THE WIND IS SET ON DISTORT

Here is another poem I wrote in Estonia. It's pretty straight forward and self-explanatory.

YOU PLAY THE HAND YOU’RE GIVEN 2

I place my card

on the payment square

it buzzes

a red x flashes

unperturbed

I sit down

It’s not everyday

I fare dodge on a tram

I look about me

no one turns a hair

Seven stops later I get off

Yes I did fare dodge that trip. Then I worked out the location of the card machine. This next poem is also from the same trip.

A tenor weaves an old tune

breathes new life around the buildings

the wind is set on distort

as if each note had a different weight

and could only be carried only so far

If I had a voice

I would sing the words 

Yes I did hear a tenor sax playing in the street. Actually I jotted down the bare bones of the poem while I waited for the tram!

Brooke Sharkey has just released a video of her beautiful new single.

Until next time. 

ON A SCREEN IN HER HEAD

I am a confirmed people watcher as you can tell from this poem.

YOU PLAY THE HAND YOU’RE GIVEN 1

Tallinn Old Town – Friday afternoon

What catches your attention

as you turn a corner

is the bossy woman with the camera

chivvying the others into shapes

she sees on a screen in her head

It’s only then you notice the Bride

in ivory silk with a bouquet to match

being told where to stand

where to look

who to smile at

and you wish her

against all the odds

a happy life

I haven't got much to say about it as I think it speaks for itself. I have however changed this next poem after discussing it with the Secret Poets. 

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 panic

Definitely flight or fight mode

who wouldn’t be

He’s being chased

by a crop dusting aeroplane

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

Just two small changes, one in the third stanza and another in the sixth. Three words have been removed. You can read the earlier version here.

Brooke Sharkey has just released a new single. Her new album is beautiful. 

Until next time.

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.

WALKING SPELL

Some poems arise from the imagination, an idea, a line, an image that quickly writes itself. Other poems have a basis in fact and the ensuing poem may be an amalgam of many actual experiences. This poem is what it seems, a description of an event.

WALKING SPELL

I am carrying you into your dreams

this is my walking spell

whose power lies in repetition

I walk the same circuit

of the 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

I have not altered it much since the first draft. The focus has been on making it flow. Though it is still very early days, I think it is heading in the right direction.

Brooke Sharkey has a new single out. Frequent readers of this blog will know that I have supported Brooke over the years. It's good to hear her music once more. You can link to her website here.

Until next time.   

BLOW UP A STORM

Sometimes life just puts you in the right place at the right time. I was recently passing our local conservative club and I stopped to watch as a person with a leaf blower cleared the carpark of leaves. I couldn't help thinking that this is what they want to do to everyone who attempts to enter this country, either that, or fly them to Rwanda. Then I read about the new tory deputy chairman. You couldn't make it up.

SEEING THEM OFF THE PROPERTY

his right hand wields the power

motor chunters monotone

determination

features hard set

mouth a thin line

watch the leaf blower manhandle every leaf

chucking them all out in to the street

I stand on the pavement

at the bottom of our ocean atmosphere

see him blow up a storm

sending them back where they came from

The poem has taken much writing. I think I was telling rather than showing. Perhaps in a couple of months I may decide it is still too telling.

Here's Brooke Sharkey. She's just raised the money to record a new ep. After seeing her live last summer I for one can't wait to hear it.

Until next time.

THE CAST OF THE SEA

 

Here's a poem I have been working on for a long time. There's not many lines to it but getting it exactly the way it should be took patience. It was based on a memory, an image of standing in the foyer of the Taunton cinema and looking at the rain soaked car park shining in the afternoon light. I made up the rest. 

unexpectedly half way through the film

the plot twisted to mirror

certain events from his history

he sat in the darkness

once more

tasting his own indecision

looking out of the glass doors of the foyer

he thought the afternoon light had taken on the cast of the sea

the car park a washed out watercolour

he was silent all the way home

Does knowing it is mostly fiction detract from the poem?
I do not think so. 

Sometimes the simple poems are the most difficult to write. This one wrote itself when I heard someone say that they were the opposite of a dancer.

today he feels

the opposite of a dancer

heavy

splay footed

off the beat

as if the alarm clock

had woken him

a fraction too late

Again this is a simple poem and it wrote itself in no time. I have no idea why some take longer than others. Perhaps it is to do with clarity of vision. The clearer you see the poem, the easier it is to write?

Brooke Sharkey has a new single out. It is superb, haunting, beautiful.

Until next time.

DRINKING FROM THE COLD TAP

 

Our old cat has taken to drinking from the cold tap in the bath. I have no idea how he stumbled upon the bath tap as a source of water. He has a new water fountain down stairs but once or twice a day he insists on standing in the bath and drinking from the tap. 

