WEASEL WORDS

I don't seem to be able to let this poem be. I've had a couple of goes at writing it over the years but a definite version seems to allude me. It is based on the conceit that an avatar of mine is conjured in the head of the man who sold us all down the river with all the horror that comes with the phrase.

INSIDE THE HEAD OF THE MAN WHO SOLD US ALL DOWN THE RIVER

His weasel words of self aggrandisement

once again conjure me into existence

and I am told where to stand and what to say

His take on our shared history

his reality

mine would be more cutting

But I am a simple iteration

concocted to speak his words that big him up

with a vocabulary I would never have used

Elsewhere on the planet

the actual me gets on with my life

and never thinks of him

My subconscious must still be processing an event from my past. Will it ever produce and acceptable version? This next poem I've revised the third stanza and a number of other lines. Hopefully it reads better.

PRECARIOUS

He served he said

they called him sailor

he’d seen it all when in the navy

and told us so

at every turn of human nature

We worked the same gig

nine months on promises

then just before the big buyout

they let us all go

messaged us the news

Shut up shop and fled

and that was that

the half hinted at rewards

so much empty sugar

Me and him  well

we sat on the platform all night

hoarding what we had left

waiting for the dawn

new day new chances

He told me he’d lasted six whole weeks

never made it past the harbour

bought himself out of the service

and lived his life on the ripple

a stuttering sequence of jobs

Then he asked me

how do you make your way

when the waves rise then topple

how do you stand in a sinking sea

I shook my head

I had no answers

I have to thank the Secret Poets for their assistance in clarifying this poem.

Here's Hurray For The Riff Raff.

Until next time.

SO MUCH EMPTY SUGAR

I've been writing this poem for some time, jotting down odd lines as they entered my head. I don't know where the idea came from. It was just an image of two men talking, after being made redundant yet again, and one man confessing his secret. 

PRECARIOUS

He served he said

they called him sailor

he’d seen it all when in the navy

and told us so

in response to every turn of human nature

We worked the same gig

nine months on promises

then just before the big buyout

they let all us go

shut up shop and fled

The half hinted at rewards

so much empty sugar

spun of smiles and fine talk

messaged us the news

and that was that

Me and him well

we sat on the platform all that night

hoarding what we had left

waiting for the dawn

new day new chances

He told me he’d lasted six whole weeks

never made it past the harbour

bought himself out of the service

and lived his life on the ripple

a stuttering sequence jobs like this one

Then he asked me

how do you make your way

when the waves rise then topple

how do you stand in a sinking sea

I shook my head

I had no answers

It certainly isn't finished. Too many half set lines. I can't see a way forward at the moment. Like a fine wine, this tale needs time to mature. 

Lola and the Rhinos played their last gig last Saturday. We shall miss them.

Max Romeo died this week. His album War in a Babylon is a classic. So long Max thanks for the amazing music.

Until next time.

SOMEONE ELSE'S NIGHTMARE

I've always liked Carey Grant. He made acting look effortless. His timing was impeccable and he never seemed to take himself that seriously. He was a very skilled actor. The other week I walked into a cinema toilet and there was a huge frieze on one of the walls, a still from North By Northwest. That classic scene when he's been chased by the crop dusting plane through the maize field. The image set me thinking.

CHARADE

In the toilet of a cinema in Warrington

I almost bump into Carey Grant

Frozen as he is in black and white and panic

all over one of the walls

He’s in a bit of a pickle

look at those enlarged eyes

Definitely flight or fight mode

who wouldn’t be

He’s been chased

by a crop dusting aeroplane

And is stuck in the re-enactment

of someone else’s nightmare

As if he didn’t have enough

of his own to be going on with

The title Charade is a reference to another film he starred in, one of my favourites. I saw it when it originally came out in 1963 and many times since. Mr Grant had a terrible upbringing and appeared to only become at peace with himself in the 1950s following LSD therapy. I was wondering how a person with so many issues of their own dealt with being in another person's nightmare.

