A rewrite this post. I was looking over some poems from last year and I saw how I could improve this poem. You can read the earlier version here.
the
secrets of the sun
hide
in plain sight
but
you need asbestos eyes
to
clock the beauty
of
hydrogen becoming helium
some
have tried
Milton
for example went blind
hunting
solar flares at noon
through
a borrowed telescope
but
all you have to do
is
accept what you are given
welcome
the sun’s light on your skin
it really is as simple as that
Well, the last line of the first stanza stood out as being rather ungainly. Plus the conclusion seemed clunky. I think it reads better now and it may be there!
I confess the title of this post is a lie. I did not go swimming and the moon looked its normal size to me. However, the event did prompt this poem.
SWIMMING
WITH THE SUPER MOON
She
asks me if I can see it from where I am
a
balcony overlooking Meadfoot Beach
I
confess my ignorance of the whole event
and
no it is not visible from up here
She
walks to the tideline with her friends
and
they best foot it into the bay
their
laughter carries on the air
we
resume our conversation sip cava
Until
the pink speckled tardy moon
arises
from a bank of cloud
it
looks the usual size to me
the
water reflects its beauty
and
life does not get much better
Some poems, I think, are more like sketches of memories. That is certainly the case with this. An opportunity to celebrate something beautiful. Oh, cava [pronounced Ka-ba] is a sparkling wine from Catalunya , I am assured by Catalan friends that it at least rivals a good champagne. Here's a revision of one of the poems from last post.
listen,
I’m not maudlin
ever
since you ghosted me
I
don’t think of you that much
but
I thought I saw you today
by
where your office used to be
when
the sun was in my eyes
it
was only when they spoke
I
realised I was mistaken
that
it
was some other clown
in
last year’s suit
attempting
to be authentic
which
was a whole lot more
than
you’d ever done
It's still not there yet and quite frankly it may never arrive. Away it can go for a long while.
Yahia Lababidi has just started a new Youtube channel full of good poetry and recipes! You can watch it here.
I am ashamed to admit I missed the release of a new album by Lizzie Nunnery and Vidar Norheim. It sounds amazing. you can order it here.
History has a habit of repeating itself. That which is of worth goes unrecognised and is side lined, while the banal is given centre stage. I have seen this a number of times over the years and that is what this poem is all about.
here
we are again- redundancies
all round
here
comes the new one
desperate
to make their mark
and
fix what is not broken
quality
is neither here or there
to
people like these
intent
on their vision
so
something unique will go
and the the vacuum filled
with
the second rate
and
we all are the poorer
as
all the beauty drains away
I agree it's a little too shouty, too much tell, not enough show. All I can say in my defence is that it comes from the heart.
I too close to this next poem to see it clearly, though I think it's some of the way there.
listen,
I’m not maudlin
I
don’t think of you that much
not
since you ghosted me
but
I thought I saw you today
by where your office used to be
when
the sun was in my eyes
it
was only when they spoke
I
realised I was mistaken
and
it was some other clown
in
last year’s suit
attempting
to be themselves
which
was a whole lot more
than
you’d ever done
Watch this space. There is the kernel of a poem in there but at the present it isn't clear. It's definitely a case of some days you eat the bear, some days the bear eats you and some days you both go hungry. Wow! I was looking up the origin of the phrase when I came upon this long thread relating to The Great Lebowski. I love the internet for this sort of thing!
I've been listening to a lot of Iron & Wine recently and here is Walking Far From Home.
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 goneinfidelity
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!
I had a sudden recollection the other day of a reading given by Brian Patten. It could have arisen because my interview with Brian is on the popular posts list.
Memory
its
a Friday evening
West
Somerset
Brian
is saying:
fuck
you Stephen Spender
fuck
you for what you visited on Stevie Smith
fuck
you who remembers you now
that
was years ago
and
Stephen Spender
is
not even a reflection
in
our collective rear view mirror
A word about the people mentioned. Stevie Smith is a perennially popular poet who gave the language the phrase not waving but drowning. Stephen Spender was from a privileged background and became communist before being knighted. If I have to choose a side then I'm with Brian.
Here's another memory. This one is about those moments of satori when you feel at one with the whole world.
the
windows looked like painted flats
so I
walked outside to see what was behind them
and
fleetingly I was at one with everything
I've not been writing much this past couple of weeks. I go through these periods once in a while and always tell myself you have to take in to give out. I am sure I shall be writing more soon.
Tim Smith has completed his Harp album and it is being released on 1.12.23! I can't wait, those of us who were fans of Midlake had almost given up home that he would make another album. Here's the first single.
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.
I've been reading 1966 by Jon Savage and I think the section on burning The Beatles records sparked this post's poem. I've never understood the desire to burn books, I think it's a waste and some how makes the banned books stronger, more desirable. It's as if the people doing the burning are frightened or limited in their means of expression.
THE
BOOK BURNING
was
everything you’d expect it to be.
Self-righteous
men, always men,
directing
the children, laden
with
armfuls of the banned, damned books.
Casting
them into the inferno
with
a wide eyed giddy intensity,
ecstatic
in this act of vandalism
we
are burning books!
and
the air is full of charred letters.
Stray
words set free
from
carefully constructed sentences.
The
ink knows as it sizzles,
that
every book is a temporary alliance
of
print and wood pulp and glue.
If
the men had been more patient
eventually
it would have returned to dust
Does it work? I think so [otherwise I wouldn't be showing it], I wanted to show the different lengths of time that things last. The burning of books is a form of group insanity. I shall put the poem away for a couple of months, which usually exposes flaws. Watch this space.
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