30/04/2015

#poem #poetry #amwriting sketchbook magic

magic

twice nightly
   - three time at weekends -
   they die
in pealing laughter
   - bow to the paltry applause -
in seaside cabaret

it doesn't help
that the false bottom of the cage
   gets stuck
so he never knows if the dove is gone
   when he pulls the cape

nor that wanda
   - real name beryl -
has got ideas of spring in rhyl
and fallen in love with a bouncer
called errol
who doesn't like the cut of her cloth

it really isn't right
for a magicians assistant not to show a bit of leg
but errol will not have it
and stopped her getting sawn in half
    which mainly leaves the cards

they'll not get booked again
the manager has told them so
   but twice nightly
   thrice at weekends
they play the trooper in a seaside magic show


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting backstage

backstage

he's sitting in his dressing room
cleaning make up with a greying towel
   stained with five and nine
   at each passing of the rag

I knew him first from television
   have admired him from afar
watched across the orchestra pit
in full voice the tragic actor

now I see the real tragedy
as I offer my book and pen
did his performance fulfill
tell me tell me once again

nothing can convince him
of the finest of his craft
the lines multiply with each
'thank you - how kind you really are'

The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting women's work

 women's work

at two mavis set off the pressure pad
she was found in her hat and coat
    complaining that a bloke
she used to know from a butchers in hull
    had short changed for the ham

and no sooner was she in bed
than elsie needed showering
   it seems her stitches had bled
   and it was safer to wash her
while dawn chained the bed
   that risk her screaming
at the sight of her own blood

   and then we took tea
searching the channels for the something to watch

   before geting the hoover out
to run round the dining room before breakfast

The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting sketchbook clearing the mind

clearing the mind

I have the urge to write something epic
of gods and heroes
with horses flaring their nostrils
banners streaming
with long words like hermaneutically

but it all just sounds so silly

and then I come back to yeats
and try once again to read of his heroes
and their gallant defence of the biscuit factory

but professor laffin stops me
with his simple truth
that the heroes were not the heroes
of yeats
if anyone is yeats hero
it is the commander of the firing squads
that for various reasons of protocol
made them martyrs
by prolonging the shootings
which swung the sympathy in their favour

which is perhaps why whenever I start
with a heroic couplet or two
with dido on the walls of carthage
or the raising of skirts for the rape of the sabine women
I find myself distracted
by something far more important
like
hail on the back door window pane
the wit of a child
a thought about the heroic struggles of people I know
but mainly just a flower

I have no need for heroes
nor any real desire to prove myself great
I shall leave that to faux and the bored
and seek my verse in something else


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting sketchbook return

return

she pikes the washing line
to catch a drying breeze
above the void of next doors fence

sending out the flagged signal
to the flotilla of bungalows
at anchor in the cul-de-sac

the borders need wedding again
chickweed and docleaf peep
around the sprawl of lavender

the radio in the kitchen
has some old boy gabbing
about his childhood in an orphanage

she take a rubbery carrot stick
scraped from last nights tea
for bubble and squeak - and sees

the hopping leap of the wagtail


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwritng four verses

four verses

it's not the things we have
which make us proud
but what they mean to us

we puff our chest and preen
crow like cocks aloud
look at my achievements

and so we polish the car
count our friends
of course if we are really dull

we discuss the price of our houses
the latest fashion trends
forget to forgive
   how humbly we really live


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting #napowrimo the complete 30 poems - compilation

7am

it's a relief when closing the door the washing machine white noises the radio

as the kettle moves to steam she drops a tea bag in the mug dusts the rubber plant


detente failed she gathers socks from under teenage beds harrying wakefulness

it amuses her between cycles and steam to hear that women want a penis

the tea hits a biscuit shaped spot


 always

it's always the same people
sewing tabards, plaiting hair
painting signs for the carnival

you see them on cake stalls
pouring teas, friendly smile
counting coins for the PTA

or lopping at brambles
in the churchyard, planting bulbs
clearing up the litter

always the same
always the same people
always the same


 art day

it's art day up on the ward
some are bored most are ignored
but look at the work of david lord
doesn't he capture it well

the way he tugs at emotion frayed
exposing the frailties of which we are made
of course it helps he trained at the slade
but doesn't he capture it well

never mind ahmed who drools in the paint
the pinhead so backward he thinks he's a saint
a jin to his family of which he's a taint
he doesn't capture it well

or poor old jim with his terrible life
a moral imbecilic who never took wife
who carves up his arms when he gets hold of a knife
he doesn't capture it well

but look at the work of david lord
the man is adored for daubing on board
yes yes salons cry as they stand to applaud
doesn't he capture it well


 behind the hedge

he lives in the house on the corner
                               behind the hedge
and something has happened
   of which nothing is said
and he sits in the verge
   and dangles his legs
   at the oncoming traffic
     making them swerve

at school he's in trouble
              detention again
he copies lab rules
   ignoring the pain
   of that thing left unsaid
which happened
   in the neat house
   on the corner
                - behind the hedge

of course they try talking
   to find what's unsaid
they prize and they pry
   inside his head
he has told them before
the cause of distress
but his simple home truths
                    fail to impress

he's up on the roof
   dangling legs - over the gutter -
he threatens to jump
    
and now he's excluded
   and sits in the verge
his legs in the road
   making cars swerve
with dancing cow parsley
   daisies and sedge
and the house on the corner
                behind the hedge


 bradford.1

skint, I had enough money to get into see jules
and have a drink
I was yet to adopt the face
so when a whore accosted me, with a sob story,
out came a my change, looking for 20p,
and by the time she cackled into the night
I had enough money to get to see jules