I was reading a series of articles recently in the Irish Examiner entitled Ireland in 50 Albums. It brought back memories of some bands I'd not thought about for years. The Stars of Heaven being one of them. Here's The Lights of Tetoan.

Until next time.   

WALKING SPELL

Some poems arise from the imagination, an idea, a line, an image that quickly writes itself. Other poems have a basis in fact and the ensuing poem may be an amalgam of many actual experiences. This poem is what it seems, a description of an event.

WALKING SPELL

I am carrying you into your dreams

this is my walking spell

whose power lies in repetition

I walk the same circuit

of the forty two steps

again and again around this room

And as we move all I ask of you

is to close those heavy lidded eyes

then you will cross the border

Don’t worry the whole wide world

will still be here when you awaken

I have not altered it much since the first draft. The focus has been on making it flow. Though it is still very early days, I think it is heading in the right direction.

Brooke Sharkey has a new single out. Frequent readers of this blog will know that I have supported Brooke over the years. It's good to hear her music once more. You can link to her website here.

Until next time.   

BLACK SCRAPS OF STEALTH

Last spring I spent a couple of days on the Costa Brava and one night I watched bats hunt in the twilight. The beam of a lighthouse catching them in mid flight. I stored the memory away knowing I would one day write a poem about it.

NIGHT HUNTERS

Unexpected the wind is in my ears

louder than my tinnitus ever could be

warm like a low power hand dryer

It must have picked up as night came

we’ve just left the restaurant

are by the squat light house

In the beam black scraps of stealth

strobe in and out of existence

it hurts to chart their orbits

and I question my eyes

all the way to the car

The poem percolated in my head for a long time I could vividly remember the bats but the words would not come. I've been working on this for the last couple of weeks. Watch this space.

Here's an early Elvis Costello song Motel Matches, I love the ambiguity of the lyric. He is a fine songwriter.

Until next time. 

JAMES LAST IS FIRST

This poem is a rewrite. You can read the last version here. I was never satisfied with the poem and recently rewrote it. 

Soundtrack for a Charity Shop

James Last is first

because you can usually find

one of his long players

in the record rack

alongside a Johnny Mathis,

both sold millions back in the day.

They front the line of budget classics

Beethoven’s greatest hits etc.

[capitalism camouflaged as culture].

I think I’d rather go to the

Fifty Top Tune Banjo Party

than listen to Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Requiem

every last copy is in mint condition

because nobody could face listening

to it more than once.

And all the prices have gone up

ever since the staff started googling Discogs,

just because a mint first pressing is worth real money

this scratched and battered reprint

has not the same value

but they never listen when you try to tell them. 

It is now longer than it previously was and I think the more conversational style works better. It also struck me that the opening line was reasonably funny. In the six years since I first had the idea to write about LPs in charity shops the times have changed. Vinyl is once more hip. I read in a survey of young people's music habits that having a record player was indicative being an authentic fan and apparently 80% of those interviewed owned decks. Just like when I was young. 

Speaking of those days I was listening to Smith, Perkins and Smith recently. They released one album on Island in 1972.

Until next time.

 

CARRY HIM INTO THE NEXT INCARNATION

I started this blog in May 2011, fourteen years ago, and this is my eight hundredth post and I would like to thank all the people who have supported the blog over the years. I am not sure what I make of this latest piece. It is still in its early stages. An EMP is an Electromagnetic Pulse. An airburst would destroy all electronic equipment retendering everyone back into the analogue age.

The times uncertain

the power failed with a regularity

Rumour was everywhere

whispered talk of an EMP

That would kill every screen stone dead

and soften them up for the expected invasion

He had prepared for this

if they ever dropped the big one

He would go out listening to West End Blues

and its beauty would carry him into the next incarnation

I'm not happy with it at the moment as it feels out of balance. West End Blues is a tune by King Oliver. My favourite version is by Louis Armstrong and His Hot Five. I do have a 78rpm disc of the tune.

There seems no better way to end this post than with the genius of Mr. Armstrong.

Until next time.