This first poem arose out of a conversation concerning the changing role of mechanics, the trend towards the use of diagnostic computers and the consequent narrowing of human skill bases.
this
time around he is a mechanic who cannot fix cars
who
spends his days changing units as directed by the diagnostic computer
he
has always worked with his hands
made
the best bows in his tribe back on the wind scoured step
twice
crafted watches in France
pewter
chargers in Barcelona
metal
speaks to him
steel
iron bronze flint and stone as well
now
he does as he is told
his
eternal self wonders if that is the lesson of this life
As usual there is no title. I was drawn to the idea of an eternal soul gaining satisfaction from the act of creating objects with their hands. Here is last post's poem revised.
Lisbon:
16.4.17
She
shades her head
with
the poly-pocketed paper
that
proclaims her - tour guide
then
the
human
crocodile
pauses
turns
on
her
cue
to
take
in
the
view
and
with
a
collective
sigh
resumes
its
progress
down
the
steep
street
The hot and bothered tour group that inspired this poem as they wilted in the heat were climbing up the street but the poem works better on the page if they are descending. There is a new Mountain Goats album due this month Goths. Here's a sneak preview.
I'm just back from Lisbon. I haven't visited the city for about eight years. You can look at the poem my previous visit provoked here. Actually I jotted down a number of ideas but have only worked this into something like a presentable form.
Lisbon:
16.4.17
she
shades her head
with
the poly-pocketed
piece
of paper
that
proclaims her
tour
guide status
the
human
crocodile
pauses
turns
on
her
cue
to
take
in
the
view
and
with
a
collective
sigh
resumes
its progress
up
the steep street
It's good practice to try and capture a scene quickly. You can work on the form later. Initially you simply want to get down those first impressions. What I did notice this time was the influx of tourists from cruise ships. You have the same phenomenon in Barcelona. Here is another rough draft. I literally spoke this into my phone as I walked to the supermarket today.
this
time around he is a mechanic
who
cannot fix cars
and
spends his days changing units
as
directed by the diagnostic computer
he
has always worked with his hands
made
the best bows in his tribe
back
on the wind scoured step
was
twice a watchmaker in France
he
has scraped a making table optically flat
metal
speaks to him
steel
iron bronze
flint
and stone as well
now
he does as he is told
his
eternal self wonders
if
this is the lesson of this life
I am not sure I have got an impression of the depth of reincarnation. Watch this space for updates. By the way I am posting every two weeks at the moment. I leave you with BrookeSharkey. I saw her again a couple of weeks ago and she was stunning. Here is Bottletop Blues.
I think that each of us has a set of archetypes that we mine repeatedly to explain the world around us. Here is another poem involving Yuri Gagarin and for once it has a title.
Last
Word
A
terrible loneliness
was
how Yuri described
being
the first human in space,
up
where no one can hear you...
what?
Scream,
shout,
or
gasp
because
you are unable to take in the panoply?
Space
is noisy though,
it
crackles with hard radiations
and
murmurs the echo of the Big Bang.
Wired
up wrong, cloth eared,
we
just don't pick any of it up
too
used to sonic waves in fat atmosphere.
But
I don't want to go to space any more,
as
I did when I was young.
even
as it falls to pieces around me,
I
like this place too much,
to
ride a controlled explosion
far
beyond all that is familiar.
Yuri
said that from up there
the
world looked so beautiful,
and
pleaded we should preserve that beauty.
Down
here you can't hear the planet scream,
so
we go on killing it.
One
day it will speak in a language we all understand.
I do worry that in the developed world we are ignoring climate change at our peril. How many instances of freak weather do we need before we wake up? On a lighter note Paul Mortimer set the pair of us a task the other day to write a poem using two randomly chosen prompt cards. Mine read ripped upholstery and a supermodel holding a cat. This is what I wrote.
Artful
Entropy
Even
the ripped upholstery is displayed with taste.
Tres
shabby chic.
Take
in the blond waterfall of perfect hair.
She
sprawls at ease,
mirrors
the cat on her lap.
The
fashion edition photo shoot.