I learned the face
and when she tried it again
I just said 'you've done me before'
and we had a laugh

or when I'd had enough of debt collectors
and ended up at linfield mount
I couldn't lie when asked how I felt
'fucking ace'
well you would on an overdose of anti-depressants

change your number
advised the police
and it was all over

but that's bradford i'n't it

it's a shithole
why lie

and the hills are hard work

but like that old woman
I used to see every morning
with a mouth which held too many fags
it's honest
you can't help loving it


 calvary

the mid afternoon pimpling breeze
   chills to the bone
   as we break from the shelter of the trees
      to stand in the avenue of calvary
                             on the hill

we move from station to staion
until we reach the money shot of the nails

jesus - forcibly reclining -
held by a nail through the left hand -
carries an expression similar to I
   when rolling from bed
      or standing from a chair
   when the knees click in
take up balance and the weight

at first I find this amusing
   but on reflection perhaps
film has made us too accustomed
to violence and pain as grimaced
                                    overblown

and maybe the mason is closer to the truth
   jesus is simply saying 'oh'
   held by one hand
   he awaits the auxillary working on his feet
and recognises that for all the theatre
   his ordeal is just beginning
and now he is really going to learn
the nature of human form

as we all must
when powerless


only later do I see - in the photograph -
that the nose and beard is missing
   what I took as a mouth
   is a peg hole

oddly apt
that on these greening stones
nature and time
have offered in simplicity
a view we should consider


 camp napowrimo

what? what? you can shut up... well...
they ride up in this weather.... do they lady?
she should know.... daffodils, daffodils
what? If it's my teeth, that's not my fault...
yes, yes, make something of that why don't you.
Oh she's sharp, sharp... daffodils.... what?
shut up.... well it's not nice... not here...
where was I? daffodils.... has he gone?
has he gone? come here come here,
not that close - you'll break my pen....
daffodils, daffodils, yellow trumpet.... yes, yes....
don't get ahead of yourself dear...
you'll get us closed down.... is he gone...
has he? you've got to keep an eye out...
oh look she's got a false one... her eyes... her eyes...
daffodils.... oh yes... you've got to keep an eye out
or he'll slip in round the back... filthy minds the lot of you.
      daffodils, daffodils, yellow trumpets
      swing spring with louis armstrong
      cheeks puffing pollen sweet
ah, ah. you didn't think I had it me did you?
 be honest.... oh I've had it in me...
what? what? you'll get us closed down
shut that door....


 cheri

   the pink blossom cherry
does not ask permission
nor care for latin names
   - it simply knows
to shine before the leaves
and words appear




coppery lunch

over lunch - it was that kind of place -
she asked me which poets I admired

so I reeled off the names - but she shook her head -
apparently versifiers on t'internet don't count -

so I said blake - as he was the most likely
to pen an elegant poem in 140 characters

but then pope was also a genius at that sort of thing
- and he could be mucky - which is always a plus

with the reddit crowd - god knows
I've read reams of sylvia plath

on those coded websites with white text -
she stopped me - to point out -

- and having done so - smile wiped -
we ate some fashionable version

of old style peasant food -
nicely presented -


 curry

homeless and starlings gather for feeding time
- something spicey by the smell of it -
   and the language is to expected
'you're from fucking burnley
you're not even fucking homeless
if you didn't fucking inject what daddy sends you
you wouldn't fucking need this fucking food'
   and the people are just as bad

and you recognise the army sleeping roll
   bundled under arms
and remember the snugness of the hood
      that air of bored companionship
      the enforced silence
      for fear that friendship will con you

food doled out
   they disperse to the benches
      and eat with plastic spoons

knowing that the loneliness of charity
   will soon return

the braver ones will bed down
   or make one last effort for money at the bus station

while those with more dignity
will find a quiet corner
a floor
a hostel bed
and use whatever means


 dawdling

laying here - stroking your back - as you sprawl snoozing
it strikes me how much you have grown

though you are still small enough to ride mahout on my shoulders
and tug reluctant on my arm when shopping

your face when sleeping carries those babyish curves
   you pull the heart at the smallness of perfect

      but you are definitely growing

just as I get used to the slim child
   you grow chubby
   branch out and up
and a new slim child appears

   you tell me that one day you will be taller than the sky
   I can wait
   for I love the smell of your hair


 dead sheep in the grass

                       haunch polecat picked -
a butterfly suns it's wings
on a bed of off white fleece

                      - through the hole
                      green-fly guts

                      femur licked clean
bone mottled stage prop
invites profane inspection -


by the time I prepare the camera
    the butterfly has flown
without pathos
    only - pornography - lies


 easter

between day and night
   we dip our toes in clouds
pull the sun from hiding
    put it in a pocket
      warm our fingers
                                  for here
                above the normatives of time
                  above the rain
among the purple stirring heather
       where all light slumbers
                                  for here
we stretch out arms
                    in celebration


 eli

pink morning rises laced with tongues of birds
   calling 'eli eli why do you so awake me' -
as it is now - so shall it be and always it was
- the trees know this - and so I say love -

and so in ripe summer will I lick the flesh
   of the peach you offer - for love - for love
is that passive moment of first tasting
   when only now is and is always or ever will -

