I don't usually sit down and just free write, but the poem below came from an idle half hour of writing with my inner critic in neutral.
Unexpectedly Peter tickled a trout
a skill he had never disclosed
before that night when the stars
were bouncing their light off the mill pond
He just reached in
then there was this fish
wriggling in his hands
we all laughed
as he returned it to the dark waters
It works I think, a simple straight, forward narrative, something I could have remembered. I don't, though, think it is true. It is a very vague memory. But then again, things don't have to be real to be true, or so it seems with all the made up nonsense circulating about the internet.
Here's the Mountain Goats singing along with the audience.
Here's a revised poem. The earlier draft is here. Once again have to thank The Secret Poets for their invaluable input.
CHARLIE
finally the shooting stops
Charlie gets the train to Venice
where the sandbagged statues
tax his imagination
after all that khaki and the hard won miles
he’s seen so much these past six years
he goes to La Scala
as opera never fails
to bring out the beauty
they’ll ship him home soon
and he’ll slip some silver
to the demob tailor
who’ll cut his suit
with a little more care
Charlie will wear it
like they all did
down at
the dance
on a Saturday night
where he’ll meet my mother
and then my story will begin
Essentially they suggested "down at the dance" rather than my Widnesian "down the dance." I agreed because I wanted the poem to be as easily read as possible. I changed the fifth and sixth lines around in the first stanza, as when I read the poem aloud, it sounded better to my ear. There will be a new poem next post.
I just want to repeat the information about my new book, The Wait of Water, which is available to buy now. Contact me at thewaitofwater@outlook.com for details.
What an interesting couple of weeks and me away, unable to celebrate the resignation of the Prince of Lies [formally the crimeminister- you know the one, he partied all through lockdown and then lied to Parliament about it]. He walked away before he could be censured and then tried to spin it like the orange one, kangaroo court in deed! More like spoilt child. If this is what a public school education gives you, I'd ask for my money back. Let's hope the tory party self destructs with all this in fighting.
I was in the north east watching the Solstice. I left the day before the Prince of Lies had his tantrum. The sunrise was glorious though the sunset was rather cloudy. Whilst up there I was watching the swallows and thinking that when I lived in Taunton the number of migrant birds reduced each year which led to this poem. 633 Squadron and The Dambusters were two Second World War films.
swallows
at Lindisfarne
it
must be like watching a rerun
of
an old war time film
633
Squadron or The Dambusters
that
part when they’ve done the daring do
and
they limp back to base
except
the ones that don’t make it
to
take stock you need to stand still
to
see exactly what we are losing by increment
As you can see my aim was to underline the crisis in the bird population with the return of aircraft from a mission. This second poem is about my camping chair at the beach hut.
I
gave my chair a haircut
that
old green camping one
it’s
been in need of a trim for years
the
nylon unthreaded like Jenny Greenteeth
all
those synthetic fibres floating in the breeze
until
now
Yes I did give it a haircut. Jenny Greenteeth I always thought was an old phrase to describe duckweed but when I looked it up it is far more interesting. She is a river-hag, my apologies Ms Greenteeth, I meant you no disrespect.
This post's poem is an example of those ideas that just arrive and you have no idea of what prompted them. This one began with an image of telephone poles and the conceit that ears could see through a lie. Where ever it came from I thank it for arriving.
FALSEHOOD
her
ears saw through his lies
despite
all the miles between
this
paraphernalia of communication
afforded
no camouflage
the
uncounted telephone poles
strung
with copper wire
dotted
with ceramic
insulation
made
no difference
even
as he spoke his fiction
it
failed to impress
she
had his number from the start
she
sighed and he knew this was the end
I am not sure the middle stanza is necessary as it highlights the distance and technology that enables the two to talk and possibly this has already been inferred in the first stanza. I leave you to be the judge. I shall continue to give thanks for gifts from the Muse.
This weekend is Chinese New Year. I was in Liverpool last week and the photographs in this post are from there. The poem is revised thanks to the Secret Poets and their skill. You can read the original here.
How
to Weave a Rope of Water
after
being slung into the air
there
is a second
when
the mop bucket's contents
seem
to just hang in
the air
if
only you were quick enough
you
could weave the water
into
a circle or an infinite figure of eight
but
then there is the belly flop
slap!
on
to the crazy paving
every
time this happens
the
molecules sigh
dreaming
of their lives as clouds
when
defying gravity is effortless
As you can see, much has changed. New title, revised lines and I hope a more succinct poem. It always helps to discuss your work with sympathetic friends.
The Mountain goats have a new album out, you can buy it here. This is We Walked In The Cold Air.
I usually title my posts from a line in the poem but last week I used a line from this revised poem by mistake. First time I have ever done that in 11 years. Apologies.
This poem is a rewrite, with thanks as usual to the Secret Poets for their invaluable input. You can read the original here.
summer project
we broke all the glass
in all the windows
no one stopped us
it took time
but the sounds were so addictive
the crack and cascade of glass
eyeless in autumn
a cold wind hummed in the gaps
the snow went wherever it would
Essentially the ending has changed, the Secrets felt that it was not clear. Hopefully the poem is much improved. I would be interested in your opinion.
This past week I have been immersing myself in the exciting world of The Mountain Goats, this is a song entitled Cotton. The last verse is sadly beautiful.
