I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THAT WORD MEANS

This poem originated in a workshop. We had to choose and year then write our responses to certain questions that were asked about it by the facilitator. What follows is as true as I can remember.

1974

I spend more on the green buses

travelling there or coming back

than I do where I am going.

There is the occasional milky coffee

chipped cups in the bus station cafe

windows misted, cigarette smoke and coughing old men

The park is empty

sun slopes through trees

to redden the lake and the municipal ducks.

Winter comes calling

my patch pocket, button front, black loons

are no match for the lazy wind

I do not know where or what we eat

but we are either at The Grand or the Beer Keller

or kissing in a doorway

Once in a while your house is empty

I say I love you

I have no idea what that word means

The poem was in my fourth collection. I like its honesty and the way in which the disparate facts build up to offer a picture of a lost world. I've been back to Wigan on occasion but obviously it has changed beyond all recognition. The last time was to go to a gig and I happened to drive past The Grand Hotel, it was derelict. 

Here's The Beatles with All Things Must Pass.

Until next time.  

 

WEST OF EDEN

This is my 31st post, a calendar month's worth of poems. After this post, for the rest of the year, I shall post twice a week, Monday and Friday. This post's poem is about being evicted from the Garden of Eden. I never could get my head around the story of the eviction. For me it always put too much emphasis on Eve. Plus in Genesis there are two differing stories of creation, does one take one's pick? 

WEST OF EDEN

my grandfather walked out of Eden

just as the trouble kicked off

and they were all cast out of paradise

by that angel with the flaming sword

grandfather said it looked the business

impressive in a peevish kind of way

the trouble with that sort of history

he told us is the focus on

those with their names in that book

and not the likes of him

offspring of Lilith the first wife

the one who is never spoken of

nor of all the others lost to time now

who were quietly getting on with their lives

while this angry god psychodrama

was acted out around them

my grandfather walked out of Eden

the world is large as he discovered

there is enough room for everyone 

I think this poem works. I wanted to express the view of those who are never heard, those who do not make history, the ones Frantz Fanon named the wretched of the earth. The people who got on with their lives while this great psychodrama around them, a repost to those who claim our country is full, who would make us all mean spirited. 

Here's Will Varley with a song about a man who died attempting to enter this country.

Until next time.  

CAN YOU KEEP A GRIP?

When I was a teenager we used to have this silly game. We would try to burn the whole match and if successful we would crush it with the edge of our hands. If everything worked as we hoped, when you parted your hands half of the burned match would be on the end of each hand. This indicated in local mythology that you were really in love. No one else I've ever talked about it with had done it. it was local to where I grew up. 

THERE’S A METAPHOR IN HERE, SOMEWHERE…

Take a match

from any box you care

strike it boldly

Can you keep a grip

and not singe your fingers

as the wood burns away?

I can tell you how

keep the flame upright

so the head is first consumed

Hold the burnt remains

Invert

and hope the structure holds

When all is charcoal

lick the edge of your hand

stick the skeleton with your spit

Join your hands

edge to edge

and press as hard as you can

open and a verdict will be revealed

If it parts in two perfect halves

then you my friend

are truly in love

This is an older poem from my second collection. It was written over twenty years ago. I think it carries the narrative, just. At readings I always explained the background before hand as I think without that you would have difficulty with it.

Here's Elmer Gantry's Velvet Opera with Flames, a suitable song I think.

Until next time.  

WE'VE ALL BEEN THERE

A poem that is mostly imagination mixed with a little real life.

YOU KNOW THIS IS FOR YOU

When they broke up

she claimed the bass

provided proof in ledgers

their love reduced

to columns of figures

her profit

his loss

The separation hit him

somewhere deeper than the deepest not

he had ever played on that bass

he started to scatter photographs

across their common social media

an illusion of success

only his eyes told the truth

and then you had to look to see

post break up I meet her again

note the bass on the stage

but do not ask

we’ve all been there

played on both sides

It is from my fourth collection, All Yesterday's Tomorrows. I think it works. What do you think?

Here's Spirit with Give a Life, Take a Life.

Until next time.

WALKING SPELL

A poem about cradling a crying child and walking around the room until they are asleep. Some human actions never change.

For Euan and Murray

I am carrying you

into your dreams

This is

my walking spell

I walk the same circuit

of 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

This is a poem I am proud of. It works, taking the personal and making the experience universal.

Here is Shelagh McDonald and Stargazer.

Until next time.

TO CREATE THEIR OWN ENERGY

Another love poem. It arrived from walking the shoreline and thinking about farewells. Sometimes the unconscious mind writes it for you.

Just One of Those Things

when the sea returned

the lovers had gone

to create their own energy

in a rented room

then to part

on some street corner

late in the afternoon

in a press of people too preoccupied

for the intensity of this farewell

to ever be noticed

This was another poem that didn't need much in the way of editing/revising. Sometimes you are left wondering where they came from.

Here's Anna Ternheim. 

Until next time.

IT WAS RAINING OUTSIDE

This is a recent poem, pulled together from a couple of memories and mostly imagination. That said I think it makes its point.

PROOF

Opinions were aired

for no other reason

than it was raining outside

and people have mouths

and a need to use them

One of those days

you know the sort

when the talk circled

then settled on Jesus

was he real

She thought he could have been

though wasn’t sure

whatever he was

he was only a man

the rest of it was made up

Then her husband chips in

what do you know

none of it was real

and you’re the fool

for thinking that it was

Those of us listening

looked away

were silent

we would rather

have been elsewhere

While I reflected on

how many times this conversation

must have happened

since that day

they went and nailed him to a tree

Brian Patten used to talk about how the last line can make you re-evaluate a poem. This is what I tried to do with this poem. I wanted the body of the poem to illustrate the last stanza.

I have been a fan of Maya De Vitry since seeing the Stray Birds around 2011. See has a new album out later this year.

Until next time. 

THE WATER CYCLE

I am of an age [very late 60s] to remember having to copy the teacher's drawings from the board into our exercise books. One of the one's that stays with me is of the water cycle. Education was by rote in those days.

THE WATER CYCLE

on his drawing the rain fell up

he did not give a fuck

for the teacher’s laboured explanation

or his laborious chalked illustration

they were forced copy

he simply had a need to see

the world as a place of wonder

where water could soar skywards

The [poem arrived complete. I like the way it does not take itself seriously. Although the end draws on the narrator's imagination. Thanks to Alison Wilson once again for the illustration. It's taken from The Wait Of Water, my latest collection.

I have been a fan of The Decemberists from the get go. 

Until next time.  

THE WORLD LIMPED ALONG

I do not remember writing this poem but it has something. It was written a number of years ago but still seems very relevant.

“Freedom is what we do with what is done to us.”
―Jean-Paul Sartre

the first day without socks

gifted a freedom he had not anticipated

it was true there was a price to pay

in rubbed skin for each step taken

but over time the rims of his shoes softened

his ankles calloused

and even the monolithic plastic soles

previously immutable

slowly took on the contour of each foot

the world limped along

economies faltered

and him by the side of the road

failing to flag down a lift

the rain started

so he began to walk

from somewhere to somewhere else

Sometimes life does feel like you are walking from somewhere to somewhere else. I worry for our future. We approach the precipice of climate change and do not appear to be able to stop.

Here is the wonderful Gene Clark with Train Leaves Here This Morning.

Until next time.