   and all is new and known - the daisy knows this -


 guilty

this poem stands accused
of not being left wing - rhyming - trying to sing
being a thing - not rhyming - being to white
and too male - and not checking privilege
being beyond the pale - provoking thoughts
and feelings - challenging mores - standing
up for the poor - and not hating tories -
expressing a soul - filling a hole - not
conforming -

this poem stands accused
of speaking to the dead and up for the dying
for those who love jesus - and a world
that is crying - it condemns the warmongers
and those in the know - it reaps what it sows -
and loves stoney ground - it weeps - it swears -
profound is for dullness - the dull are the dreary
this poem stands up for the tired -

this poem stands accused
of making jokes - pricking the pompous
of not caring - being interesting -
that code word for shit - kitsch - genius -
now read mine - generic - hating - baiting -
stating - mating - feteing - gating - berating
and crap

this poem stands acussed
of being with the one per cent - paying rent -
wearing suspenders under a work suit -
eating organic - torturing frogs - hoisting a flag -
carrying bags - hypocrisy - not listening to morrisey
since he left the smiths

this poem stands accused


 hanging

judas wants to go to tescos
    easter money burns his pocket
in drizzling rain
    we enter the garden
    slipping from the wash of traffic
into the silence
   of running water

'listen' I say
   as he tip toes away on exaggerated feet

from tree to tree
   they sing
      in sweetness marking territory

         a dog barks twice


hot

an expanse of belly rises out from the grass
moving like a sundial in search of the sun
prostrate he lays awaiting the return of the rain
until then he'll take the opportunity
                                       to be himself again

and it's not just him - for everywhere skin is out
even at the expense of bra-strapped backs
and glistening white floppy cricket hats
to protect the bald of pate and head - zinc stripes
                          on noses to stop them going red


 only now

yes - we could do no other
and to those others against whom
our wrinkled brow increase - lines laughing -
or pulled sour as over-briny gammon -
there was only the word - or reflex

around our eyen - caught in thought -
a perplexity of wronged reply

for caged within the accidentalities of life
- with our frailties and falseness
those petty fears and fear of success -
we all know st peter - and
none can forgive but oneself


 opening

this morning
   as I walked into town
a pregnant woman
   bloomed

her face sepalated
   filaments
      anthers
rose petal perfect

I smiled back
   pupil to her iris


 paralax

between the end of bits and bobs
   tanners and shillings
and the shaving of corners from lanes and roads

michael holding paces out his run up
   bare chested
      sunglasses
          red shorts
              big arsed rolling shouldered gait
                   whiff of a brylcreem
                        brothel creeper bounce
                             a pint of beer in each hand
'look mum there's dad'


 point

bow bell swings -
tri-banded sky in blackness
as

soft bank yielding cut
opens
dawn in wide sea mouth

a single gull dives to catch
green fish
washed in pilot lights


 soft centre

the ward is surgically unthreatening
rubber soled squeak
high backed support chairs
hold the condemned erect
   amid the tea cups and grapes
   low voices hum with the light

through the window grey sky
lifts the sparse cheer of the crowd
looking down he sees a forward
stretch, miss, slide past the post

taking another untouched roses
he wonders whose blood is in the drip
is it draining her
                          it's boring

      worst christmas ever

a trolley comes round
                                visitors coo
   bandying cliches to lift the mood
'oh I shouldn't' 'it'll do you good' 'one won't hurt'

                       embarrassed he is caught
   holding sweet papers to the light
   seeing the world strawberry dream

the papers join the pile in his pocket

half time, the paint flaked main stand empty
   two seagulls strut the turnstile roof
a solitary groundsman sows sand in the centre circle

      worst christmas ever


 sow

and you ask why when everything is matter
and energy
do I still ask after the divine

god bothering you call it
though why
god would be bothered is not something you explain

but then for someone who denies god
you are
more anxious than I about his/her/it's existence

yes we can measure the average
draw parrellels
but it does not explain the relationship of the cloud to the tree


 spirits

the dead will feel happy here
two tone walls canvas chairs
oh yes we nod but don't declare
the dead will feel at comfort here

he's world reknowned the posters said
he can channel maisy dick or fred
to catch his eye fills you with dread
of world reknown the poster said

I long to see the ectoplasm
snaking lights of any fashion
this mouse-like man convulsed with spasm
I'm desperate for some ectoplasm

when they come they come in threes
medium, contact, summer breeze
a red indian killed at wounded knee
holding hands they come in threes
 
does the name george mean anything
he says he knows where you lost the ring
and all about that man from Tring
does this man george mean anything


stuff/notes from the train

 my shadow must be ten feet long
as I walk to the train
and gaze up at the moor
longing to be there again
for being there among the clouds
where all is fresh and all is clear
full lunged you sing of the spring
without a care of who may hear

....

you ask why without asking
no answer comes from beyond
the window - for no bird
understands the concept of why
today green replaces voguish brown
it just is - just as today
black faced lambs go under the fence
in gangs to the woods
to a glade where bluebells grow -
at the snapping of a twig
they start like deer - for the hole -

....

across the valley rain hangs like ghosts
phantom shafted rainbow shimmered
they turn inwards entwining
sweep southwards on the wind

....

high clouds
low clouds
slide on oil
slipping
without grain
or grist
evaporate
without need
or mist

....

