A LITANY OF BUTTONS

This poem has had a long gestation. Some poems need time to feel their way to a conclusion. The rare ones arrive nearly fully formed but others take months, or longer to coalesce. 

Just A Little Insight into Her Beauty

No one saves buttons these days

to rescue a garment in a time of need

your mother, did in a big glass jar

studiously she cut them off those labels

the ones we only notice when they make us itch

I’ve never told you this before

too embarrassed

too distressed

because I mislaid the jar one move or other

and there were many, after her death

All I can offer you is this

a litany of buttons you will never see

pearl white, little maroon, big wooden buttons

oh, and the five yellow stars

she meant to put on the jumper

she never had the chance to knit you

I am too close to this one to talk much about it. I'm not sure this is its final version but it will do for now. 

Ryley Walker has just released a live recording of a show at the Phoenix in Exeter. It was an excellent evening. Here's a recent recording.

Until next time.

LOVE AT FIRST NOTE

Anything can be the starting point for a poem. Recently I was driving along listening to a Hank Mobley  cd, it was hot so I had the windows open and because of the turbulence of the moving air I could not hear the bass solo. This led to the thought that the wind had stolen the bass solo, which in turn led to this poem.

love story

it was love at first note

the wind and the bass solo eloped

straight out of the window of my car

[I was crossing the bridge

but this is their story not mine]

gently held in the breeze

seven miles out bopping on the sea

the notes rearrange as they please

delighting the dolphins with their atonality

That's how it works. One thing sparks off another and if you are lucky, if you are receptive and if you can manage to express the idea then the poem grows on the page. Usually cause and effect are not so easily demonstrated. In this case I spent several days mulling the idea over in my head before writing it down. Once on the page the real work begins.

Ryley Walker was his usual amazing self last Friday. However I feel I have to end with Hank.

Until next time.

EYELESS IN AUTUMN

I have spent the last two weeks cat sitting for my daughter in London, hence no photographs of the latest Ryley Walker concert. I wrote the last two post in advance as I tend to do when I am away. I travelled to London by train and as I approached Wellington, near Taunton in Somerset, I saw an abandoned factory with most of the glass missing from the windows. This set me thinking...

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

the snow went wherever it would

when summer cam round again

there was nothing to show it had ever been there

The poem wrote itself. I liked the idea of the building leaving no trace, although the hardest lines to write were the last couplet. I suspect it is complete.

Ryley Walker was amazing, on top form, just wonderful. But I leave you with a new single by wondrous Pollyanna.

Until next time.

700 STEPS

I do not have a photograph of the Coronavirus Monument in London. It did not feel appropriate to take one. It did inspire this poem:

snapshot 2022

the Coronavirus Memorial

is 700 steps long give or take a few

there are more hand painted hearts

on the bricks than I can count

each written in by a person who mourns

a memory of someone special

on the Thames side of the pavement

tourists stop to have their photographs taken

the Mother of Parliaments

their chosen backdrop

the present incumbent and his cronies

partied their way through the pandemic

I have utterly no respect for the present government. I shall say no more. 

Here's Ryley Walker. He is playing London this Saturday, be there or be square.

Until next time.

HYDRANGEAS FLOOD THE HOUSE

 

In this endless lockdown I am finding it increasingly more difficult to write. I draw much of my inspiration from the outside world and that necessarily has contracted to what is local, within walking distance and I know I am luckier than most. I have beaches and parks within minutes of my house. I give thanks for that.

All of this is the lead up to this post's poem which is about sleeping or rather dreams.

the night in five segments

1.

hypnagogic patterns

or people endlessly morphing

projected on the cave wall of my skull

always I wonder if I’ve seen them before

weigh their significance

fall into the black

2.

but for not as long

as you might expect

just one hour or two

hydrangeas flood the house with the smell of winter

the night is still

3.

so I don’t look at my hands

though there is something I must do

this buzzing internal puzzle

I walk through that door and

am under the ocean

4.

awake at three or four

this house a dreamscape

the floor boards in the bathroom

wooden warm smooth

the tree dances in the street light

5.

this final waking in

the winter's miserly light

a rich day waits

ritual begins

at the kitchen table

I recall the hectic night

I have been working on this poem for the last couple of weeks and I hope it conveys that dreamlike world we experience waking in the night. I shall put it away until the summer now. As I have said many times before, time grants us distance to see the flaws in our work.

Here's Ryley Walker. He has a new album out in April. This is a taster.

Until next time.

SMALL PARCELS OF USE AND MEMORY

This poem arose from an idea about anxiety, it's not like there isn't enough to be worried about at the moment, but I was thinking of a person driven to distraction by planning for the worst.

Actually the first two lines were doggerel:

should the earthquake strike at noon

will you be in the dinning room?

Not very good at all.