The
first Saturday of the next month,
sperated
as we are by the Pennines,
we
will both glance at the magazine's cover,
then
you will read the letters page,
while
I file away the gardening tips
for
a time when they might prove useful.
No idea where it came from. We set ourselves ten minutes for the task. Sometimes a very tight deadline can inspire in unexpected ways. I leave you with Nature's Way by Spirit.
This Wednesday I had a surfeit of poetry. I spent the afternoon with the Secret Poets offering and receiving constructive feedback and, although I had forgotten he was coming, the evening with Paul Mortimer doing more of the same. With due thanks to everyone I offer you a poem about my grandmother. It was inspired by a photograph I found in a pile of papers and which have managed to mislay again. That's consistency for you.
Grandma
Hanley
She
sits black and white,
as
stern as history,
centre
of the photograph.
Square
black shoes.
Polished
of course.
At
her waist the deaf aid
that
whistled it's way through my childhood.
About
my age now,
after
a life so much harder then mine,
she
faced the lens.
Photography
must have been
a
more serious business back then,
I
can't align this image with my memories of her.
Perhaps
it was a 1950s type of day,
when
the past sat heavy on her shoulders,
with
a weight that was too much.
She
shrank as I grew,
her
mind slowly left her body behind,
to
wind down in its own time.
These two photographs capture her better. Me and Paul were talking about slang and looking through some slang dictionaries. He delighted in the phrase: "hotter than a two dollar pistol" but I'm ashamed to say I have beaten him to the draw in using it.
We
are talking about Jim Thompson,
how
he's hotter than a two dollar pistol,
and
just as valued by the literary elite.
Then
I go upstairs to find his book to lend you.
I've
always tended to leave
whatever
I used to mark my place inside the book,
and
out of its pages flutter two thick, blue tickets:
David
Bowie, Cardiff Arms Park.
So
that's the memento and this is the memory:
it
was a Sunday in June thirty years ago,
I
went with Christine, before we had the kids.
She'd
never seen him and oh, how we danced.
And that was how it happened, and here are the tickets.
I suppose I should end with a Bowie song so here is Let's Dance.
I recently spent a very enjoyable weekend on a poetry retreat with The Secret Poets. We each led a workshop and out of one came this post's poems. During said workshop we were asked to go out into the garden and write about what we found. These are my observations.
The
Rosemary
Bought
and brought over here
to
enrich our palette,
this
epicurean migrant may have taken root,
but
is still so out of step with the seasons
that
these delicate blue flowers
colour
this January day.
The Romans brought thyme to the British Isles, I had to check that on line. Here is a second observation.
Every
tree in this orchard plays statues
winter
cannot entice a single leaf to show
this
is not their time, so they wait
stand
stock still until the first notes of spring.
This third brief note is perhaps the one most in need of work.
Guinea
fowl in sudden motion
lickterty
– split freedom
leaves
the hen coop behind
such
action carries a cost
the
cold fox's hungry eye
I was attempting to capture the dangers inherent in freedom. Not sure it does it.
However the idea of simply putting yourself in a different place and just looking is excellent practice. Sometimes we need to the stimulus of new surroundings.
How this poem came about is told in the first stanza. I was taking down the Christmas decorations and I was reminded of an event from 1975. The secret in such circumstances is to have a pen and paper handy. Thankfully I did have.
Taking
Down the Decorations
Then
I am reminded of August '75,
a
cottage in Kerry, an invitation from a man,
probably
no older than I am now.
After
banana sandwiches and dirt brown tea,
he
showed us his parlour
made
up like Christmas Day.
You
won't remember '75,
eclipsed
as it was by the next year's heat wave,
but
it was a more perfect summer.
The
half closed curtains sculptured the sunlight,
bouncing
off those mirrored surfaces
with
an intensity I have never seen since.
I
take the angel off the tree,
box
up the string of lights,
pack
away the stray memories.
There really was man who brightened his house every August with Christmas lights and decorations. 1975 was a stunning summer, without the water shortage drama of the following year. 1976 is the one we always remember. I just wanted to capture the process of how thoughts blossom randomly.
Hurray For The Riff Raffhas just released a new lp, The Navigator. Here's Pa'lante.
I'm off to listen to the whole thing, as it's just arrived through the post.
