside the water kept it real.

Eventually it sank in.

His last great splendid had sailed

and here he was,

quenched in brine and red biddy,

discovering he was the wrong side of a sea

too deep to wade, too far to leap.

The sun had set, the night was cold.

So what's different? 
The layout is changed and two lines have been removed. You can compare the previous version here. In the third line in the second stanza I have removed the word illusions as it was thought to be superfluous.
I think as a poem it's about there.

Here are the Fab Four with Penny Lane. Oh for the days of psychedelia! I was eleven in 1967, just discovering music and I thought it would be like this for ever.

Until next time.

THE POSSIBILITIES OF POETRY

A poem about potential this post.
I have asserted many times that poems are all around us and that the job of the poet is to spot them. This poem is about how at times we are more susceptible to their allure than we are at other times.

The Possibilities of Poetry

The night creaked with potential,

even the rotary washing line hinted at a masterpiece,

as it sprouted from the weed flecked gravel,

each green shoot a hymn to the tenacity of life

and the sky’s subtle shift towards darkness

spoke of relationships rebalanced,

distances altered and subsequent enlightenments.

The stars, when visible, whispered age old stories

in languages almost within my comprehension,

for my head lacked a trip switch and reality poured in.

We need to cherish those peak moments of awareness when they occur.
Needless to say I did not write any of the poems that presented themselves. I chose, instead, to write about the process.
I think I should end with a masterpiece.

Until next time.

INVISIBLE WORKERS

Another poem inspired by my days in Abu Dahbi. It is self explanatory. 

such a vacant highway

six lanes of no traffic

my early morning flight

requires this pre-dawn drive

beyond a wire fence

on a service road

coach after square functional coach

head in the opposite direction

just the movement of invisible workers

towards a city that cannot run without them

I had some difficulty shaping the poem. At times I get lost in the frame, that part of the writing that leads you into the poem, the explanatory lines. While these are useful to the poet they add nothing to the poem. It took me some time to pare the words back to the essential.

I thought I'd leave you with I Am The Walrus. I first saw this on Boxing Day in 1967. It has lost none of its majesty.

Until next time.

SHE MAY SPEAK TO YOU

This is a self portrait by Ofelia Marques, a Portuguese artist. I was recently looking through a catalogue I'd picked up in Lisbon years ago and the drawing caught my eye.
Originally I attempted to write a found poem using the potted biography that accompanied the picture. It was obviously translated from the Portuguese:

another factor that led to the misreading of her;
yet more attentive observation of her drawings suffices to reveal the plastic value of her line;
she helps herself to the lexicon used by each artist;
in an appropriation of his register;
the profound silence that circumscribed her entire oeuvre demands rethinking.

There was more, it mainly focused on the fact that she had not had children, implying [to my eyes, at least] that this was a failure. 
Looking again at these rich lines I may well turn them into a poem.
Anyway this is my humble offering to Ofelia Marques.

the artist as a novelty act

defined by her inactive womb
written off some fifty years before

not to be taken seriously at all

but take a moment

look beyond the frame of history

she may speak to you

as she talks to me

Last time I was in Lisbon there was an exhibition of the 60's on. This is fitting as 50 years ago today The Beatles were in the studio recording A Day In The Life [they worked on the song 19/20 January and 3/10 February 1967].
Sargent Pepper was the second lp I ever bought. I was 11 at the time it was released and while it has not stood the test of time as well as Revolver, Abbey Road or Magical Mystery Tour, A Day In The Life is awe inspiring...