THE HOUSE'S MELANCHOLIA

I thought it would be interesting to turn the idea of two people slowly falling out of love on it's head and have the house where they live turn against them. This is a rough draft.

ENVIROMENT

Slowly the house grew unhappy

invested rooms with an atmosphere

that provokes us into arguments

until we were forced to move

live separately

lick our wounds

The next occupants fared as badly

and did not even stay as long as we had.

The ones after them started out happy

but by then the house’s melancholia

an indefinable sad strange aura

could not be overcome

They put the house up for sale again

I’d stopped taking an interest by then

moved to another town, got on with my life

I think the idea has legs but needs some work. I am going to put it away for a couple of months and see what it looks like then.

Here's Bridget St.John from 1972 [honestly it doesn't seem that long ago to me].

Until next time.   

MODELLING ANGER

This poem arrived as I was having a shower. It needed little coaxing, though it is totally fiction.

She had stood in front of me

modelling anger

I’m finished with you

I can’t now remember why

so assume it was because of my adultery

[it usually was in those days]

on the steps of the library

passers by smiled

discretely stopped to watch

Her hands are on her hips

...and don’t put me in one of those things

you try and pass off as plays

some unsympathetic character

bemoaning the hero

who transparently is you

not that anyone would ever give it a read through

She stormed off

in anger not tears

and I didn’t and I haven’t

until this last minute

stood in the shower

when it all returned

and just now

when I wrote it down

Sometimes ideas just arrive and you have to respond to them. The fear is that if you do not they will stop coming. Again this is only as draft. It needs more work.

Do you remember Pauline Murray? I've been listening to her lp with the Invisible Girls a lot lately. Here is the single.

Until next time. 

BOUNCING LIGHT

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.

Until next time.

GHOST FAINT IMAGES

I appear to have spent this afternoon changing the following words into different combinations, ghost faint images into faint ghost images and I have reached the point where I can no longer decide which is the better. The drawer beckons for that particular quandary. I had been reading something about how photographs will fade over the centuries and leave blank shiny paper. Given the present state of dubious narratives, false news and outright lies the poem was an easy write. 

PROPAGANDA

The photos presented problems

having been badly curated

and too quick to fade

to a yellowing cream blankness

We were forced to trace the outlines

of the faint ghost images

with fine graphite sticks

which slipped on the slick surface

As we attempted to harness the past

to justify our political position

Even if I can decide the order of the words: faint; ghost; and images I am unsure that the poem is finished. As I say one for the drawer.

I've been listening to the expanded edition of A Distant Shore by Tracey Thorn, my original album is worn out. Such a classic. 

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.

TO PRACTICE SLEEP

A poem about an experience that felt like a dream. I had arrived in Tallinn after midnight and gone to bed in a hotel. I had awoken a couple of hours later to find the sky was light. I felt I was in a dream and wrote this brief poem.

3:30 am IN TALLINN

he wakes into a dream

there is stillness

light

no one is about

yet the fountain falls

perhaps he thinks with less pressure

than it had in the dark rain

he wonders when he will wake for real

returns to the large lonely bed to practice sleep

It is not a complex poem. I hope it captures the dreamlike state I was in on waking in the night. I have no photographs of the fountain in the daylight as it looked very small. Here's another piece of reportage.

It’s mid-summer’s evening

he’s videoing his car

phone held up on high

metal blasts out of every open door

rises skyward to fill space in the world

he’s riding the curve

of his own imagined wave

Nothing to say about this one. it was simply a note a scribbled down. I have no idea why he was making a video of his car, perhaps it seemed a good idea at the time.

I was reminded of a song the other day that I hadn't heard for a long time. This is Errollyn Wallen with the Brodsky Quartet.

Until next time.

BIG BLUE SKY THIEF

There's been a heat wave over northern Europe and yet there are those who still deny climate change. Beats me how their minds work. This post's poem is about entropy [again], how the heat death of the universe waits for us all.

COUNTDOWN TO ENTROPY

the heat followed him

a thirty degree plus shocker

that set the air to shimmer

and seemed to be everywhere at once

bowling down the tunnel and onto the plane

Somewhere above the sunlit clouds

in decreasing instalments

the heat fizzled out

the big blue sky thief

stole every Joule

I hope what the poem communicates is that nothing lasts forever, that we move towards entropy whether we realise this or not. It is a finished piece. One of those exercises I set myself when travelling.

I had forgotten how good Ruben Blades was until I played Buscando America again the other day. I hope you like it too.

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.

SOLO SAILOR ON A LIMITLESS SEA

I have been playing about with an idea for sometime now and I think I have managed to get it into a rough order. I think it's self explanatory.

If he was alone on a storm tossed sea

he would call out to Jesus

wouldn’t we he asked with certainty

[this was the place to pause in the lesson plan]

There could only be one way

fall onto your knees

and start to pray to your redeemer

It was all wasted on me

Stuck in a trough of towering waves

solo sailor on a limitless sea

how had I ended up there

Exactly what was my backstory

I could never make sense of the Trinity

and this latest example of faith

was totally beyond me

I refused to go to confirmation class after that

The metre isn't quite there nor I suspect is the ending. Watch this space.