This prompted a poem.

bath time

our old cat has taken to drinking from the cold tap

just now I found him sitting in the bath crying

I turned the tap on and left him to scrutinise the stream of water

as if he had never seen the like before

I am summoned back by his cries

he looks as if he has forgotten what he went into the room for

I'm not sure if I have used this photograph before but I found it recently looking through an old file and was taken by it's energy. 

This next poem is, I suppose, a warning to all of us who live by the sea.

Case hardening is a technique to make the skin of a metal object even harder. 

Climate Change Refugee Camp 7

This was hardly the retirement he had planned

but in the camp you had to learn to rub along

with this ragtag of mismatched humanity

all the people, like him, who had moved to the coast,

before in its death throws the ocean had risen.

Now he just couldn’t tune out the noise of their grumbles

or adjust to the little disappointments each day brought.

He looked up, not a single cloud in the sky

and tomorrow threatened to be even hotter

promising to case harden the iron soil of the exercise ground.

Brooke Sharkey has a new single out. You can listen to it here and order it here.

Here's a cover.

Until next time.

THE SUMMER BROKE

 

A poem about house concerts. I organised some about seven years ago. You can read about the last one here. I have been talking to a couple of musicians recently about the possibilities of running another series once the pandemic allows, so I suppose this is what sparked the poem.

House Concerts

the first required a bucket precisely placed to ensure the snow melt from the unexpected leak above the bay window did not drip onto the artist

and could have also done without the drama that followed the cat snaffling a pistachio and getting the shell stuck in his palette   this was to the detriment of the song being sung

the second was perfection in itself   no words can describe the beauty of the evening

which led to some being less than impressed by the third   as if a peak can look less impressive from the other side

the fourth and last was different quiet love songs that carried across the still night

as we loaded the amps into their car the summer broke  big raindrops instantly cooling the air   the moment had ended    I moved house

What attracted me to the poem was that essentially it is a list details. Also the lines are far longer than anything I would usually write. I think it works. It is another watch this space poem.

The last three words I had used as the ending to another poem, something I have not posted because it was not going anywhere. I find that occasionally I salvage a line from the wreck of a failed poem. 

The photographs are from a trip to Barcelona in 2012. Those were the days...

Brooke Sharkey has a new single out on the 15th July, on Babylegs Records. It's called MMM Ja. I can't wait.

To whet you appetite here's Brooke live in 2020.

Until next time.

ALL SPACE AND SEA AND ROCKS

A revised poem again this post. 

To be honest I am finding it difficult to write at the moment. I am managing to revise though.

You can read the last version of this poem here.

Wallshill summer 2020

the three of them

stop

by the wire fence

by the flowers

by the memories

by the sign that reads

Danger Crumbling Cliffs

the other side is all space

and sea and rocks

they take in the parked cruise ship

waiting it out in Lyme Bay

the views are amazing he tells them

you only live once 

and like the gentleman he is

he parts the wires

so they can limbo through

doesn’t matter if you die

I have changed the final stanza around. Moving some of the man's conversation until after the three clamber through the fence.

I discussed the poem with the Secret Poets and we agreed that moving the final line of dialogue and making it the last line heightened the tension, making it somehow more final, a conclusion.

Brooke Sharkey has just played a concert at Green Note and it has a limited viewing period. If you watch it and I advise you to, Brooke is superb, as always, then please donate via Paypal. Musicians are suffering terribly at the moment.

I leave you with Brooke.

Until next time.

MORE WATER THAN IS HEALTHY

I feel I need to offer some explanation about this week's post.
James Kay-Shuttleworth founded Marjons in 1840. He was part of a political/religious movement that wanted to offer the working classes education. I am one of the many people who benefited from his vision.
Recently a friend sent me a BBC News page about Gawthorpe Hall. The following poem grew out of these events.

A Poem of Two Summers

i Then

At least, for now, the rain has stopped

the room remains cluttered with words

to describe this wet summer,

and prayers of thanks it is not as bad as 1816.

It is damp enough to keep them penned inside,

so he reads the letter once more.

Mr Kay-Shuttleworth realises he has had enough of the cage,

perceives the time has come, steps out into the garden.

The burdened leaves impart more water

than is healthy on his black broadcloth coat,

he does not care, for things come together,

such liberating circumstances as will free men

to build God’s Kingdom on this earth,

equality through education.

ii Now

Now the summer has wrung every

drop of moisture from the soil

I see the shadow of that Victorian garden.

Its ghost outline vividly demarcated

on the screen of my mobile phone,

over two hundred miles away

and nearly two hundred years later,

informed of its significance

for the hundreds of thousands, like me,

who have benefited from that vision,

I give thanks and praises that people

once cared enough to give others the opportunities

that these days we are more intent on removing.

I should also explain that the summer of 1816 was the worst on record due to a volcanic explosion. 
I know this poem is not complete and I am wondering if the end is not too much tell and not enough show.
The difference between the Victorian sense of social duty and now is tremendous. In those days it was commonly agreed that it was everyone's duty to improve the lot of the less fortunate. How times have changed.
Here's Brooke Sharkey earlier this year in Manchester.