what is that smell
of the green gloop
that I piss on
in the train
it is some kind of citrus
but with melon
and it stains me
- the smell not the piss


 the faintest of things

on a day of heartbreaking sunshine
you sip coffee on the terrace
     of the cafe by the lake

   her bell attracts you
as the bicycle wheels to a stop
and she leaps off giggling

her blue sailor dress
   of navy blue
her white ankle socks

she leans on the fence
arching like a birch
in a rainbow

looking backwards
to the path where her friends
   peddle closer

it is then you see
that look of disdainful
disappointment

   as she looks down
   to the blue bicyle
   leant on a post

intrigued you
question within yourself
if she knows

the thinnest of clouds
casts the faintest of shadows
as the friends pass

and she cries out
remounts
and is gone

you sip your coffee
and watch children
fish for water-boatman
on the lake


 the real cost of inflation

the bore at the bar is talking
                              elections
pinch-nosed words
of his concrete eyed view

and all the pub listens
for we have no choice

it's simple he says agree
                         with me
come see the world darkly
of which I see
                for I dream
that will set you free

and all the pub listens
              hypnotically

his view is of the fashionable
there was no history before
                   nineteen eighty
when we escaped eden
and entered the sewers

and I want to say were you there
                          with nasal tones
                          and shaven hair
                              your manbag
hirsute chin neatly trimmed
                               in a quim

but of course he wasn't
which is why talks
of representation proportional
but forgets
we voted for that and rejected it

he drones as I leave
he's still droning still


 transmission 6

background words leach into the detail
smeared and slarring obscurity
and you shake you head
clumsy as a child's first skip

and we walk holding hands
passing eyes closed the man
who smells like my father

nothing stillness echo your heels
on whitewashed walls
splash in the dust of dead puddles

it blurs and it bleeds

it remains out of mind




widow

he's more real than when he was there
those wisps of his scent in the chair
the cold bed

the things that didn't need to be said
in the unspoken mirror of feelings
half the peelings

half the portion and all the bed
in sickness and in health you said
his chair

now moved for the sake of change
and the ornaments rearranged
he's more real

when you shut the door and call
'I'm home' at that blank wall
within you

and without you as you face the world
the sense of strength and the aching ball
of grief

is more real now he has gone
as you escape to his side
of the bed


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting #napowrimo the real cost of inflation

the real cost of inflation

the bore at the bar is talking
                              elections
pinch-nosed words
of his concrete eyed view

and all the pub listens
for we have no choice

it's simple he says agree
                         with me
come see the world darkly
of which I see
                for I dream
that will set you free

and all the pub listens
              hypnotically

his view is of the fashionable
there was no history before
                   nineteen eighty
when we escaped eden
and entered the sewers

and I want to say were you there
                          with nasal tones
                          and shaven hair
                              your manbag
hirsute chin neatly trimmed
                               in a quim

but of course he wasn't
which is why talks
of representation proportional
but forgets
we voted for that and rejected it

he drones as I leave
he's still droning still

The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting #micropoetry

I've been scribbling again...

Poems in 140 characters or less...

....

 for what it is to forget
to live bereft of regret
and watch the sun gently set
thus to wait morning come

...

there is always that moment
when you say you are a poet
the wings sprout
and your fey nature is revealed

...

peace:)



The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting in lager veritas

in lager veritas

shall we vibrate with the earth tonight
or wax with the moon

perhaps a light candle bright
guttering at the breezy door
in gasping flame

for love is never still nor solid
but seeks the touch of lips
and tongue

shall we
shall we

shall we throw ourselves on air
abandoned whirled
let down our hair
and dance we two without

come let love be the theme
mine the gold of the seam
it need not be a dream

oh rhyme oh rhyme
sublime in love

shall we

drink and know we are


The Blue Book

29/04/2015

#poem #poetry #amwriting slipper

slipper

we had a blind boy at primary school
   with creamed filmy eyes
   and I liked him a lot
though he never played chase
he always was led by the arm
   from place to place

when it was my turn to lead him
   I thought it an honour
   I'd hold his hand tightly
walk tall and erect
and I liked that blind boy
   with childish respect

then one day at dinner he needed to go
   the class-goat tricked him
   to shit on the ground
and we gathered round laughing
to point at the floor
   we never did see that poor blind boy
                                                no more

The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting just in passing

just in passing

women always have tales
                 of lost children
not the normal of the monthly
                 passing
but of specific

which of course
                 are terrific
in their everyday

how much laughter
                 the world has lost
for little cost or care
   just a few cells
   and a snatch of blood

never there

The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting sketchbook death of seneca

I have become rather obsessed with this picture

the death of seneca

in particular the face of the scribe
....

what has seneca said that so shocks her
all around are calm
dutifully observing the dying of a great man
but she carries the expression
of horrified despair
so bold impassioned
that the viewer is drawn to the scene
through her eyes

...

ok, ok I know I have unsexed the scribe, and that if you look at the scribes arms he is clearly male - or a muscly woman - but there is something very feminine in the skin tones

....

surely even one so young
cannot have been shielded
from the politics of rome
but perhaps it is the callousness
of the order or the dawning
moment when affairs correct
the withered old man
makes the final withering gesture
to feed the blood triumphant
in an age of murder

....

listen and learn - that explains
the expression of the scribe

so busy with edicts and letters
for whom so many have bled

now faced with the dutiful act
the jaw opens with the vein
as the stuffed pig does not bleed

....

peace)



The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting #napowrimo widow

widow

he's more real than when he was there
those wisps of his scent in the chair
the cold bed

the things that didn't need to be said
in the unspoken mirror of feelings
half the peelings

half the portion and all the bed
in sickness and in health you said
his chair

now moved for the sake of change
and the ornaments rearranged
he's more real

when you shut the door and call
'I'm home' at that blank wall
within you

and without you as you face the world
the sense of strength and the aching ball
of grief

is more real now he has gone
as you escape to his side
of the bed


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting #ilkley writers group

don't mind me....

