This post's poem appeared when I was in a workshop. I can't remember what the brief was but it popped up practically complete. It is part memory and mostly imagination.
HIDE AND SEEK IN COTTERS WOOD
It
got boring after a while
I
had assumed I was good at finding
seeking
out, tracking down,
but
when I stopped in the woods
I
had no idea where he was.
Then
you came up shouting,
asking
if I had found him
because,
by God, you had not.
He
emerged eventually,
smug
in his trade craft.
The
next time he took me with him
and
I watched you look for us
in all the wrong places.
I like it because it is quite compact, economical. it tells its tale then leaves. If there is more to it, then the reader has to work it out herself.
I met with the Secret Poets on Wednesday and as usual they aided me to produce a better poem [or two]. You can read the earlier draft here.
CLOUD
WATCHING
Switch
off that phone
you do
not need to look up
the
scientific names
they just
are
so invest
them with a new mythology
to
unfold across the afternoon
move to
this new rhythm
truly you
are in no hurry
give
thanks for this brief space
So what has changed. The third line has been shortened, as has the sixth line and final two lines have been removed. The poem is now officially complete. Thanks Secrets.
I know I've mentioned that Alela Diane has a new album out, but you should really try and listen to it. It is excellent.
A found poem is something that you have read which you think you could turn into a poem. In this case it was an email. I had been copied in and I thought it as I reread it that there was a poem lurking in the cynicism.
Directive
If
you could gather some poems
filter
down to three max
pick
some very different topics
our
audience has limited interest
war,
mental health and feminism
are
all hot topics at the mo
or,
maybe one that is,
uniquely Marjons- that could fly!
Marjons is a university where I used to work. My time there provided me with lots of opportunity to write.
Here's Murray Head with his most famous song. He's still touring in France, if you can get to see him. It's well worth it. I saw him in Tours last month.
Another poem that is based on an event. I was moving the rice pan to the sink to wash when the thought occurred.
the water
in the burnt rice pan
turns
swirls
returns
and
in
that
precise instant
becomes
the axis of the universe
A good exercise is to write about what you have just done. This could take the form of a set of instructions or, like this poem, an impressionistic account of a single second. Such exercises help to improve your chops.
This second example was written at a festival where I was appearing. I stood watching the people around me have a hedonistic time, while others, in viz vests cleaned up after them.
Human Geology
the
band crank it out, urgent, loud,
such
a brief time to impress
below
them hands in the air
almost
a single mass of flesh
caught
up in their moment
others
further away
drink,
talk, laugh, vape
the
festival the backdrop to their private dramas
everywhere
unnoticed
in viz-vests
people
paid by the hour
stoop to collect cans into plastic
bags
I think I prefer the first. The second is tell rather than show. It is always better to show than to tell.
Alela Diane has a new album out. She is touring too.
Today's poem was inspired by a book, The Dark Twin by Marion Campbell. It is a book I have read and reread. If you have not had the chance to read it, then you have a treat in store. In the book a character travels to the end of their world to find the holy well.
THE WELL AT THE WORLD’S END
she
had walked to the edge of her world
it
took as long as you’d expect
and
was as difficult as it sounds
at
the world’s edge
she
found her holy well
truth
be told
the
people who drew their water
from
it everyday
saw
it in a different way
but
kept their own counsel
grant
each of us the eyes we need in this life
I like this poem because it is succinct and I think it does what a poem should do, namely take the personal and make it universal.
This poem is taken from my latest book The Wait Of Water, as is the above illustration, which is by Alison Wilson. We have worked together on many occasions over the years.
THE PEARL
The
sea runs colder,
longer,
deeper.
She
dives for a pearl
she
does not want but needs,
spies
the enigmatic shell,
wrestles
it loose,
then
rises too cold for hope.
The
point of her mother’s knife
releases
the secret,
opalescent
in sunlight,
a
rare beauty she will be cheated out of.
Perhaps
she will be left just enough.
This
sort of thing happens
once
in a lifetime.
The poem was inspired by the parable. The diver will be cheated out of the true worth of her find for such is the Babylonian world we live in.
This is a recent poem. It is based on a real event. I thought I had lost my kitten.