Until next time.

LIFE ON THE OCEAN

I  don't know why this poem has lingered in the shadows for as long as it has. I wrote it after going to Lisbon last year and it lay in the pages of a notebook for far too long. Always a good idea to check through notebooks on a weekly basis.

Perhaps

Once more

the water called to him

to renew their pact;

a life on the ocean,

beyond the horizon,

past the smudge of land and dust.

It was a repeating dream:

The Lisbon waterfront,

early in the dawn,

he walks to the cathedral,

gives thanks for his son’s birth

after the great earthquake.

If he does not heed the salt water’s song

he will not visit that city

until he is past thirty.

Catching first sight of the cathedral,

an echo, nothing more,

soon replaced by stone and mortar.

Few of us make the right choice.

I make reference to the Great Earthquake of 1755. At this moment in time I am not sure the poem needs it but I wanted to emphasise the idea of reincarnation. Though this may be served well enough in the first stanza.
The idea for the poem came from the notion that perhaps some contracts/relationships stretch over several life times.

Sadly I missed Brooke Sharkey on Saturday when she played Exeter. Here's a video as recompense.

Until next time.

CAR WITH ONE HEADLIGHT

This post's poem came from the phrase a car with one headlight. Which in its turn came from discovering that my car had only one working headlight and it occurred to me that it was a wonderful way of negatively describing someone. The poem wrote itself and had to be about a politician.

A car with one headlight,

the near side,

fitful, flickering at best.

Unexpectedly butterfingered when it came to love,

dyspraxic even,

he dropped hearts.

Women remained an irrelevance to him,

men fared no better,

a human solvent

he sundered ties expediently,

so the path of his life was strewn with debris,

disgruntled ex-lovers,

metaphorical corpses with too real knives in their backs.

But how he can talk,

silver haired, silver tongued

dangerous.

An iguana basking in the flash light glare.

I leave you to draw your own conclusions. Let's face it there are many of them out there who could fit the description.
Brooke Sharkey is touring soon, here are the dates. Brooke is a captivating performer and a wondrous songwriter. If you can go and see her.
I saw an interesting band last night Bahla, they combine jazz and Jewish folklore traditions. The music is amazing, they are on tour too.
Here is Brooke:

And here are Bahla:

Until next time.

BLUES TO GREYS

I wrote today's poem over the course of a day, returning to add and alter lines as the day unfolded. 
The inspiration came from being stopped by a traffic accident. As I reflected on the time I spent in the traffic queue looking out of the window I made my thoughts into this poem.

Night slips into dawn,

Russian blues to greys.

Each brake light neon red,

a stilled steel wave

stopped on the crest of the hill.

Most solo driven,

lonely bubbles of plastic and glass,

whose digital clocks countdown

until, at some point, we move,

to crawl past the cones.

I try not to see the trembling woman

but glimpse her new complication,

a wrecked car,

yellow metal skin ripped open.

In two seconds I have passed by.

The day is light,

the open road leads me

back into the details of my life.

As usual there is no title. Perhaps I should be one of those poets who simply number their work. It would be easier.
I am not sure if it is complete. I intend to put it away for a couple of weeks then see what it looks like.
Here is 13 minutes of superb music from Brooke Sharkey.

Until next time.

A COLLECTIVE SIGH

I'm just back from Lisbon. 
I haven't visited the city for about eight years. You can look at the poem my previous visit provoked here.
Actually I jotted down a number of ideas but have only worked this into something like a presentable form.

Lisbon: 16.4.17

she shades her head

with the poly-pocketed

piece of paper

that proclaims her

tour guide status

the

human

crocodile

pauses

turns

on

her

cue

to

take

in

the

view

and

with

a

collective

sigh

resumes its progress

up the steep street

It's good practice to try and capture a scene quickly. You can work on the form later. Initially you simply want to get down those first impressions.
What I did notice this time was the influx of tourists from cruise ships. You have the same phenomenon in Barcelona.
Here is another rough draft. I literally spoke this into my phone as I walked to the supermarket today.

this time around he is a mechanic

who cannot fix cars

and spends his days changing units

as directed by the diagnostic computer

he has always worked with his hands

made the best bows in his tribe

back on the wind scoured step

was twice a watchmaker in France

he has scraped a making table optically flat

metal speaks to him

steel iron bronze

flint and stone as well

now he does as he is told

his eternal self wonders

if this is the lesson of this life

I am not sure I have got an impression of the depth of reincarnation.
Watch this space for updates.
By the way I am posting every two weeks at the moment.
I leave you with Brooke Sharkey. I saw her again a couple of weeks ago and she was stunning.
Here is Bottletop Blues.

And here she is singing Your Tomorrow.

Until next time.