I'm just putting together some poems to read at ilkley writers group

....

Musing In Ilkley Cemetery
No more on the hill the Middleton clan,
     now resting apart in municipal plot.
He to the left with the Romans and Catholics,
     she to the right among Protestant stock.

He passes his time amongst sisters and Irish,
     she spends her days with the cream of the mill.
And were they to rise, and meet on the pathway,
     they could look through the Ash to the pile on the hill.

Walking once more, hands crossed behind me,
     the A plots, the B plots and C's tucked behind,
reading the stones, somber and solid,
     eaten by moss and losing their shine.

Now here's a baby resting with mother,
     daffodils, and brambles over their head.
Laying untended, their family departed,
     'gone safe to the Lord', the legend there says.

A squirrel picks crisps from littered green packet,
      vinegar, bites and claws at its tongue.
Skirting the line of war fallen heroes
      into conformists I gladly move on.

Past teachers and doctors, inventors and shepherds,
     he was a pal of George Bernard Shaw,
her flag she raised with Garibaldi,
     his soul he saved building homes for the poor.

At last, I complete my ambling circuit,
     back once again beside Middleton sun.
Surely despite religious contention,
     husband and wife might lay here as one.


....

 for a dead child

where shall I take these ashes
   my urge is to the sea
   to the wide norfolk sands
   and trudge across the flatness
      on a receding tide
   so that I might have excuse
   to keep you

I will keep you close
   to my beating heart
      lay down on the wetness
      of drying sand
push my head
   backwards onto mussel shells
      so that I might have excuse
      to keep you

and when the tide turns
   chasing me to the land
I will find excuse
   why I never take you
   to the sea

                for I am you
and you are me

                and one day
                we shall be

....

 in praise of wb yeats

fuck I hate yeats -
every molecule and electron
within me - despises him -

he's a priest of cheap tricks
   shoving his mitre
   in a choirboys mouth -

nothing he says has merit -
and everything is divisive
and dull - and dulled
because he says it -

put him beside a real poet -
like rilke - who peels you apart
like lsd - or emily dickinson -
with her subtle honesty -

yeats is the lowest of the low
  which is why
   he is held so high
to enable his admirers
to jump - not at all -
   to surpass him
   in their quest for the sky

....

 Remembrance
the doctor says, 'your baby is not alive'
yeah I know
but it's the missus I'm worried about now

the Simpsons play on the TV in the side room
but you don't laugh
instead the missus lets out a wail
that no actress can reproduce
no cliche ridden bullshit will let you hear
no poetic crap about darkness
or pretendy metaphor nonsense

the fact is
that it's not what you think
losing a child

yeah you hang onto each other
and
yeah there's anger
but there's more fear

fear that 
not being kicked by that ball of hope
when you spoon in bed
will cut the thread
the umbilical of kindness
that makes cups tea
shares jokes
holds hands in the street

And no
you are not the same
when later you lay in bed
hand on her belly
wishing that fart
was a moving finger
a flickering eye
a thought

and you do despise the sympathy
the well meaning advice
the imposition of grief
the morons who say 'oh how dreadful'
'I can't imagine'
'you have to keep talking'

fuck off

and then there's the coffin
in the chapel of rest
and the instruction not to open it
because the veins are too small
for the formaldehyde
and you won't like to remember
what you see

which will not be that child
who was born dead
and lay in perfect stillness
on the blanket your missus crocheted
with the rattle you bought
in an idle moment of expectation

it will not be the child
with pink fingers
the scratch mark under the eye
that you imagine was done
when waking from sleep in the womb
and not when dying
those bowed rose lips
thinning and darkening
from which no sound ever came
in the few hours you spend together

that child who you dressed
in a white Sunday dress
with white tights
and white shoes
and tended
with all respect
and all duty
in death
because you couldn't in life

so you do what you are told
the coffin stays shut
and you kiss it
and embrace the sharp edges

and then a day or so later
tears rolling down your face
you lift it from
the hearse
it don't even cover the spare wheel
and carry it into the chapel
in front of your family and friends
and cry
and cry
and hold onto each other

and then the little white box
slides through the curtain
and you get ashes in a plastic pot

...

 dawdling

laying here - stroking your back - as you sprawl snoozing
it strikes me how much you have grown

though you are still small enough to ride mahout on my shoulders
and tug reluctant on my arm when shopping

your face when sleeping carries those babyish curves
   you pull the heart at the smallness of perfect

      but you are definitely growing

just as I get used to the slim child
   you grow chubby
   branch out and up
and a new slim child appears

   you tell me that one day you will be taller than the sky
   I can wait
   for I love the smell of your hair

....

 evensong

the town hall clock strikes maunful tone
   tea washed and dried
                                  she leaves her home
this time of day she calls her own
    as she makes her way to evensong

those who live their life by reasons
    will not comprehend her love of seasons
    nor the smallness of her hoped for pleadings
        as she slips away for evensong

she goes not for god or wealth
not even really for herself
but to hear the birds in full breath
    in glorious joyous evensong

...

