THE SHAPE OF SPACE

I wrote this poem after listening to a radio programme about the shape of the universe. It was fascinating stuff and set me thinking.

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.

It is a long poem for me, usually my work is more compact but I think this one works. I often see if the poem will work if I remove this word or that, and if it does the word goes. 

Here's Spirit and Star Trek Dreaming from their classic album Future Games.

Until next time.

NO ONE SPOKE

There was a tradition that when you have completed the Camino de Santiago you then walked to the beach at Finisterre and burned the clothes you worn during the pilgrimage. I say tradition because you cannot do this now as it causes too much pollution. Pilgrims still walk to Finisterre though.

AFTER THE PILGRIMAGE

Cape Finesterre

finally the fire caught

aided in no small part

by the razor wind

that cut across the beach

we watched the clothes we had worn

all those long miles to Santiago burn

then looked beyond the sea

to where our former lives waited

no one spoke

This poem derives from me meeting two people at Santiago as they completed the Pilgrimage. We caught the bus to the coast a couple of days later. Again it is a poem I feature in readings.

This is the title tune from one of my favourite Anna Ternheim albums.

Until next time.    

HE NEEDED NO MIDDLE MAN

This poem is a true story, though I might have exaggerated intensity of the rainfall. I think they must have been new to the missionary game as it was 7:30 pm on a Monday evening and it had started to rain. Perhaps it did happen like this it was many years ago...

INQUISITION

When the rain arrived in heavy soaking curtains,

he was stopped by a pair of bright young faces

which burned with the missionary’s certainty.

Solemnly they enquired if he believed in God,

if he had received the grace of religion.

He thanked them and said he had.

As a pantheist, he could see God’s beauty everywhere,

even in the raindrops funnelling around them in the night.

Then they asked about Jesus Christ

and were told he needed no middleman.

I have featured this in readings and it usually goes down well. Not much else to say about it really.

Here's Iron and Wine live.

Until next time.

SUDDENLY ALIVE

One summer I appeared at six festivals. The Pre-Covid was more amenable to poets at music festivals. As I travelled I happened to stop at Hastings and needed to wash my clothes. I wrote this as I watched them tumble around the machine.

WASHATERIA BLUES

he envied his clothes

in the laundrette’s tumbling drum

suddenly alive

happier without him inside

free to tangle to have fun

to throw impossible shapes

that would break a limb

the next morning he sensed

their longing for something

beyond his predictable moves

their reproach apparent in each casual crease

This is a good exercise, when you have some time write about what you see. Turn off your inner critic and keep writing until something sparks. I use this technique often and you would be surprised at what pops up.

Here's new song I'm rather taken with, The Womack Sisters and Chauffeur.

Until next time.  

NO SEA CAPTAIN'S HOMECOMING

This is an interesting poem as I have no idea of where it came from. The idea came into my mind near fully formed.

THE NIGHT BEFORE THE FUNERAL

if he had stayed in this village

and lived out his life amongst these men

he would be sharing their silence

but here he is talking

about people and places of which

they know little and care less

wordlessly judging him

by their own lived experience

that’s how it always goes

now his father is dead

the last link severed

he will not return

for him there would be no

sea captain’s homecoming

with money and tales of the ocean

no

he would be like Lot

and he will not look back

It comes from my latest collection The Wait of Water. It is a poem I often include at my readings. It goes down well but then it is pretty straightforward.

Here's Bridget St. John with I Don't Know If I Can Take It. 

Until next time.

THAT RECORD WILL NOT BE PLAYED

This is a true story. I was in a pub in Sheffield in 1975 and I did attempt to play a song on the jukebox that the landlord had forbidden. There was no warning sign, no forbidding notice just the man behind the bar enforcing his opinion of the world on the room.

A WORKING CLASS HERO

The publican’s voice rang round the bar

Do not to press B37 on the jukebox

that record will not be played in my pub

I did not fight a war for some long haired lout

to use gutter language in front of ladies

Of course I’d just pressed those very buttons

wanting to hear John Lennon sing

Throughout the ensuing silence

I wondered if there was any conflict

the barman had been in that he hadn’t started

This is a very recent poem. It took me a time to come up with the last line. Thanks to the Secret Poets for their invaluable input.

I suppose I should play the forbidden song. It has lasted better than the publican's views. If he is still alive I suspect he would vote Reform. I think that says everything.

Until next time.

ALL ACTION HALTED

Here are the third and fourth poems in the sequence of moving house that started last post. This third deals with the conceit of ghosts of memory. 

3. DISINFESTATION

before the house sale was agreed

buyers demanded the ghosts be removed

so contractors were appointed

the workers arrived to divest the property

loading reluctant spectres into sealed skips

driving them away to wherever unwanted memories languish

that ambushing taste on the tongue

a face half glimpsed in the crowd

the 4am telephone that rings and rings and rings

I liked the idea of calling in some form of pest removal to fumigate the property of ghosts. The last one I wrote, if I'm not mistaken, as we waited for the money to go through.

4. WAITING

he tells me at some point

it will happen

because it always does

you will end up sitting on the stairs

all action halted

until the money is transferred

from that bank to another bank

and this house ceases to be your home

while another

somewhere else

equally empty

assumes the title

as you unlock its front door

you will hope it will be a happy house

I think as a poet I tend to draw on personal experience and attempt to make it more applicable to all. 

Here's an old song by R Dean Taylor.

Until next time.

THE MILK HAS GONE OFF

A couple of poems about moving house. Thankfully I have not done so for a long time. This first was a writing exercise I set myself. If I had to clear a house how would I do it.

MOVING HOUSE

1. HOUSE CLEARANCE

The enormity of it all just stops you

dead in your tracks.

One long life lived,

and here you are in the hallway,

wondering where to start,

wishing it were simply a woollen jumper

with one loose thread you could unpick.

Of course, it’s not that easy,

so you walk through the rooms

upstairs then down,

make a cup of tea,

sit at the kitchen table,

drink it black

because the milk has gone off.

I think it was the image of a woollen jumper unravelling that trigged the poem. This next one was inspired by the final look around my late father house.

2. FINAL SEARCH

the day before we sold the family home

me and my sister

in the name of thoroughness

walked through each room one final time

I stepped into the loft

and found a slice of the 1970’s

packed away in boxes

we walked back to her house

arms full of more than memories

Again it is more of an account of an actual event than some of my work. There are another two parts to the poem. I shall post those on Friday.

Here's Love with A House Is Not A Motel.

Until next time.

TASTING HIS OWN INDECISION

If this poem was made of metal it would be an alloy. It combines a number of unrelated images and transforms them into a coherent [I hope] whole.

SWITCH

unexpectedly half way through the film

the plot twisted to mirror

certain events from his history

he sat in the darkness

once more

tasting his own indecision

looking out of the glass doors of the foyer

he thought the afternoon light had taken on the cast of the sea

the car park a washed-out watercolour

he was silent all the way home

I remember I was sat in a café with a couple of free hours in front of me when an image came  to mind and over a glass of beer resolved into this enigmatic poem. It must chime deeply with me because it appears often on my performing list.

Here's the Wave Pictures with an old song. They have a new album out and are touring in the autumn.

Until next time.