IN SEARCH OF A MISSING CAT
Electric light in a bramble tunnel
that links parts of my geography
in a way I had no idea of until now
All the while I call your name
that little whistle that denotes your
dinner
Thankfully the rain has stopped
Strangers offer suggestions
shake their heads
wish me luck
The emphasising beam of the torch
seems to increase the distance
space becomes infinite
I decide to return home
check the house on the off chance
only to discover a sleeping kitten
amid the chaos he has made
of pulled-up carpet and underlay
behind the shut bedroom
door
I like it. I think, thanks to the Secret Poets, it is complete. If you can manage to find a writing group whose opinions you trust then you are half way to being a writer. I have the Secret Poets and am very grateful.
This poem arose from the first line: it was the size of a day. It was an unusual line and I can't remember where it came from. Over a period of time though I made a poem out of it.
it was the size of the day and
it
slipped in while he slept on
so
that when he awoke
it
was its sun he saw
its
trees and grass he glimpsed
through
its windows
his
body slumbered
machines
worked to keep him stable
it
was large yet it was not infinite
rather
he just knew
on
his solo walks in the empty park
just
where to stop
for
one step more
and
he would have been
enmeshed
in its membrane
and
forced to decide
the
ceaseless machines watched over
his
silent hospital room
It is always difficult to go back and look at older poems as you can always see the faults more clearly. While this poem is not perfect I think it works.
Another poem from my second collection. I have had an ongoing relationship with magpies for many years. They are significant to me.
MAGPIE MAPS
The magpie's maps are not on paper
they hang from certain synapses
Motion/location tapestries
that hold the history of her every heist
These were the best times I stole
and the more secret times
when she would only look
Every magpie has such treasure
a gallery in every head
Look closely, you may then find your own
I like this poem. Brian Patten was kind enough to say he thought it was good. At the time I thought I had uncovered a creative stream of magpie poems but they only come once in a while.
Here's the Mountain Goats. What can I add? You are either a goat head or you're not.
This poem is a meditation on being handed a key ring decorated with a bullet and all that such an act conjures up. I've been vegetarian for nearly fifty years. I chose not to participate in the slaughter of other life forms. I live in a country where, thankfully, it is illegal to carry a firearm.
THE PRICE OF ADMISSION
It is hardly surprising
I have a bullet in my hand.
This is America after all.
It lies uneasily in my palm,
a combination of a brass cylinder,
and enough led to cause mayhem,
but it will never participate
in a lethal, kinetic ballet.
Impotent, inert, chained to a ring
whose key opens a door
onto a room carpeted
with the skins of cows.
The poem is a kaleidoscope of feelings. It charts a visit I once made to Portland in Oregon. It is a piece of reportage.
Here's my favourite Portland band singing one of their best songs. The Decemberists.
Today's poem is about space and the possibility of parallel universes. These may not have the same physical laws as the one we live in. Its all quite mind boggling.
The Shape of Space
Split seconds after that Big Bang,
it all flew apart,
glad to be free from the nose to toe
compression,
in that constricting cosmic egg of
everything,
pushing the envelope ever outwards,
Red Shift in its wake.
Or so my radio tells me, explaining
the science of creation
so that even the likes of me can grasp
the magnitude of the event.
Then we are on to possible parallel
universes.
Either the infinite yo-yoing of
matter,
that creates one universe after
another,
or fast/slow bubbles,
each a meta-galaxy replete with its
own physical laws.
Some people live their whole lives in
such places.
I know this for a fact as I was once a
tourist,
spent four years in such a reality.
It was easy enough to cross over,
even though there were no guide books.
I had more difficulty getting back
but managed it in the end.
You know, some people,
spend their whole life in such places.
Once as a tourist,
I did four years heavy time in such a
reality.
It was easy enough to cross over into
your world,
even without a guide book,
but getting back was difficult
though I managed it in the end.
Though getting back was difficult
I managed it in the end
In my ear the cosmologists
continue to debate,
who’s right and why,
it doesn’t matter to you,
burdened, as you are,
by things you can never let go of.
The metaphor is of a dysfunctional relationship. I think it works as a poem but was not included in the last book. I think at the time I had the idea of publishing a collection of space poems. I probably have enough.
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