STOLEN STORY

Sometimes I will hear a story and think that it would make a good poem. There are a number of examples of this process on the blog. Here's a poem that describes that process.

I STOLE YOUR STORY

because it was just there

attractive words hung in the air

on more than one occasion

I have taken a conversation

and cast it in ink on a page

It wrote itself from the first line. Here's a rewrite from a recent post.

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 so far

If I had a voice

I would sing the words

as I do at home

but in the city

I am silent

It's still not perfect but I thought the last version ended too abruptly.

Here's a very different tune by The Decemberists.

Until next time.

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. 

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.

WHO WOULD COURT MISFORTUNE?

Some poems are based on real life, some are not. This is one of those. Not sure about the ending.

ELEPHANT ORNAMENTS

My father would have none of it

china elephants holiday gifts

they always bring bad luck

and who would court misfortune?

There were moments when a child

that I sensed elephants in the living room

the drum taut tension of things unsaid

I knew not to ask

I had an interesting discussion with a friend about last post's poem and was prompted to make a number of changes.

For Euan and Murray

I am carrying you

into your dreams

This is

my walking spell

the same circuit

of forty two steps

Again and again

around this room

And as we move

all I ask of you

Is to close

those tired eyes

Then you

will cross the border

Don’t worry

the whole wide world

Will still be here

when you awaken

What do you think? Does it work better? I think so. Thanks Nel.

Here are Everything But The Girl.

Until next time.

SEA GLASS

Do you ever wander along a beach looking for sea glass? I do, it helps that I'm lucky enough to live by the sea. Though I've just discovered that sea glass can be found by the banks of rivers, though it is less frosted than glass smoothed by the seas, and is known as beach glass. Here's a poem about sea glass.

FLEETING

Amid the silica

sea glass

on its way back

from bottle

to being grains on a beach

Towards the end

of this transformation

I hold it in my hand

and admire the ocean’s lapidary

I'm not sure this is complete. It is meant to be a description, the mystery is in the beauty of each unique piece. Here's a connected poem about finding a Spanish pop bottle on the beach.

A pop bottle from Spain

has ended up on the strand

half full of grey water

the plastic label worn but readable

it has travelled so far to be recycled

As I pick it up I notice

a sea green glass pebble

that I place in my pocket

Do people still say pop? Or is it beverage, or some such other word? Anyway this bottle travelled from Spain across the Atlantic to Torquay, where it was recycled. A rather epic journey.

I found this live footage of Shelagh McDonald recently. It's beautiful.

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.    

BRIGHT CURLED CRISP

Autumn has definitely arrived in Devon, it should have, you cry, it's November! Well, yes it is, but it's been unseasonably warm recently. Here's a poem about the season.

AUTUMN

The leaves were leaving

right angles in the wind

bright curled crisp

they fly from the branch

Then circle as if unsure

of what to make of this word freedom

only to fall

heavier than the thought

Briefly they will jewel the pavement

Nothing to say about this poem really. This next one is another in the long line of poems about writing poems. 

It comes down to the poem shouting at you

oi! over here!

As it mimes a metaphor

that you only half appreciate

You are just the hapless scribe

whose hands are full

Recording every word

as best you can 

Again it is just a little observation. I think I am in a period of writing miniatures. Small, self contained facets of lived experience. I hope they chime with you. 

Here's Ben Webster and Oscar Peterson.

Until next time.

 

THE DAWN WAS FRESH AND CLEAR

 A personal history poem first this post.

21^st BIRTHDAY POEM

Colours erupted in the wet sky

the fireworks arrived on time

as we toasted my birthday

in malt and Moroccan

Time started to leapfrog

a series of stuttering memories

that I could later never quite sequence

but the dawn was fresh and clear

I walked home

leaving a set of footprints

on the dewed grass

that eventually led me here

This is something I've been looking at for a couple of weeks and please regard this as a first draft. I think it's pretty straight forward reportage. The events happened at a festival back in the 70s and it did conclude with fireworks.

I don't know where this one comes from. It wrote itself and I don't know what to make of it. 

Elvis said to Elvis in the Clones For Hire stockade:

I’d never have gone and done it

if I’d have even had half an inkling this would be my fate

I’d have sacked that bastard Colonel for a start

Marilyn Monroe sighed:

You always say this before they retune your head

but you never ever act on the impulse

or think about the situation we are all in now

She was called away to another job

she was the most popular of the Heritage Clones

The other Elvis sighed

and wished he’d stuck to driving trucks

It did make me smile though.

Iron and Wine were excellent. Here's a video of him live.

Until next time

JUST ANOTHER STATISTIC

I took a train to Runcorn recently and wrote these two poems about the trip.