 To Tenby

that moment at the end of bleary chivvying
summer special on my lap sweets already half eaten
in that moment when with a thunk
unclunked or clicked we were sealed into our holiday

brown vinyl burning legs below my snake belted shorts
father's cigarettes virginian sweet ashen flicked midges
caught on the wind sucked back through the window
sugaring minnie the minx or ginger and numbskulls

all the while mother asking 'are you feeling sick'
brown paper bag ready in the footwell
with the tupperworn buttered ham sandwiches

into an A-road world of trees and hedgesrows
square council housing jig-saw cottages new build bungalow
portico piles down long yellow driveways
and tractors and caravans bicyclists and muttered
white knuckling grip cursing lost time

through country towns with one set of lights
church clocks and women wandered markets
wearing chemically printed polyester

                        i spy sky road car 'can I see it'
and groans for the unguessed three cows drinking
five miles behind
                          
as we ingested the size of the journey
and digested olympic breakfast pancakes fizzy orange
tartrazine brightness free lollipop
the afternoon sibling squabbling
the threats to sit still and put your feet down
then songs would begin

how young my mother was
as she slipped a fox's glacier
                          into my fathers mouth

...

peace)



The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting #micropoetry

I've been scribbling again...

Poems in 140 characters or less...

....

 give me more of knowing laughter
from confusion rolling
each to their own ho and ha
to blend in concerto of kinship kind

....

one day manchester will be built
the cranes will take wing
without girders in their beaks

....

that cow looks cold I said
in a bit of playful teasing
it's not cold at all you replied
it's absolutely freisian

....

across the valley rain hangs like ghosts
phantom shafted rainbow shimmered
they turn inwards entwining
sweep southwards on the wind

...

peace:)



The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting mocking the sane

mocking the sane

I was following auden down through the washshed
he with the eye of a hawk
to visit the infirm
and wheel around death
when out of the blue
nine thirty seven arrives
and he kicks me in the groin
and laughs
and cries
'hallelujah I free'
to say what want
and rhyme when I want
and not when I want

it all rather reminded me of when I had tea
with socrates
and he put down the boy
- or rather pushed him away -
and said
'my dear do take cream
for today I am free from the restraints of the mad'

of course down at the sauna
where the righteous stew
                 in whine and bitter juices
this freedom was condemned

they pulled on their black shorts
marched up and down
tying their knicker samples to a flagpole of liberty
gussets flapping
the aspidistra must fly


The Blue Book

28/04/2015

#poem #poetry #amwriting sketchbook notes on a train

notes on a train

....

to me - we were the centre
and the sign to london was 98 miles
on dark evenings when stars did not shine
and the black fen dog was abroad
that sign and it's baggage of royalty
and all we were not
would loom large in yellow illumination

....

and the names prove it
the secret names that proved
our knowledge of all things
of our ways

...


but didn't all roads have hedges
were not apples growing in every field
boys were different to girls
we knew that - each race we won
was sweeter and each defeat more bitter
as in that playground of bells
we carved ourself wth a chistling definition
of the mason on the cherub

but didn't everyone understand
see our world as we saw it
when entrusted with two shillings
solemnly we dropped it through the slot
for an indian boys schooling
once a year he would write to us

....

once a year - in early summer - a letter
would arrive from india - the stamp
exotic as yoghurt or hamburger

it was from our boy - for whom we dropped
ten pences in the box - with a photgraph
of a smiling nun - he thanked us

we if we ever thought at all - we liked this -
for children have an innate sense of justice
it was right that a child like us

should be schooled - and we liked
to be thanked - but more than this
we liked the sound of the coin
                               dropping in the box

.....

it was a friday, the last day of term.
when out of the blue someone said
that we were at war

we were always at war but this time
it was different and though the jingos
sneered - we cheered

the ships from portsmouth and felt each death
for with the fleet went something of ourself
that part of us

which fought for right above the din of politics
for what is england worth or what of freedom
for which you will not fight

....

mr hollande hangs on the wire
for a call to act in independence
of reason for rationally
this thawing makes little sense
but in private
well in private all things are justifiable

especially if nobody knows
or cares
to join the dots
bouncing off the north sea coast

....

not knowing is the real fear
that little me in my ear
niether genius nor a sear
that nags and nags

for what can modesty do
when faced with the big you
but nag and nag at you too
for you are just mortal

who cares for our small ascents
when we get that for which we bent
ourselves to achieve etc

....

when the fire cracks
the craic flows
blonded hopped
and twice as strong
tight with warmth
souls exchange

'I know I said I'm going'
but so want to stay

....

 ee how gran
in m&s for tea
and teacake

I didn't have a barm
though
but I nearly had an orgasm
when the girl said '£3.20 please'

....

business ladies folders laden
seat themselves to chew the fat
stroke their hair when talking
preen twice more when man sits down

nothing can be uttered without laughing
for agreement must be found
ring bound papers fall and rising
lanyards jiggle on giggling breasts

oh business ladies drink you latte
do please leave you hair along
don't you know there's someone dying
nor do I - but I'm sure there's one

....

tracksuits skinnier than jeans
haircuts shaved into shapes
as fierce as the dog - even the busker's
recorder has lopsided airs

...

rolling out of manchester
beyond the high rise glass
of the new build quays
one enters the sprawl
of failed grand design
the proud red brick warhouses
and the grander piles to god
mix with the asbestos
and the rubble
and erected steel
of business and commerce
always moving away form the centre
dragged by the iron of the hills
the green of the land
to come away
from the grand designs of money

....

these hills over which pylons march
lack the charm of yorkshire
a symptom perhaps of the illness
of place - they are too grey
too bare too stamped by men
yet his malady infects
no matter how hard I fight it
only when the light shifts
to the bleakness of beauty
of single windblown trees or jagg'd rock
do I feel the pull of home slacken
for I am home
that place in my heart
that poem which can not be erased
or removed

.....

she has that certain strut
that will not be shut up
and everything she says
is me, me, me
among the dribbled words
concerning projects and pormotions
it's pretty bloody obvious
she works in tv

....


