RIP THE EARTH ASUNDER

Here's a poem about a person who has taken to hoarding on an obsessive scale.

Anne’s Poem

She was dozing, half hearing

the man on the television

explaining solar system formation.

How eddies in gravity

started the slow accumulation,

made the molecules snag

and in that second she knew

this was the fate of her house,

all those unemptied shopping bags,

the clothes strewn floors,

every piece of everything that

she could never part with,

was due to a wrinkle in space/time

and not to her own actions.

The thought filled her with wonder,

the mound of plastic bags

would become a mountain

then a planet,

and rip the earth asunder.

She woke on her friends sofa,

soap had replaced science,

she flicked it over to the shopping channel,

there was work to be done.

I liked the idea that if you could amass enough matter/stuff then you could become a planet. The process is how all solar systems are created after all. 

The Mountain Goats have got a new album out. 

Until next time.

WE MUST FIGHT FOR OUR HISTORY TO BE HEARD

I cannot remember the circumstances that prompted this poem. I suspect I had been reading a history of the area and the viciousness of the in comers distressed me. I had after all grown up on a diet of American westerns [in fact The Magnificent Seven is still one of my favourite films] and the reality was so different.

OKLAHOMA

It was their children of the immigrants who celebrated,

turning their struggles into a musical,

all bright tunes and stock characters.

Endless acres under a summer blue sky.

The script did not foretell of the Dust Bowl,

none of the songs mentioned the First People,

now imprisoned on reservations.

No. It was all technicolor gaiety.

It’s no wonder we have to fight

for our histories to be heard.

I also have to confess that as a lyricist I prefer Lorenz Hart to Oscar Hammerstein the third. Rodgers apparently had to practically lock Hart up in a hotel room to get him to write, but what sublime lyrics! Hammerstein wrote all the lyrics prior to the music being written by Rodgers and even if they were more popular he was not in the same class as Hart. And this is without discussing the plight of the Indigenous peoples the poem highlights. There is an African proverb: "until lions stat writing their own stories, hunters will always be the heroes". 

Here's Ella Fitzgerald with Bewitched Bothered and Bewildered.

Until next time.    

RED SHIFT

I was in Granada some time ago for the Easter celebrations and to visit the Alhambra, which is breath taking in its beauty. I had a room in the old town, near the cathedral and the processions kept me awake and led to this poem.

PALM SUNDAY PROCESSION GRANADA

half asleep in your hotel room

on a street of darkened windows

loud voices converse

as if it wasn’t well after midnight

then you hear the drums slow beat

speak a language your blood almost knows

every now and then horns spike the night

unexpectedly you find yourself an observer

in a doppler effect experiment

as you note the red shift

all the way to the cathedral

The doppler effect is the change in the frequency of a sound as it passes by you, for example an ambulance's siren, how the pitch changes. Red shift is the colour change in the visual spectrum as observed from the earth. I think I am accurate in my description, you can always look it up via the hyper links.

Here's the marvellous Annabelle Chvostek. It would be good if she would tour again.

Until next time.

I LIVED UNDERWATER

This is another poem from my last collection The Wait of Water [contact me if you want to purchase a copy]. Once again Alison Wilson produced a wonderful illustration, thank you Alison.

as I slept

I lived underwater

no longer earthbound

cast free as a fish in blue currents

I swam through REM and

awoke with the sun

my body strangely weighted

beached in tangled sheets

It is a simple poem, I like how it questions reality.

Here's The Decemberists with a real ear worm.

Until next time.

HINDSIGHT

At the moment my garden is dying for lack of water. I am throwing all the grey water onto the shrubs but it is making little difference. We are in a man made disaster. I say man made because I suspect the prime movers in the tragedy were men. 

HINDSIGHT

Afterwards they came to agree

that it had been the last great summer

a wind blown May

a mild June

July was sunny

August picked up nicely

and September was golden

It had been as good as they were going to get

Three years later

the trees began to burn

The idea for the poem came to me on a bus. It took a couple of drafts to get it into shape and a visit to the Secret Poets. Thank you Secrets.

Maya de Vitry's new album is out and it is excellent. 

Until next time.

NO POINTERS

Many years ago I worked for ICI, a chemical company that no longer exists, as a fitter. Someone you might describe as a mechanical engineer. The place where we took our breaks was known as the Baggin'  Room. Baggin being a dialect word for the food you brought to work to eat.

BREAK TIME IN THE BAGGIN ROOM

In the 1970s, the K-unit Maintenance Baggin’ Room,

at Castner-Kelner Chemical Works,

was not conducive to the discussion of great literature.

We were employed to fix broken machinery,

not to broaden our intellectual horizons,

so there were no pointers to those volumes

that could have enabled us to understand

why we had been educated to a certain point

then handed overalls and told to get on with it.

We drank tea on our breaks

and talked of nothing in particular.

I left and got myself an broader education and many more different jobs. I have always felt that there was so much more potential amongst those people than was ever fulfilled. Our life choices are determined by the accident of our birth. People deserve better.  

Here's Burning Spear and The Man In The Hills.

Until next time.

ALTERNATE ESCAPE ROUTE

Very occasionally I cannot decide which is the better version of a poem. Here is the first contender.

given the vague nature of the disaster he fears

he makes mental notes of what is to be saved

memorises the various locations of pens and passports

that thin roll of different currencies

should that live in the bedside drawer

or near the front door he is not sure

what if the fire starts there

could he even get down the stairs

is there an alternate escape route

he needs more plans contingencies

decides upon small parcels of use and memory

scatters them through out the house

he can be at peace for now at least

And here is the second.

given the vague nature of the disaster

those omens that fill his head in the night

he wakes makes mental notes

what can be saved

attempts to memorise various locations

pens passports

the thin roll of different currencies

should that live in the bedside drawer

or be at hand by the front door

but what if there is a fire

and he cannot get down the stairs

what could be an alternate route

he needs more plans

contingencies

decides upon small parcels of use and memory

to scatter them through out the house

he can be at peace for now at least

I have never taken either poem further. I took them to the Secret Poets but our discussion was inconclusive. 

Here's Phoebe Bridgers new single.

Until next time. 

FADED DUST CLINGS

This poem is another example of writing about what you see. A number of years ago we hired a flat in Catalunya and were greeted with a bouquet of faded plastic roses on the table. I put them into a wardrobe and forgot about them. As I sat taking in the view the germ of this poem formed in my head.

pink plastic roses

arranged at the factory

cast in a cheap crystal vase

now they have sun damage

their too bright artificial colours are faded

dust clings to the creases

have I ever seen anything so sad?

I am not sure

they would give a divorce a photo-finish

I speak from experience

I am in a rented room

for reasons I will not go into

I open the wardrobe

place the bouquet on the floor

slide the door shut

get on with my life as best I can

I like fact that there are unanswered questions in the poem; why is the person in the rented room? Has he been married/divorced? Is this why he can talk about sadness with such authority? I leave you to fill in the blanks.

Here's Art Pepper and The Trip.

Until next time. 

THE FIRE IS ASH

This poem is loosely connected to another post about being evicted from Eden. It takes place the day afterwards.

THE MORNING AFTER EDEN

you wake

amazed

you had managed to sleep

after all that palaver

the fire is ash

damp grey in this drizzle

no hope of cajoling a flame

then you realise you are naked

and that is a sin

he wakes

the recriminations begin

and carry on to this day

I cannot remember what sparked the poem, possibly the image of sodden ashes. I thought that this is how the blaming began and it is still going on. I never could get my head around how Eve is blamed for everything. 

Here is Iron and Wine with a song about Jezebel, the first woman. 

Until next time.