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.

FALLS THROUGH FRANTIC AIR

I think I mentioned last post that I am not writing much at the moment. This is partly because I am focussed on compiling a new collection, one that will have illustrations by Alison Wilson. It should be out by Christmas. Watch this space, details to follow. 

I was looking at a couple of old poems the other day that were written fourteen years ago on a visit to Barcelona and decided to revise them. They are both incidents I saw on the Metro. In the first a woman dropped her wedding ring.

BARCELONA 2009

ring around her finger

a circle she fiddles with

turns this way that

slides up and it

falls through frantic air

bounces on the carriage floor

the man in the next seat

smiles, retrieves it

the gold glints

between his finger and thumb

sat opposite I invent reasons

love long gone infidelity

anger or some secret regret?

I ask what it means and

you tell me: Stuff happens

sometimes there is no meaning

then it is our stop

and we exit the Metro

I thought the poem needed to breathe, it was too concentrated. [You can read the published version here.] I always try to pare my work down to the bare essentials but I wondered if I had removed too much. 

This second poem is from the same trip and again I thought it required space. Perhaps the location had influenced my lay out, the cramped tunnels of the Metro?

6. Road Poem

they kiss

he boards the train

does not look back

at her expectant face

an almost sigh

split second space

then she walks

you tell me:

we are observing a failed romance

we walk along the platform

I hope she does not speak English

When I reread the poem what struck me was my embarrassment, I did not want the woman to overhear our conversation, as she seemed weighed down by her own circumstances. Sadly the book these poems are from is out of print.

The immensely talented Pollyanna has just released a video for her song Brighton. Wonderful stuff, especially the line I can feel the privilege of being a stranger, pure poetry!

Until next time.

TWO RINGS THE LIGHTER

Sometimes something I see in the street can spark off my imagination. This post's poem is the product of such a chance event. I was in the town centre recently and I happened to walk past a pawn broker's just as a middle aged woman was exiting. I wondered what the circumstances of her visit were and began to construct a poem around the line two rings the lighter, imagining she had been selling her wedding and engagement rings. Such is the morbid turn of my mind.

she left the shop

two rings the lighter

felt surprisingly heavy

amid the rush and press

of the mid-morning shoppers

reflected on how life was supposed to run

contrasted happy ever after

with her own history

that had led to a pawn broker

then moved through the people

each one intent on acting out

their own passion play

I wanted to expand the personal action of the pawning of the rings to include the lives of all the other people happening around her. To draw back from the close up to the crowd shot, so to speak. The phrase passion play just arrived and sealed the shape of the poem.

Pollyanna has been busy at work on a new set of songs and videos. At present she's making a video for her song Brighton Beach, the rushes look excellent. Here's Your Smile is Cold.

Until next time.

DECOUPAGE FOR THE MIND

Wednesday was the biggest day of action for decades but the government didn't care. They appear to be only interested in ruining the country. But enough of the public school educated elite who are not interested in the people they are supposed to represent, I  found an old poem the other day, one I had forgotten about. I rearranged the layout and changed the odd word. 

DECOUPAGE FOR THE MIND

He can think photographs

scry alternate worlds

He holds the light sensitive paper to his forehead

his thoughts embellish it with another life

He keeps only the good ones

told me he burns the horrors

Keeps the snapshots in scrapbooks

they cover the walls of his flat

Only works when he has to

needs to pay for the paper

The experts told him

he only made collages

Identified three separate films

merged on the one page

Declared he was a wizard

with scissors and a colour copier

He stopped showing people after that

just sat in his chair and thought

Interesting idea, isn't it? I am sure I read about a man who could do this when I was a child. The word scrying refers to a technique you may know as distant viewing- the ability to visualise a distant place accurately. Sort of astral travelling, something else I have always wanted to do.

I've been listening to Pollyanna's new album a lot this week. You can hear it [and buy it] here.

Until next time.

NO WISER THE SECOND TIME

Greetings from a member of anti-growth coalition, we do things differently here, we value people and animals, we want to conserve and respect the environment and we definitely do not think libertarian lunacy will save us. No, we are too old for that, seen it before, didn't like it in the 70s, 80s, or the 90s or even when it was repackaged as Austerity. Honestly you have to laugh at this government or you would cry at how inept they are.

Here's a poem about my own history. Recently I was in a workshop and we had to write about where we were from. I wrote this.

I am from the waters of the Mersey

dried on the black sand of Ferry Hut

gifted an accent both ancient and indelible

I am from Kingsway Secondary Schooled

to be the fodder of the factory

for a mechanical age slipping into history

I stopped at that point because I felt after the second stanza I'd left where I had grown, moved to the other end of the country and did different things. Does it work as a poem? I hope it makes people look up what Ferry Hut is...

A short poem next that was prompted by my watch being fast.

then I realised my watch was fast

and I had ten minutes of my life to spend again 

I was no wiser the second time

It is what it is. Would any of us make better choices? I think the path we take is the path that we need to take, but there again my life has been easy.

Pollyanna has a new single out Man Time.  

Until next time.