What Can Be Saved?

omens fill his head

in the night he wakes

makes mental notes

what can be saved?

memorises the locations of

pens

passports

the thin roll of various currencies

should that live in the bedside drawer?

or be at hand by the front door?

but what if the flames prevent

him getting down the stairs?

he maps alternate routes

decides on small parcels of use and memory

scattered throughout the house

he can be at peace

now at least

As usual I do not think this is the finished poem. I start by writing them in a book longhand and revising them until I think they have a structure. I then put them onto the computer and play about with layout. At some indeterminate point they are then ready to show the world. Mostly I work by intuition, and I suppose experience.

Here's the stupendous Ryley Walker. A whole concert! He's got a couple of new downloads at Bandcamp. Here's the link.

Until next time.

A SOBER SUIT BUT NO TIE

Poems should be unique works of art and expresses the ineffable in a manner that speaks to every human. No mean feat, a tall order for anyone to contemplate. But we do more than mere contemplation. I have no idea how many poems are produced each day, each hour, or every minute around the globe. I suspect that more poetry is produced than there are people to read it.
Here's another one to add to that morass.

the butcher

Today he wears his salesman face,
a sober suit but no tie,
relaxed, casual, all smiles.
Each word is emphasised
Help us to help you.
A reasonable transaction
We can all benefit from this.

Then my shirt pocket vibrates,
it's the redundant past calling.
Normally I welcome the overlays,
reality shifted a few degrees.
Then I look up catch his other face,
the razor's edge, the copper taste
and each word rings hollow.

This poem follows on from an earlier one. It is set one year later. The killing is over, for now, it is negotiation time, and no one wants to hear ghosts.

Here's Ryley Walker looking very well.

Until next time.

ON THE NIGHT OF THE FIRE

The shameless crime minister after being told his proroguing of Parliament was unlawful now claims that he is with the people against the elite. I have to question exactly what he means by "the people." Would these be the people who went to Eton? Or those lucky enough to study at Oxford? I am incredulous that the product of such privilege can have the audacity to claim he is not of the elite. If he had any honour he would resign. That is the real will of the people.
Like our present political difficulties here is a poem with no ending. I have been working on this for some time. I like the idea of a dream within a dream and have tried to incorporate it into this poem.

On the night of the fire

he had dreamed himself in France,

the endless beach plucked

from some forgotten summer holiday,

his dream child self stood in disbelief

saying: I do not want to grow into you.

It’s too late, he replied, you already have.

Smoke began to smear the cloudless sky,

as the alarm jostled him back into their bed

then out of it again.

Holding his wife’s hand they ran downstairs

and out of the front door.

Flames rose in the darkness,

they would lose all they had worked for.

Later stood by the fire tender,

clutching a red blanket about her,

his wife took on his teenage face

and looked at him with disgust.

He was thankful the fire alarm

jerked him back to the hotel

into the disgruntled shuffle of guests,

across the wet car park to assembly point B

as the board was reset, apologies and thanks given.

He shrugged it all off.

I have been toying with the idea that the protagonist is a morally bankrupt politician but I cannot quite get the ending. I suspect this is because I want to tell rather than show.

In direct contrast to the self serving, venal political elite determined to profit from the nation's distress here is Ryley Walker. Stunning.

Until Next time.

WHEN THE SEA RETURNED

I wrote this poem quite quickly, like the last post, it came from a collection of random words picked haphazardly from several unconnected books. Working with a limited number of words can be liberating. 
Once the basic idea is down on paper you can expand on it in any way that you think works.

Just One of Those Things

when the sea returned

the lovers had gone

to create energy their own energy

in a rented room

then to part

on some street corner

late in the afternoon

in a press of people too preoccupied

with keeping the wolf from the door

for the intensity of their farewell

to ever be noticed

the lover’s regular roles awaited

the end of their embrace

I am not sure that the title works. It does not seem to add or enhance the poem...
I find titles to be difficult.
I wanted the poem to capture a moment, something fleeting. A miniature, I suppose, as opposed to a big idea.

Also as mentioned last post both Kathryn Williams and Anna Ternheim are touring in the autumn. I may see you there.
Also on a really positive note Ryley Walker is playing some dates in America. He has been 75 + days sober and sounds very positive. I wish you all the best Ryley.
Here's the man himself in Utrecht last year. What music! 

Until next time.

FEATHERS FALL

As usual the photographs bear no connection to the poem.
This time a revised poem. You can read the earlier draft here.

he walks down the street

going to the supermarket

in his hands

bag and shopping list

but in his head

- an asteroid is towed towards Metaluna

the magnetic field glows, bright red and

he’s looking Eli Wallach in the eye

We deal in lead mister

while the boat burns

as the black bird disappears

then she’s just taken that photograph

the one of the last supper

with the camera her mother gave her

and the feathers fall

almost drifting out of the silvered screen

he’s watching her face

something has changed

the impatient world interrupts

and now he must choose a cabbage

as the onions clamour for his attention

Essentially the punctuation has been removed but is is the better for that.
This second poem has had the layout changed from the first draft. 
Thanks to the Secret Poets for their insightful feedback.
A couple of superfluous words have been removed  and one line rewritten.

