I have a new book out today! It is entitled The Wait of Water and is illustrated by Alison Wilson. You can purchase a copy by emailing me at thewaitofwater@outlook.com. It costs £10 plus postage and packing. I feel that it is the most complete expression of my craft to date.
If you are in Plymouth on the weekend of the 16th August then you will have the opportunity to attend the book launch and the exhibition of Alison's prints from the book. It is being hosted by The Leadworks, 170 Rendle Street, Stone House, Plymouth, PL1 1TP. The exhibition runs from the 16th to the 18th August. The book launch is 7:30-9:00pm on the 16th. The exhibition is open 10-3pm on the 17th and 18th.
I am a little tardy in posting this week as I have been preoccupied with the details of my new collection, more on this on Tuesday. Suffice to say I have a fifth book coming out which you can order either as a book or an e-book. Today's poem comes with assistance from the Secret Poets. You can read the earlier draft here.
IT COULD BE CATCHING
There had been an outbreak of poetry
thankfully it was only a villanelle.
The symptoms were a moody intensity,
giving his life an ABA frequency.
He was quarantined in a cheap hotel.
There had been an outbreak of poetry
and his choice of rhyme revealed
uncertainty,
he was unsure if they worked that well.
The symptoms were a moody intensity
to which the nurses responded with
flattery,
how he longed to get out of his cell.
There had been an outbreak of poetry
how long it would last none could tell.
The symptoms were a moody intensity
to which they suggested psychiatry
as his rhyming scheme was shot to hell.
What's changed? Well it is no longer a villanelle, Liz suggested that as the rhyming scheme was "shot to hell" it could just stop. I thought that was a wonderful idea. The spacing has also changed.
I was saddened this week to hear of the death of Toumani Diabati. The world is the poorer without him. He was an amazing musician. I have some wonderful memories of seeing him play live over the years. He will be missed.
Until Tuesday and the information of how you can order my new book.
If my last post was two poems written at a workshop that appeared unheralded, then this post's poem continues the unexpected arrival theme. I wrote it in the middle of the night, when I had just awoken from a dream.
I felt I should know this place
the beach looked too beautiful to be real
as I looked I realised it was the same
perfect wave
that kept repeating its surge to the shore
and that stars that wheeled in the sky
sparkled like diamonds cast on midnight
blue velvet
I asked my friend [whom I’d never met
before]
sure is it not a mix of the two
part nature and part enhanced by the
artists
the studio employed to ensure
it looked like what an audience would
expect
in my pocket the magistrates wrist watch
weighed as heavy as unconfessed sin
my friend slapped me on the back
in a manner no one ever had
tender
underlining our unspoken bond of years
let’s get going you’ve got to give
me the loot then bring me back
we walked to the old van
the darkness nestled around us
the soundtrack had yet to be added
we drove in silence all the way to waking
No I have no idea where it came from. I'm not even sure I can identify the constituent parts. I like the dreamy, half familiar feel of it. I thought of entitling it Day For Night after that technique films use to turn daylight into night. Dream for Night was another contender, but neither seems to do it justice.
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.
A rather silly poem this week. The first line [the title of this post] popped into my head and I was away. I thought the villanelle form lent itself to the idea [and the second rhyme]. Having such a clear structure made writing the poem more straight forward.
There had been an outbreak of poetry
thankfully it was only a villanelle.
The symptoms were a moody intensity,
giving his life an ABA frequency.
He was quarantined in a cheap hotel.
There had been an outbreak of poetry
and his choice of rhyme revealed
uncertainty,
he was unsure if they worked that well.
The symptoms were a moody intensity
to which the nurses responded with
flattery,
how long it would last none could tell.
There had been an outbreak of poetry
how he longed to get out of his cell.
The symptoms were a moody intensity
to which they suggested psychiatry
as his rhyming scheme was shot to hell.
There had been an out break of poetry,
the symptoms were a moody intensity.
The next step for this poem is to take it to the next Secret Poets meeting and see what they make of it. I'm not sure I will do anything more with it.
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.
This post's poem was sparked by someone asking if I had ever been to Venice, sadly I have not.I remembered my father saying he had visited in 1945, after the War in Europe ended. He had been with the Eighth Army since El Alamein and he was given leave that summer. I didn't mention this in the conversation but it set me thinking and a couple of days later I wrote this.
FAMILY HISTORY
finally the shooting stops
Charlie gets the train to Venice
where the sandbagged statues
tax his imagination
he’s seen so much these past six years
after all that khaki and the hard won miles
he goes to La Scala
as opera never fails
to bring out the beauty
they’ll ship him home soon
and he’ll slip some silver
to the demob tailor
who’ll cut his suit
with a little more care
Charlie will wear it
like they all did
down the dance
on a Saturday night
where he’ll meet my mother
and then my story begins
I think this is definitely a work in progress. I have a difficulty with the rhythm, and it doesn't feel complete. I think this is one to take to the next meeting of the Secret Poets and see what they make of it.
Mdou Moctar have a new album out. Here's the title track.
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