A DIFFERENT MAGIC

On Saturday night we wild camped at Budliegh Salterton and were lucky enough to be able to watch the full moon rise over a calm sea. The next morning I began to write this poem.

in the morning I returned to the place where the night before I had watched through the magnifying lens of the nourishing atmosphere the full moon rise

I looked for a vestigial trace of the pink disc that had

fired the darkness

gilded the sea

elicited within me something I could feel but not name

now the sun was inspecting the beach imbuing it with a different magic

no matter 

half a world away the moon was reflecting enchantment on to another’s upturned face

I am not convinced that the layout is right or if there is too much tell and not enough show. However I wanted to share both the poem and photographs I'd taken. So much for putting it in a drawer for three months as I advocate to others!

Here's the official video of Pollyanna's latest single. 

Until next time.

WALKED TO THE EDGE OF HER WORLD

I am going through a fallow period at the moment, not writing very much. It happens at times. This blog has been running for over eleven years and during that time I have written 664 posts. I would estimate there have been at least that many poems posted. 

This poem came out of nowhere but on reflection I think it was inspired by a book I first read in the middle 70s, The Dark Twin by Marion Campbell. I must have read it at least three times over the years and it has only been republished once. If you are fortunate to see a copy buy it.

Incidentally in the story a man travels half way round the world looking for the well at the world's end and for him that well was where the story takes place, in Scotland. The story is set in prehistory when the Earth Mother religion is being usurped by a patriarchal, controlling religion. It is well worth seeking out a copy.

she walked to the edge of her world

it took as long as you’d expected

and was as difficult as it sounds

at the world’s end

she found her holy well

truth be told

the people who drew their

water everyday from it

looked at it in a different light

but kept their own counsel

grant each of us the eyes we need in this life

After all that the poem is rather brief, but I like the sentiment. It has been through many drafts as is often the way with writing that looks plain.

Pollyanna has released a new single. Here is the video.

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.

TOURIST STATISTIC

I  was in Amsterdam recently, it was the result of train tickets being on hold throughout the pandemic. I went to the Van Gogh Museum and wrote this as I wandered around.

Van Gogh Museum Tourist Statistic

she has her vision

he is directed to position her on the screen

The Sunflowers on her shoulder

she is the centre piece

he presents the result

she shakes her head

two more attempts are needed

before she smiles

I continue to watch as

twenty other people photograph

the painting in their turn

all vying for the best shot

then I snake through the crowds

to catch glimpses of paintings

no one wanted to buy

when the artist was alive

Please do not think I am critical of the couple, I am not, I was just fascinated by their vision. I don't tend to take photographs of paintings because my efforts are no where near as good as the real thing. 

Amsterdam was fun, it is a very beautiful city. I was taken with the illuminated trees as you can see.

Pollyanna is just presenting her labour songs project, sadly I cannot find any videos of it, but from what I've heard it sounds boss. Here's an earlier video.

Until next time.

SOMETHING TO WORRY ABOUT IN THE NIGHT

It's been a strange week here in the UK. The pantomime that is our political system appears to be thoroughly broken. The government seems to be totally incapable of doing what they tell us we must  do. Perhaps it is due to that sense of entitlement public schools appear to imbue these second raters with. Some Catalan friends of mine where saying how funny the actions of our crime minister and his troupe of clowns are. I had to reply that they do not have to live with the madness that their actions generate. 

A poem about stealing Jesus' wallet. It arrived nearly fully formed.

lifting Jesus’ wallet you confessed

was easier than you ever imagined

the real mystery was locating it amid those flowing robes

you continued by describing the contents:

four crisp ten shilling notes

a religious medal of St John the Baptist

a return tram ticket to Bairro Alto

various coins of different denominations and epochs

all too perfect to be kosher

I began to wonder if He

had let you steal it so

you would have something to worry about in the night

I have been reading a novel set in Lisbon, hence the Bairro Alto reference. Lisbon has to be one of the most beautiful cities in the world. 

I liked the idea of the thief receiving what he did not know he needed. I am not sure about the layout, the Secrets suggested a prose poem. Watch this space.

Here's a song by Pollyanna. At the moment she working on a sequence of labour songs, songs that were sung by people as they worked. You can keep up to date with the project on Instagram. 

Until next time.

AND THEY GOT AWAY WITH MURDER

 

Here is another poem that was written on the poetry retreat I recently attended.

It had a difficult genesis as it required me to repeat lines in a specific order. My dyscalulia played havoc with that!

it was written in the small print

nobody told her any different

they glossed over the details

and she never thought to question

nobody told her any different

she just signed her rights away

and she never thought to question

and they got away with murder

she just signed away her rights

and there never was no comeback

and they got away with murder

hid behind their fancy words

she just signed away her rights

and there never was no comeback

hid behind their fancy words

it was written in the small print

I have no idea where the poem came from. I took a line from another poem as my starting point and promptly ended up altering it beyond recognition. In this present draft it is now the second line. What I like about the poem is the narrator's sense of outrage. Thanks to Liz for setting the challenge.

Only one poem this post. Since my creative outpouring on the retreat I have been revising more than writing. 

Here's Pollyanna with a song about chasing mammoths. 

Until Next time.