Some poems write themselves, others are never finished, at least not to my satisfaction. This post's poem is one of those. You can read my last attempt here. I was looking at it the other day and thought that I had not done the concept justice. What I wanted to do was to make the situation clear, the man who sold us all down the river is justifying his actions, inventing gratitude and praise where none existed in real life.
inside
the head of the man who sold us all down the river
I
am in
his thoughtsagain
however
briefly
manifested
inside his head
the
puppet me embodied
simply
to make his point
A
steward orders
me
to stand on this spot
I
am given
appropriate clothing
[nothing
I would have chosen for myself]
and
told exactly what to say
bland
badly written dialogue
to
support his noble actions
[not
the words I spoke to
him at
the time
or
even a rough approximation]
I
have been thought into existence before
not
very often, usually when he needs
to
illustrate his marvellous achievements
or
the nobility of his actions to some new acquaintance
so
I
step forward to speak my lines
sickly
words
of gratitude
how
I could only ever have respect for the man
I
stand in his consciousness
one
of many phantoms
we
bow and scrape, thank him
[the
opposite of what happened in real life]
before
we disappear again
as
I said this sort of event doesn't happen often
usually
the likes of me never enter his head
not
even for one second
Have I caught it this time? Let's see if there is another draft five years hence. Here's another little poem I've been playing with for years. Again have I done it justice?
domesticated
me ironing
unexpected
you gift bearing
we
watch the bad brewed home brew
shoot
towards the ceiling
marvel
as it foams undrinkable
you
left in the rain
in-between
the slanting drops
infinity
winked at us and smiled
Here are The Mountain Goats with a song about vampires.
I have always maintained that the raw material for poetry is all around us but that most of the time we don't realise it. A poet is a person who sees the possibilities and who tries to respond to them. Last Saturday I had the idea that the air is teeming with poems, they circle like airplanes waiting to land. This is what I did with that idea:
Poems Are
Everywhere
a complex holding pattern
keeps the free range poems airborne
invisible they
circle the world
we are oblivious
every now and then
one of us may catch
a whisper in the
ear
a few may write down
the words they hear
and mangle
the streamlined form
a fewer still will claim to know
the secret
frequency with
which
they could guide any poem to the page
but he was sceptical
and simply gave thanks
for everypoem that chose him
It's a work in progress. I am unsure if free range adequately describes the natural state of poems in the wild. Also I am not sure if the penultimate stanza works- who are these people, hacks?
I suspect I took the word free range from the news that all free range chickens in the UK have been kept inside so long because of bird flu that they must be reclassified as barn eggs. Things fall apart.
Here is a song by the Mountain Goats that references another bird flu epidemic while lamenting the death of the reggae sing Dennis Brown.
Here's a surreal little poem that presented itself as an idea but had to be coaxed into becoming a poem. Many thanks to the Secrets for their perceptive comments and assistance.
Running
on Empty
halfway
down
the
page
his
words
ran
out
and
the poem
not
even captured
just
sentences
in
need of scaffolding
he
checked his dictionary
empty
blank
pages
awaiting
a refill
he
did not bother the thesaurus
it
tutted at him
in
that annoying didactic way
he
could call out the page side recovery service
but
the wait would be an hour or more
besides
last time they told him
you
need a whole new vocabulary mate
and
look at them metaphors
worn
away to thin things they are!
perhaps
if he made a cup of tea
it
might rally the other letters
I liked the idea of words running out like a car runs out of petrol. The idea of a page side recovery service followed on from the breakdown idea. I had difficulty finding an ending. I also liked the idea of the thesaurus being too proud to help. In reality the thesaurus was my life saver.
I think the poem is complete. It shall be put to one side for a while as usual.
Here are The Mountain Goats. Their new live recordings are amazing, you can listen to them here.Until next time.
I have been revising more than writing this week. I believe that we have to experience before we can write and we all need time to charge up the memory banks. Here are a couple of interlinked [by virtue of being started on the same day] poems from a brief trip to France last December. You can read the originals here. I was not happy with the second poem because when I came to look at it again I did not think it told its story clearly.
Île de Batz
the
sea has removed itself
in
the dirty bay the upright boats are patient
the
sea wall
built
by hand in my grandfather’s day
speaks
of a winter tide
gestated
mid-Atlantic
angry
impatient
no
laughing matter
2.
they
have to
havea
second go
surprised
the door
did not shut itself
disbelieving
that the mere act
of
pulling it towards them wasinsufficient
The first has lost a line that described the sea wall and is the better for it. I have also changed the spacing to try and set the scene with the first two lines before moving on to focus on the subject of the poem.
Here's the Mountain Goats, you can order their new album from Bandcamp.
I was on Preston Beach the other night watching the sky and the waves. The gull in the poem was patiently waiting for something in a temporary rock pool to be within its reach.
this shallowing rock pool
is
ever more exposed
to
the razor beak of the gull
who
practices patience
stands
stock still, for now
This second poem is a brief prose poem.
it
is ten to one in the morning and I am dancing around the kitchen as
if a soundtrack was playing inside my head given my movements I
suspect that it is a free jazz number
There's nothing much to say about either poem. They are what they are. Little snapshots of a life. There's a new Mountain Goats lp out and here's John Darnielle singing songs and talking about it.
Today's poem arose out of a couple of lines in a Mountain Goats song: Like someone who's found a small town to escape to Keeps one eye on his abandoned, former self. The song is Spent Gladiator 2. I was thinking what it must be like to be that person. I immediately thought witness protection and it grew from that.
he
walks around his car
eyes
search for small changes
find
none
he
drives the dawn streets
to
black coffee in a white mug
comforting
warmth in chilled hands
this
is the only habit he salvaged
from
the car crash of his first life
when
faced with that choice
he
traded loyalty for freedom
and
ponders the decision
every
waking
day and into each night
This is a work in progress. I was imagining you would have to change your habits completely to reduce the possibility of detection. I wondered if you would either be haunted by the deal you had to make or never think of it. It seems appropriate to leave you with The Mountain Goats.