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting girl on a train

girl on a train

how curious we should meet again
   this girl who rode the morning train
and read out loud her horoscope
   hers and that of her bloke
but now she is alone and reads -
   - a paper-back fulfills her need -
   where once she looked to her future
   now light romance seems to suit her
of more surprise to me at least
   her make up appears increased
and this morning she parted to the left
   but now she parts to the centre
   in three short lines of weaving weft
thank small mercy for her silent splendour


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting #napowrimo stuff

last night I spent a very pleasant evening with the beehive poets

and here are some scribblings I made on the train

....

my shadow must be ten feet long
as I walk to the train
and gaze up at the moor
longing to be there again
for being there among the clouds
where all is fresh and all is clear
full lunged you sing of the spring
without a care of who may hear

....

you ask why without asking
no answer comes from beyond
the window - for no bird
understands the concept of why
today green replaces voguish brown
it just is - just as today
black faced lambs go under the fence
in gangs to the woods
to a glade where bluebells grow -
at the snapping of a twig
they start like deer - for the hole -

....

across the valley rain hangs like ghosts
phantom shafted rainbow shimmered
they turn inwards entwining
sweep southwards on the wind

....

high clouds
low clouds
slide on oil
slipping
without grain
or grist
evaporate
without need
or mist

....

what is that smell
of the green gloop
that I piss on
in the train
it is some kind of citrus
but with melon
and it stains me
- the smell not the piss

....

oh and something from my notebook about sunday's walk

....

up close middleton is not as expected
but what strikes me most is
                        the lack of traffic noise
on the far moor bank
one must travel far out on the bingley
                                             causeway
to evade the wash of cars
but here you simply ascend the
gentle wooded rises
to enter a simple world of peace


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting bloody labour

so I'm standing outside having a fag
because you have to these days
on account of tony blair

and this pair of low life chancers
come balling down the street
yelling
'has anyone seen charlie
with a beard'

well I haven't
and
I'd say if I had
and I'd tell him to run

she's as rough as NSU
and he ain't the sort to take home
to your mum

and having no class
they start the old
'have you got a fag' routine

no I ain't

well I have
it's hanging from my mouth
but I rolled it for myself
not for you

and they start the game
of
'some people'

and I think
'yeah,
some people are better than you'


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting simple statement

simple statement

amid the scrunch and phut
and patter and putt
and the squeak of my right boot
complaining at it's over use

I limp through the rain
and think of all the reasons
I love poetry

but they are the scrunch and phut
and patter and putt
of limping through the rain
in an anorak hood
with my left boot
laughing at the rights over use



The Blue Book

27/04/2015

#poem #poetry #amwriting #napowrimo the faintest of things

the faintest of things

on a day of heartbreaking sunshine
you sip coffee on the terrace
     of the cafe by the lake

   her bell attracts you
as the bicycle wheels to a stop
and she leaps off giggling

her blue sailor dress
   of navy blue
her white ankle socks

she leans on the fence
arching like a birch
in a rainbow

looking backwards
to the path where her friends
   peddle closer

it is then you see
that look of disdainful
disappointment

   as she looks down
   to the blue bicyle
   leant on a post

intrigued you
question within yourself
if she knows

the thinnest of clouds
casts the faintest of shadows
as the friends pass

and she cries out
remounts
and is gone

you sip your coffee
and watch children
fish for water-boatman
on the lake


The Blue Book

#photography #ilkley pastoral scenes

pastoral scenes
peace:)


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting #beehive #bradford beehivepoets digest compilation

Don't mind me...

 I'm just putting some poems together for my trip to the Beehive tonight....

....

 fraternity

at some point today
I had one son on one arm
and
another son on the other

there were no cars
no dogs
nothing to fear

I wished only to swing my arms
breath in the scent of the bluebells

but I held the offered hands

knowing it was love
and loving every step we took together

....

 africa

compassion is not a virtue but a vice
just as nice isn't pleasant but an amalgam of
                                            neat and precise
and they exactly make a perfect pair
for the empathic to feel superior

oh I know I am heartless
    for daring to say
that I am greatly saddened
    by the knowledge
      most african university graduates
      dream of working for an NGO
      or being an emigre

but it's nice to have cut flowers
   in every retail outlet
and those out of season fruit and veg
they simply will not grow themselves
      and it is of vital import
   to pile them high on gaping shelves

and then there's all the minerals
what must be gathered in
uranium is valuable
as is bauxite and tin

    and those dark chaps in the way
    they must at once go away
    they cannot be allowed to stay

of course it helps those in control
of the mining rights and oil holes
   own the compassion tap
for the NGOs to spout some crap
of how you are a racist knave
because you refuse to behave
and object to the plan
   of evacuate and drown

but mind and never mention
   - don't send blankets just send cash -
haitian hotels of grand dimension
for on the beaches tourists splash
    while up the mountain out of sight
    another child drowns in shite
    as cholera that disease unkind
    clears a path for the clinton's mine

oh yes the despots hold compassion
as the greatest of all virtues
without it they could not be stashing
the money nicely taken
       from empaths like you

....

