I appear to be writing simple, self-explanatory poems at the moment. It is not part of some strategy merely what is bubbling to the surface. This poem is no exception.
My Day
scratching
the parking permit
I
have to ask Ollie the date
and
it turns out
you’re
one hundred today
the
sun still shines
for
now the world goes on
later
as darkness falls
I
will cross Dartmoor
then
I will read
how
the sea is turning to acid
later
still I will toast you
in
clear cold water
You can read about the changing state of our oceans here. The poem is essentially reportage. I wrote it at the end of the day when I was reflecting back on the day's events.
Here's Offa Rex singing The Blackleg Miner. I only heard the album recently, my Decemberists radar must have malfunctioned when the album came out. The song is from the North-East and I first heard Steeleye Span singing it on their debut album. It was made popular by Louis Killen.
Happy shortest day. For me this day has special significance, it feels like the start of the new year. More correfoc photographs this post. I am a sucker for fireworks. An observational poem.
lone man in a car
stopped
at traffic lights
listen
to his music blare
disturb
the day
the
bass beats at my chest
he
looks calm almost bored
amber
to green
he
pulls away
takes
his party with him
As with the last post a pretty straight forward poem. There is something to be said for just writing what you see. The main work comes with the revisions. It's always worth playing about with spacing and exactly where you end lines, carrying an idea onto the next line can alter the pace of the poem.
I came across this concert of Bob Marley from 1979. It's superb. Happy listening.
I'm late posting this week due to the festive season and a trip to Widnes to see family. The photographs are from the Gracia correfoc in Barcelona. It's a celebration of the local saint and I love the bustle and the fireworks. Great fun. A brief poem.
omen
emotions
that turn on a sixpence
boredom
to anger in three seconds flat
life
must be a tricky, a high wire act
coping
with a hair trigger like that
and
i’m wondering
when
my time will come
you
can only look down the barrel of her rage
so
many times before it goes off in your face
I honestly have not got much to say about it as I think it speaks for itself. A good exercise is to just write for a two minutes without stopping and your critical self turned off. Don't reflect on what you are writing just do it and aim to fill at least two sides of paper. Once you have done so then you can flick the switch and engage your critical facilities and try to make something out of your words. It usually yields something.
I'm still in a Leonard Cohen listening space and here he is.
Recently we have started to have our milk delivered in milk bottles just like we used to have in the olden days. Last weekend we were away and decided to put the milk bottles into the freezer. This first prose poem explains why you cannot do that.
I did not realise you cannot
freeze milk in a bottle because milk is at least 85% water which
expands as it freezes cracking the glass and pushing off the foil top
in a frozen explosion
It's one of those poems which are inspired by an image but that do not transcend their connection to that image. I occasionally will use an image to provoke a poem. It can be an effective workshop prompt. However the words usually need to be supported by the image, as in this case.
Sheila’s Poem
1.12.18.
as
brittle as bone china
ever
more fragile
she
tells me what she sees
it
is not my reality
I
welcome her words
attempt
to see her reality
I’ve
known her half my lifetime
so
I can follow the clues
gently
we talk
until
head bowed seamlessly
she
slips into sleep
and
the magazine falls from her
hand
Since I returned from Barcelona I've been listening to a lot of Leonard Cohen. Here he is singing Famous Blue Raincoat, the picture quality isn't brilliant but the music!
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.
I was in Barcelona last week. I went to visit friends and see Ryley Walker at Sidecar, a little club on Placa Reial. On the Thursday the heavens opened and it poured down. The first poem was written after it had stopped.
Barcelona 15.11.18.
it
feels as if the sky has broken as our car surfs through the downpour
raindrops
the size of dinner
plates
splatter the road
the
traffic lights fail
as
lightening cracks overhead
Old
Testament weather you proclaim
and
it is difficult to disagree.
This next one I wrote on the train travelling south down the coast to visit friends for the day.
and
there is always some bloke
man
spread and bellowing telling his friends he’s on the train
convinced
he’s the Samuel Pepys of the digital age
as
he relates in mind numbing detail the
contents of his sandwich
we
slowly progress towards the point when he will say
that
he will be with
them in a minute because he can see the platform
as
he departs a strange silence will fall until
another
observant male informs
the carriage that he is on a train
Originally it was a prose poem but when I came to type it up it seemed to sit better on the page as free verse. It may change yet. I shall leave you with some Ryley Walker. Sadly there is no footage from Sidecar, but here's some from Madrid.
A couple of observational poems this post. The first is of a scene I passed by one morning. two women smoke first fags of the day stand by their car's open doors near a care home whose uniforms they wear it is not yet seven am they savour each second The second relate to my first visit to Barcelona many years ago
Barcelona one cold sleet February our breath smoke in chilled rented room so we stay out as long as we can haunt shopping malls free exhibitions original language cinemas but end up walking cold streets each morning finds us entwined reluctant to leave the warm bed I leave you with The Decemberists Rox in The Box. They were good last Thursday. I love the way they weave The Princess Royal, a Morris tune into the song.