Brian Wilson passed away last week so I shall leave you with a classic. Thanks Brian.

Until next time.  

WATERLOGGED RICE

Here's an autobiographical poem about food. I've been vegetarian since the 70s and the lack of preprepared food caused me to develop my cooking skills. 

MY COOKING ADVENTURE

It began with rice and veg, a suitably earnest dish, taken from the pages of a second hand macrobiotic cook book

The dense and contradictory Introduction defeated me and so I never completely understood the philosophy

What the hell, I just jumped in and started to cook

The serious food of 1970s vegetarianism gave way to obsession, to make the perfect souffle which in turn led to a pasta machine

Then the subtleties of the mezze and authentic regional dishes from the subcontinent

Now I am old, I have the moves, I can do it all from scratch without breaking into a sweat

and I’m a long way from the days of underdone vegetables and waterlogged rice

The poem assembled itself from the first line and I am not sure that it has the right ending. Over half a century a person should be able to develop their skills if they so desire. I wanted to capture how serious the food was back then. This is definitely a work in progress.

Pollyanna has just released a deluxe version of her ep Man Time, needless to say it's superb. You can listen to it here. I leave you with Diamond Ring.  

Until next time.

AS COMPLEX AS LIFE

Here is a poem that came to me in a dream. I think it is pretty self-explanatory. I shall thank the Secret Poets, yet again, for their support and observations. 

POEM FOR CHRISTINE

I dreamt of you last night.

We were living in some far city,

I had something to do with the university

where Leonard Cohen was going to give a reading

in the lecture space atop the library,

all very informal.

There were the usual barriers that dreams put up

to ensure they are as complex as life

but the sun shone and the people had enough to eat.

Anyway when I arrived he had begun.

Thinking back on it now I am awake,

I can see he was a collage

composed of the dozen or so times I saw him,

morphing from a younger man in the 70s,

to the old man who never stopped touring

and back again in the space of a poem.

Though I was close enough I couldn’t ask a question

or get him to sign the copy of Selected Poems

that had appeared in my hands.

He was there and then gone

and you never arrived.

Though the world carried on I waited

until they locked the building.

The sun had set the night was warm

and our children came to collect me.

I thought of you somewhere in that city

as I rushed back towards morning.

Some poems write themselves [with a little bit of help]. Thank you Secrets.

Here's a new video of a song I've posted many times. Take it away Murray.

Until next time.

 

WEASEL WORDS

I don't seem to be able to let this poem be. I've had a couple of goes at writing it over the years but a definite version seems to allude me. It is based on the conceit that an avatar of mine is conjured in the head of the man who sold us all down the river with all the horror that comes with the phrase.

INSIDE THE HEAD OF THE MAN WHO SOLD US ALL DOWN THE RIVER

His weasel words of self aggrandisement

once again conjure me into existence

and I am told where to stand and what to say

His take on our shared history

his reality

mine would be more cutting

But I am a simple iteration

concocted to speak his words that big him up

with a vocabulary I would never have used

Elsewhere on the planet

the actual me gets on with my life

and never thinks of him

My subconscious must still be processing an event from my past. Will it ever produce and acceptable version? This next poem I've revised the third stanza and a number of other lines. Hopefully it reads better.

PRECARIOUS

He served he said

they called him sailor

he’d seen it all when in the navy

and told us so

at every turn of human nature

We worked the same gig

nine months on promises

then just before the big buyout

they let us all go

messaged us the news

Shut up shop and fled

and that was that

the half hinted at rewards

so much empty sugar

Me and him  well

we sat on the platform all night

hoarding what we had left

waiting for the dawn

new day new chances

He told me he’d lasted six whole weeks

never made it past the harbour

bought himself out of the service

and lived his life on the ripple

a stuttering sequence of jobs

Then he asked me

how do you make your way

when the waves rise then topple

how do you stand in a sinking sea

I shook my head

I had no answers

I have to thank the Secret Poets for their assistance in clarifying this poem.

Here's Hurray For The Riff Raff.

Until next time.

SO MUCH EMPTY SUGAR

I've been writing this poem for some time, jotting down odd lines as they entered my head. I don't know where the idea came from. It was just an image of two men talking, after being made redundant yet again, and one man confessing his secret. 

PRECARIOUS

He served he said

they called him sailor

he’d seen it all when in the navy

and told us so

in response to every turn of human nature

We worked the same gig

nine months on promises

then just before the big buyout

they let all us go

shut up shop and fled

The half hinted at rewards

so much empty sugar

spun of smiles and fine talk

messaged us the news

and that was that

Me and him well

we sat on the platform all that night

hoarding what we had left

waiting for the dawn

new day new chances

He told me he’d lasted six whole weeks

never made it past the harbour

bought himself out of the service

and lived his life on the ripple

a stuttering sequence jobs like this one

Then he asked me

how do you make your way

when the waves rise then topple

how do you stand in a sinking sea

I shook my head

I had no answers

It certainly isn't finished. Too many half set lines. I can't see a way forward at the moment. Like a fine wine, this tale needs time to mature. 

Lola and the Rhinos played their last gig last Saturday. We shall miss them.

Max Romeo died this week. His album War in a Babylon is a classic. So long Max thanks for the amazing music.

Until next time.