 sonnet of the hanged man

only he who has lived in shadow
can know the truth of the light
or the joylessness of the lightdwellers
in their constant fear of darkness

only he who has drunk his tears
and been drunk on those tears
and felt his guts in his mouth
can know happiness of freedom

for all else is plastic of design
no matter how roughened the surface

and only we who have lived
in appreciation of our limit
and gone beyond without care
know the truth of foolishness

....

 and we are

and the sunlight passes through us in laughter
- roaring and rushing at the joy of living -
spinning in the moment our arms o'erspan
our reach - grab all the eye can see to
cast up in silvered dancing - to shower down upon us
drenching all that we are - and can be

and we turn and we turn and we turn -
until we lift - how full we are with love -

....

 faith

because I have rejected good and bad
and seek only what is
I am deafened with joy

no longer do I wrap myself
preparing not to receive

for now I
wash my soul - smell - and see
with a vivacity of which I could never conceive
or believe
before I allowed myself to let go
of those two bogus words

that from childhood define us

....

 for a dead child

where shall I take these ashes
   my urge is to the sea
   to the wide norfolk sands
   and trudge across the flatness
      on a receding tide
   so that I might have excuse
   to keep you

I will keep you close
   to my beating heart
      lay down on the wetness
      of drying sand
push my head
   backwards onto mussel shells
      so that I might have excuse
      to keep you

and when the tide turns
   chasing me to the land
I will find excuse
   why I never take you
   to the sea

                for I am you
and you are me

                and one day
                we shall be

....


alternate past

it's a party to which you were never invited
to which you would never have gone
with cheap white wine - you bought red -
and small talk so dull it goes over your head

though you like to look in through the window
and image you are one of the crowd
with fashionable clothes - and poise and with pose -
there's no point regretting it now

for what use is joining a party
to which you would never have gone
you'd only cause trouble
                           for your present self
no, it's better to leave well alone

....

and because it is workshop night *rolly eyes* -

....

 in praise of wb yeats

fuck I hate yeats -
every molecule and electron
within me - despises him -

he's a priest of cheap tricks
   shoving his mitre
   in a choirboys mouth -

nothing he says has merit -
and everything is divisive
and dull - and dulled
because he says it -

put him beside a real poet -
like rilke - who peels you apart
like lsd - or emily dickinson -
with her subtle honesty -

yeats is the lowest of the low
  which is why
   he is held so high
to enable his admirers
to jump - not at all -
   to surpass him
   in their quest for the sky



The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting in pairse of wb yeats

in praise of wb yeats

fuck I hate yeats -
every molecule and electron
within me - despises him -

he's a priest of cheap tricks
   shoving his mitre
   in a choirboys mouth -

nothing he says has merit -
and everything is divisive
and dull - and dulled
because he says it -

put him beside a real poet -
like rilke - who peels you apart
like lsd - or emily dickinson -
with her subtle honesty -

yeats is the lowest of the low
  which is why
   he is held so high
to enable his admirers
to jump - not at all -
   to surpass him
   in their quest for the sky


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting for a truly clever woman

for a truly clever woman

I see her smiling
and I wonder why
someone so talented
needs to smile

perhaps because
she's a woman
and lives in the loop
of validation

no

that can't be it

too easy
too liberal

for it is not
the smile
but the force
behind it

does she not know
her own talent

why would she
when no-one does


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting on meeting a friend

on meeting a friend

you are the tree -
the tree I have seen
and imagined
like a duerer painting -
as I pass to and fro
from school
to home -
and into town

you are the beacon
of something
in me
so detailed
and abstract -
you are the tree

and you should disappoint -
for now
I come
by accident -
but you do not -

you prove
isolation
is far from alone -
being oneself
is not arrogance




The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting fraternity

fraternity

at some point today
I had one son on one arm
and
another son on the other

there were no cars
no dogs
nothing to fear

I wished only to swing my arms
breathe in the scent of the bluebells

but I held the offered hands

knowing it was love
and loving every step we took together



The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwrting sketchbook sad

sad

and so we wait and wait and wait
for that knock on the door
when we pick up the pre-packed suitcase
laden with those papers we call identity
there is no need to lock the door
nor shut the window
or check the cooker
because we are not coming back
we may hope
for some disturbance
to act as proof of our memory
but for most the best we can hope
is an annoyance that because we are not here
the minibus driver
who takes us to bingo
can no longer use our address
as excuse to meet his mistress


The Blue Book

26/04/2015

#photography #ilkley water nymphs

water nymphs in middleton woods
peace:)


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting #napowrimo calvary

calvary

the mid afternoon pimpling breeze
   chills to the bone
   as we break from the shelter of the trees
      to stand in the avenue of calvary
                             on the hill

we move from station to staion
until we reach the money shot of the nails

jesus - forcibly reclining -
held by a nail through the left hand -
carries an expression similar to I
   when rolling from bed
      or standing from a chair
   when the knees click in
take up balance and the weight

at first I find this amusing
   but on reflection perhaps
film has made us too accustomed
to violence and pain as grimaced
                                    overblown

and maybe the mason is closer to the truth
   jesus is simply saying 'oh'
   held by one hand
   he awaits the auxillary working on his feet
and recognises that for all the theatre
   his ordeal is just beginning
and now he is really going to learn
the nature of human form

as we all must
when powerless

only later do I see - in the photograph -
that the nose and beard is missing
   what I took as a mouth
   is a peg hole

oddly apt
that on these greening stones
nature and time
have offered in simplicity
a view we should consider


The Blue Book