I am with you, walking,
I confidently lead us three times over the same bridge.
I confidently lead us three times over the same bridge.
I'm fuzzy on facts and places.Memory, for me, misplacesPeople's names and faces.
My mind is loosey-goosey,Non-stick specifics are lost
In the juicy flavour-feels.
Like whenOn the street, you remark on a hi-viz guy
Says I, with a shrug,
-He's workin for the council.
Beneath the many turning galaxies,
We're unanimous in grinning,
-Has been twenty years!
Perhaps you and I had a destination,
There was probably traffic.
I forget everything
But the stars in my bones.
Thank you for reading and commenting
Life happened so hard, but
Who cares over a glass of beer or two?
I need awe on a daily basis to survive.
I have kept a note of this gorgeous carving;
May it be its own reward when needed.
I can't like it due to problems but I like it!
The title is just chef's kiss perfect.
I feel this to my bones, love
the idea of collecting stones
And souls. This looks like my life!
I like that you mentioned
The necessity of drought
Cleaning the ocean of pirates.
This is magical, God
I am stumped by your art.
Lovely lovely lovely lovely.
Insanely kind of you to say!
To be witness to the madness,
Captured by the moon-shaped guitar,
Whose rhyme just clicks into place.
I'm not sure what romp means even
Though you went deeply into sensuality
And might not have been a person at all
But boy you said it well – and in new ways.
Lovely dog photo too!
Your poems instantly brought back the world
Your beautiful, concrete poems.
It's watermelon season and
We evoked the sound of the cuckoo.
Your comments made me sit a little bit taller.
I hope you had coffee and crumpet.
This made me smile, to know
That my words landed for you.
Consciousness stirs in the presence of a good spice.
Day Thirty
Backseat midnight car to Cornwall,
Romeo to Juliet lays out
Just that the time was wrong.
Devouring midnight down the years,
I never quite got my timing right.
A friend never had this education.
No wonder he's getting divorced;
He never learned how to fall in love.
Day Twenty-Nine
Seems like you were always leaving
Or left. Leaving with
Your roaring engine voice.Left in the split
Of your fire-cracked glacier voice.Fleeing the Texan woman's life
At your throat.Left-field, gone big in The CitySinging in colours the let me bePurple plea of the wounded.Seducer of tied-off fusesWith no match left unlitBy your spilt whiskey voice.Leaving behind the foreboding,Real-known moment,Of needing to swim in gasolineWhen you couldn't quit lighting matches.Left lonely by lovers, withOnly what was left in the wakeOf your Russian roulette voice;Your Pollock-paint lifeOf daring too muchTo be too different.Leaving us at twenty-sevenWith only your brass rocket voice.
"Show my head to the people, it is worth seeing."
- Georges Jacques Danton, French revolutionary
My family song waxes long
as I am in the tooth.
I might die
in the duration of the dirge,
the drawn-out vowels
like dragged-out bowels;
a most prolonged execution.
Light a candle for our
huddled, gut-pulled parlance.
Let us groan in dissonance.
How I long
for one swift stroke of a song
A get-it-over-with, choppy song
A flash of the axe and a slice
of cake.
Day Twenty-Seven
Manchester Art Gallery's exhibition Rethinking the Grand Tour reassesses art of the British Empire. The subject of my poem, A Niger Fisherman, can be seen on this page.
I almost wish the curator's note gone,framing this apricot syrup sun as
pulp, squeezed through a fist;The fishermen lit like fantasy;Marketed beauty for turning heads
Empire-conscious.I stand palewith the undepicted details.My skin, prickledEmpire-conscious.If I took this little rethinking card,
silenced it in my pocket,
marker-penned out the unseem'dlegacy line of Empire Marketing Board,might it quiet this discomfort?
The sun, laid unsickly on the river.The river, not bleeding the sun.The mangrove, wading the riveruncurated. Unmolested.The fisherman's net, swungmore free beneath the mangrove.
I wake disordered. Sleep phasing out slow
as floe ice. As winter's late-waking light.
Sleep disordered. Waking late to barely know
the day. Draw myself delayed til night.
I ache to sleep and barely sleep to wake,
disordered. Weighted, fazed and dreamt by day.