In Stafford there were train spotters

older men cameras slung round their necks

no pencils, no spiral bound notebooks

They take note of the rolling stock

record every serial number

in search of the big score

One took my photograph

as my carriage slid by

just another statistic

in a sea of dates, times and tonnage

All the train spotters were older men, I wondered if younger people collect train numbers? This second poem is reportage of my return and the fact the station was closed due to the signalling equipment being broken. Decades of private ownership and the trains don't even run as efficiently as they did for Sherlock Holmes. Aren't tory policies marvellous.

when I got to the station

people were pouring from inside

a man told me the signals were toast

I almost didn’t believe

asked a woman for confirmation

early Thursday Runcorn town

the wind nags at you

bound to wear you down by noon

I know how such days play out

a single unexpected side step

and life is once more a struggle

I am not sure about either poem. I shall put them away and see if they survive future scrutiny.

Were you at the All Points East Festival last Sunday? I was and the Decemberists were superb. My daughter commented on just how good Colin Malloy's singing was. You can judge for yourself.

Until next time.

VERBAL GOLD

I've been working on this first poem since last Friday when it happened.

A Friday night hotel bar

he’s a couple of few drinks ahead of me

his every word is big voiced into his phone

he is deconstructing his heart

I’m the other side of a flimsy partition

trying to camouflage my listening ear

his every word is verbal gold

as he spills memorable phrases

I can’t pull out pen and paper

to record his every heart felt word can I?

Would anyone notice?

The poem wags a finger in my face

Whispers: this one’s not going to happen

Yes, I was sat in a hotel bar attempting not to listen to a man pour his heart into his telephone. To be honest, I think he was past the point of awareness that people could overhear him. The poem wrote itself the next morning. I've been working on this next one about the same length of time.

for the first time in years

he takes stock

of his head long trajectory

from home to here

what has been cast aside

internal inventory

remembers his mother’s prayers

lost somewhere

no going back

Not sure this is going to go anywhere. I like the idea of the protagonist losing his mother's prayers but think it's probably too tell, rather than show.

Here's The Byrds with Gunga Din. No idea what the song is about. It sounds amazing.

Until next time.

CAJOLING A FLAME

I suppose the poem this post is related to the poem I wrote about humans being cast out of the Garden of Eden. It is set the following morning.

you wake

amazed

that you had managed to sleep

after all that palaver

the fire is ash

damp grey in this drizzle

no hope of cajoling a flame

then you realise you are naked

and that it a medium sin

he wakes

and the recriminations begin

and carry on to this day

I wanted to explore what it must have felt like the morning after, and the hideous blame game that followed and still continues to echo down the years. We all deserve better.

Here is a silly little piece:

the bus driver informs me as I step aboard that he is living the dream

he pulls away singing a song that was popular some years ago

and continues after I alight

I think his dream would be my nightmare

It's a true story. It happened just like that as I was returning from Brixham. Driving a bus would not be my idea of paradise.

Here's the title song from The Decemebrists' new album. They are playing a festival in London this month. I may see you there.

Until next time.   

PERFECT IMPERFECTION

I participated in a writing workshop last week. The focus was on the fantastic,  exaggeration, amplifying beyond belief. it was fun. I managed to write two poems [neither of them a tall a tale].

I like walking barefoot on the beach

even though the sky is always out of reach

the seals stay in the blue green below

and never whisper what they know

as the tide gives then takes away

the transient land on which you cannot stay

This was just a piece of whimsy. One of the other participants had told me they liked walking on the beach and it became six lines of fantasy. This second poem arose from another exercise. I had to write about a person talking to their reflection in a mirror. 

PERFECT IMPERFECTION

there is comfort in the chipped cup

on its mismatched saucer

and in the teapot’s wonky spout

that will never ever pour proper

embrace the world for what it is

near enough can be good enough

I was thinking that the person was too critical of themselves, trying to be too perfect and that led to my celebration of the imperfect. Much of the time near enough is more than adequate. Let's not give ourselves too hard a time.

Here's Natalie Merchant with Sister Tilly.

Until next time.

ADRIFT IN THE FOG OF LIFE

I've been struggling with this poem for a couple of months. I am not sure it works.

top of the hills

highest point for miles

this house with glass walls

I came to map the valley

note the car’s headlights

see people like ants below

but the air thickens

water logged

opaque to observation

it leaves me like everyone

adrift in the fog of life

The genesis was the couple of days I spent outside Vichy in a house on a hill and yes, the fog/low cloud obscured the view. I suspect that I am not clear about what I want the poem to say. It definitely goes into the drawer for a couple of months.

Here's a rewrite of a poem I featured two or three posts ago. I've changed the layout. I think the poem breathes easier now. 

FOURTH THURSDAY IN CATALUNYA

I am crossing the square

a bell begins to repeat three solemn notes

on the terrace in front of the church

there are knots of people

grief shock disbelief no one smiles

I turn the corner see a white hearse parked

flower tributes surround a pine coffin

there is a cross carved into the lid

the occupant is in no hurry for the service to begin

as I look at the local architecture

I keep returning to the one who waited

my mind asks if they had walked down this street

did the Modinisme buildings become so familiar

that they ceased to take in the details

or even notice them at all

when I recross the square

the church doors are closed

it is as if nothing had happened

I have been listening to the Laura Nyro boxset a lot. With any boxset you have to give the individual albums space to speak to you. There are many riches to behold. This was always a favourite.

Until next time.