Poem for Sheila

brittle as bone china

ever more fragile

she tells me what she sees

it is not my reality

I am glad she is talking

attempt to see her reality

I’ve known her half my lifetime

so I can follow the clues

gently we talk

until head bowed

she slips into sleep

the magazine falls from her hand

We had a discussion about whether the word brittle was suitable because it could be interpreted as implying hardness, which is the last word I would use to describe Sheila. It has stayed in the poem. Our thoughts are still with Ryley Walker. Get better soon.

 Until next time.

WEIRD EXHIBITIONS THAT DON'T EXIST

Two recent found poems this post. Actually they are not strictly found poems as I have elaborated on the original sentences. The first strictly speaking has a found title. My friend Rex uttered the words as I explained why we had gone to Bakersfield in California. I had been under the impression that there was a collection of Georgia O'Keeffe paintings there. There wasn't. The author of the guidebook had been lazy when researching Bakersfield, it was a touring exhibition. We had a similar experience in Spain one year. We had to wait in 44 degrees C temperature to again be informed that what we had come to see had been a touring exhibition four years before.

Weird Exhibitions That Don’t Exist

I have searched for them

either side of the Atlantic,

steered by guidebook

to an out of the way community centre

somewhere in Bakersfield

and crossed the border

from Portugal to Spain,

hunting for touring exhibitions

travel writers claimed were permanent collections.

They are tales of family holidays

and sometimes when we are together,

we laugh about the bar we sat in,

playing cards, drinking water,

waiting for the 5pm opening

that Iberian August.

I am not sure the poem is anything like complete.

This second one came from the same evening and Rex talking about his student days in Brighton. I added the second half.

we’d come in drunk

and play our music loud

the guy downstairs

he was totally cool about it

cause he’d get in drunk

and play his music too loud

and we’d wake up in bed

and smile

cause it was liberating

in the afternoon

cause no one got up early

after nights like that

we might meet on the stairs

and smile and nod

and that’s what life was like back then

This poem is about there. It is only a quick piece but it captures a certain moment in life.

I literally wrote the first part down as he was talking. Some times I think being a poet is all about seizing the opportunity and running with it.

Sadly Ryley Walker has had to cancelled his April European tour due to health issues. I'd like to wish him a speedy recovery and just say our prayers are with him. Get well soon Ryley.

Until next time.

THE YEAR OF TRAVELLING BACKWARDS

 

I've been working on this poem for sometime and I fear it could be overworked. This can happen. I wrote it last year and put it away. As I often say: distance grants perspective.
However, here it is.

The Year of Travelling Backwards

Afterwards he called it his year of travelling backwards,

because someone, sometime, told him

sitting with your back to the engine robs the body of its Chi.

That vital energy seeps out.

It wasn't actually a year but nine months of directionlessness,

of being able only to understand events once they had happened.

Unable to make sense of where he was,

until he was somewhere different.

The latest economic slump had dictated

that he reapply for his own job,

which of course, he did not get.

So he was shunted round the organisation,

slotted into every interview,

in front of panels of resentful faces,

who did not want him either.

These scenes were interspersed

with hospital silences, his father,

trapped between starched white sheets,

slowly leaving his life.

Than before he knew he was:

unemployed,

at the church,

burying his father.

From some things you don't bounce back,

perhaps as you age the spring goes,

and once you've seen it all before

fake enthusiasm is never an option.

He had been in a carriage facing backwards,

then he was off the train.

He left the station.

I am not going to say much about it. I still think I am too close. I started from the line: The year of travelling backwards, and it evolved from that.

Here's someone I am sure of - Ryley Walker. He is live with his wondrous band, 38 minutes of sublime music.

Until next time.

BLINK AND MISS IT

A poem I was moved to write by something I observed at the Sidecar gig. No matter how absorbed in the music I am part of me is still taking in my environment and watching Ryley Walker at Sidecar the other night I was aware of two people arguing to my left. That is the genesis of this post's poem. 

Blink and miss it beauty

the kind that winds you in

falls, lifts, time changes,

a labyrinth in sound.

She moves, eyes closed,

spins on the spot, amazed,

almost synchronised

but here’s the Minotaur,

patience paper thin,

as you can tell by his face.

She flees through the maze of people.

They will stand by a wall

and she will talk and he will listen

as the gig ends without them.

He buys her a tour shirt

some kind of peace offering,

to paper over the cracks only they know.

I am standing behind him

in the merchandising queue thinking

it’s too little, too late.

The photographs are of murals in Vic, Catalunya. 

On Wednesday I went to Bristol, to the Fleece to see Ryley Walker again. If anything he was even better than last time.
Here's some footage of him playing Roundabout, sterling stuff.

Until next time.