By night I calculate the lunar phase,
lying low with circadian delay.
My days are hopelessly enjambed. A stayed
sentence cut with melatonin disdain,
All sleep and wake disordered and delayed,
Forever made to suffer sleep's refrain.
Birds begin the day with songs of sorrow,
A hymn to mourn the dead; my lost tomorrow.
Day Twenty-Six
Intrigued by this installation by Magdalena Abakanowicz.
Here are thirty backwards standing figures
One becomes them all by only seeing
Thirty figures held apart by fissures
Witnessing is splitting into beingTake your due but ever be the giverBe at peace through never-ending labourStay rocksteady while a flowing riverCall out wrong but never judge thy neighbourLive a simple life of many facesDraw-in air despite the hand that smothersBe at home in many different placesSleep with lies but hold the truths of othersMany selves, ashake in separationStrive toward the sum of expectation
Day Twenty-Five
We chanted
Mike! Mike! Mike!Mike! looked surprised.He was only the bassist.The musicsuddenly muted.A reveller hadshimmied too high.We chantedDown! Down! Down!Down! slid the guy,derided.We chantedMike! andDown! Down!
A real crowd.
The best music.
I.As a duetthe earthserenadesthe skythe sky, the earth.The sky lays out starslike tablatureThe earth gaspsin florets.II.The earth is scored with a mirror-lake of flowers that reflect the frequency of stars.The flowers are a courtship of sweeping constellations.The stars are notes, making eyes on a sheet of night.Each holds a vision of the other in anacrusis.III.By night, the sky hums into her ink pillow,while the brass-section bells of the earth are closed.Harmony is held in the promise of dawnbut already the flowers are dyingand what light tantalisedmay but be a star long dead.The sky and the earth -Each cradling their music -Each mourning a union.
Made musing lines from Together Alone by Crowded House, and Only Talking Sense by Neil & Tim Finn.
Day Twenty-Three
I've had it with hooligans
round here, yammering
all the hours God sends
Roving gangs
impressing each other
with teenage squeals
and cackles
Grow the hell up!
Rioting by trawlers
Eyes way bigger
than your bellies
I'm fed up
queasy with your
yawping, anti-social
herring-heckles
Have you no shame?
Act your age!
Trash-tipping
Thieving, squealing
junk-food jeering
People's chips
used to be safe around here.
Day Twenty-One
Approach the window but take care not to look outside.
Draw the curtains with a shrugging motion. When they meet, keep going. Make sure they are double-drawn, then triple-drawn, to wholly prohibit the window.
Continue drawing curtains around the whole room, mantling first the walls, then the ceiling and floor, all with dramatic velvet.
Keep drawing curtains. If you think you should stop, don't. Enshroud the doors so that there's no way in or out.
Cloak well anything reflective. Swathe the bookshelves and the photo frames. Swaddle all that's precious or breakable until it is unaccountable.
Draw the curtains, like twine, through the legs of your bed and anywhere you might rest. Draw them over the places where you might put down and forget the things you carry. Make the room an envelope, folding in on itself in layers of heavy, drawn drapes.
Keep going until you cannot stop drawing curtains all around yourself, making a room full-to-the-rafters of furrows, fast and tight, smothering absolutely all light and air and sound.
Draw a breath. Now the room is nothing but curtains, waiting to be drawn.
If you listened to this placeIf your mouth did not devour all breathPerhaps every voice would condemnYour dream, your need, your body, your futureEvery day
If you listened to this placeIf you silenced something of your selfHere are the lives that all might breatheHere are the voices that might declareTheir dreams, their needs, their bodies, their futuresAnd you would see that by beating hearts, hearts beatYou would see that in beating hearts, hearts beatAnd you might find your heart beats
Gather ye round, lads, and listenTo the tale of a killing most foul.Murder by wilful indiff'renceCold as a moonstone howlThere once was a bloom, small and prettyPale as the fresh driven snowA pure heart, supple and tenderBut our fair lady little did knowThat her keeper was born on a murderous nightIn his eye, not a sparkle did showWilting away, nowWilting awayThe green in my leaves given out to decayAnd the blight in my rootIs the dark of a gardener's heartMy flowers are now but a memoryLost to a long discontentBereft of water, longing for loveBrown, broken and bentSown in a bed of disinterestLo, the beseeching rootLimbs reaching out, a lamentable childScorned by a villainous bruteI once had a dream that was verdant and green, nowI'm parched and bare able to sayI'm wilting away, nowWilting awayThe green in my leaves has long given wayTo the blight in my root -Now as black as this gardener's heartWilting away, ladsWilting awayA gardener's love given out to dismayAnd bewailing the lossOf my life in his bare, barren heart
Hadn't seen you since I fell off my dinosaurWas full of sadghetti and you owed me zilchbut turned up, dog and smile in-towrosy like I remembered.Skadoodled 'round the park, pretendin'you were walkin' the dognot walkin' me.Had this way of sayin' you were okaywithout me feelin' sore about it.You, proud of your lads.Me, wonderin' how to say sorryfor bumpin' ugly in a drunk front roomfor walkin' away at the school gates.
Every so often, you'd shoot me a nudge;nothin' special, 'cept everythin' I needed.One time, I took too long to work thumbsand in the meanwhile you dropped dead.
Scrollin' up, checkin'
blue ticks rubber stampin'
Thanks for being so nice.Pitiful, really, butat least there was that
At least there was that.
Was thinkin' 'bout your sons,'bout your other half doin' CPR in the kitchen,but really I was thinkin' o' me, thinkin' -No. I was only just startin' to feelI was worth a nudge.Worth a walk in the park.
Was first time hearin' a eulogyI caught every shiny bubble blown,knowin' each to be so godawful true.And everyone packin' out the chapel -did you save all their lives, too?Was standin', wouldn't fit-in,
lookin' in thru the ghastly glass.Just standin' with my grief in the glass.Thinkin' 'bout still standin'.
Shades of nocturne inhow tiny bee feet negotiateDelicate notes on ivory.the cherry blossom.
An economy of calm, filling heartslike pollen baskets.Stem and stamen swaying.A quiet garden, growing.
Here, the refrain.The low-slung apple-toneA memo in fading fermata.in a cloud of minor keys.
But - for now - a crescendoof thriving life glistening;Dappling shade about the tadpoles.holly-blue wind-rippled sun
A heralding wren pips,Hanabi translated means fire-flower.in my purple-flaming umbel heart.Inflorescence fanfares
In taking flight,the bee gratefully
applauds her feet upon the petals.
Day Fifteen
Hey, turn a leaf on it all.
Let it slip. Unclothe
your all-right imperfection.
Don't carry that
which doesn't make you wonderful.
Just admit you were wrong.
From a distance, particles of rock
on crystal, tinkle-tapping
the shiinto space
like shingly signals.
Whispering. Orbiting.
Swing-harmonizing. Listen;
The bellow-swell of gravity
is churning, drawing swirls in
crème caramel, curdling the
pop-pop-pop of hydrogen and
bow-bent squeal of helium, a
leviathan revolving with a
deep shudder, rumbling the
vibrato fibre of your body.
O, Ganymede, you're listening
to bone-knotting,
magnetospheric roaring.
The sonorous cacophony
of Jupiter's eye upon you.
Day Thirteen
There was a time when I'd recognise words as mine.Not floating around like party-crashing strangers.Lost spectres haunting the edges of lost pages.The poets I read now are well-meaning strangers.Flourishing, while I look for language that belongs.To me. A hue of blue to which I might belong.
Now, in a deep-cut furrow, words fly overhead.I am the company culled by a blood harvest,Steel bonnet bent. How my table was once laden,Golden; the fat, final yield of Autumn harvest.An unseen bird, sweeping swiftly South of last Fall.I dumbly place a wreath for love's last fatal fall.These foreign words are an ill-fit potato sack.I miss the comfy brown brogue of being in love.If someone wrote words just for me, I'd have them blownIn bright-coloured glass and wrapped carefully in love.And I'd find some peace, knowing those words were all mine.And I'd know my worth, knowing those words were all mine.
I am with you, walking, And we check the day's step count. We are weaving in the woods, braiding together paths of past and future. C...