#poem #poetry #amwriting escort

Scorta

the old fat fascist toad
fears to feel, fears to grow
fears the thought it does not know
nor cares to know
or feel
no
the old fat fascist toad

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook of all things

Bestar my mouth with whiskey.
Peaten whisps of the fragrant,
of the dead, of the dying day.

Of all things good beyond

that burst from children;
outpoured in jumped, clapped spinning
smile.

Of all things good beyond.

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook notes 24 feb

how your eye excites me, lingered
dancing as your laughter, rolling
wild, bouncing, as the matted heather
lifted on the upward moor. The golden
brackened memory does not crack nor break
a little too close, too intimate
in the contraception of comfortable time:
when all discourse labours to consider
if what we say is repetition.
The thrill of what attracts
does not repel but re-enforces.

....

all poetry is reliable narration
betwixt disgust and reason hinges
the secret soundings of the soul
all poetry is reliable narration
lies the wind lies the wind
that wind who fathered Cain
jealous of quiet spaces
the honoured man the wind
carries the voice of the living
and the dead unreliable now

....

all poetry is relaible narration
jealous of quiet spaces

lies the wind, lies the wind
betwixt disgust and reason hinged

....

the wind who Cain begot
jealous of quiet spacees
the honoured man, the wind
betwixt disgust and reason hinged
lies the wind, lies the wind
in sounding of the secret soul
jealous of quiet spaces
carries the voice of the living
or the dead unrelaibel now
all poetry is reliable narration

....

the wind begetting Cain
jealous of quiet space
the honoured man, that wind
betwist disgust and reason hinged
lies the wind, lies the wind
in sounding of the secret soul
jealous of quiet spaces
carries the voice of the living
or the dead unreliable of now

....

all poetry is reliable narration
jealous of quiet space
a little to close. too intimate
in contrapunction of conception

....

what sahll I them them Lord
say yes

...

what shall I tell them Lord, tell them
but catch outstretched in joyous turning
the tear that tastes the lip
all poetry is reliable narration
jealuos of quiet spaces
a little too close, to intimate

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook patterns

here is the poem that you want to read




and here is the poem I wrote




and here is the pattern that you didn't see

#poem #poetry #amwriting Impression IV

Impression IV

She said: she said; she said, uh,
in that way.

I went, I said, I went listen.
And she went, you know
like she does.

Well she did.
Well she'd have to now; what with
you know.

That's what she says.

Uh.
She said it to me: when I went round.
I went say it, and she said, uh
you know. That's her all over.

When she went, you know,
that way, I said uh, that's it.
She can say what she likes.

(birdsong)

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook notes 22 feb

how strange, on a full moon, on a freezing evening
in a land of square space without horizon
to think of a camel
as a metaphor for something

Hello Mrs (what is her name) uh Derek.
How's your wife? Oh you're alright are you.
I must go.

They all step out once, at the station
smelling of quick cigarettes and deordourising mint.
I step in
take a seat
soak in the lemon of the toilet, slightly sugared.

sweet burning wood caught black
burst unispiring words - get more
detached by experience

I said to her, I said to her, uh, I said to her
stiff legged, unconnected
to the body: loop armed
through the drunken night they go.
I went to her, I said to her
clip clop, tumble on with bunions.

#poem #poetry #amwriting Impression V

Impression V

She takes me to a gallery; an exhibition: a sale of pictures

and asks which one I should choose.
The paintings are nice.
The colour is good.
The composition fine.
The frames are worth a bob or two.

And as I think of this
passing the abattoir at midnight

a single sheep bleats.

Studies by the sea.
Pastoral scenes in Victorian style:
families grazing on the beach.

I suggest the only painting, that to my eye, contains life

a hurried sketch of a girl of seven,
in a whirl of white dress,
caught between that moment of sandcastle or sea:
tucked into a corner of the wider scene.

And, while she runs through the reasons
of why she will buy a different picture

I think of a camel.
And, the stored fat of the hump:
and her fat arse and thighs.

#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....

.....

Love Letters to a Cousin

Let memory speak of time without stars

bathed in the sunlight of gardens remembered.

Beauty still remains, amid the brassy dream

unsentimental as this skyline picked by cranes.

Everywhere is elsewhere here, to be copied

or mocked, left to blacken or rot or built

gelded beyond the height of gilded arcades.

But wait. Do I come to pander or to praise

those conservations, to the pretensions of this town.

Or to find in refraction of refracted memory

my genuine affection, for a place I rather like.

I want to say slag heap.

I want to say concrete.

I want to ridicule the chavs on bikes

and the dreary view on grey Sunday mornings

as the 16a rounds Armley gaol

and all the world tumbles down the dog-shit slope

to the pebble-dash and double-glazed.

But that is not me. Nor does it reflect how I feel.

Or why I began in memory of that garden on the Selby Road:

looking out, through the hedge, to fields.

.....

Kitsch

Love, it is love, once again love.
Sorry I didn't mean... if you're busy
I was just saying how frustrating it is
to read. The moon blazes fire, burns
in yearning majesty of love's lost return:
in turning, burns, the returning still.

She cuts the conversation. Lights a cigarette
with Vesta, The phosphor somehow suits
her nature. Everything she says
is fashionable beyond the sake of comfort
and nowhere, to her disappointment, can be found
a single reference in the bible, to a single shit.

Sorry I didn't mean... I was just saying
its frustrating if you're busy, to read;
just saying. And why, why hang your hat 
upon reflection, the burning face returning 
of what we thought was loved and lost.
Once again love, love, it is love.

Does what we see in the mirror shit?
Shit, shit, shit, there I said it.
You said I wouldn't.
Said I couldn't.
Shit, shit, shit, there it is again,
wearing a crucifix, with crossed fingers.
You said I shouldn't.
Again.

Again we apologise, again and again:
for those excursions of understanding
again.

I'm sorry, but it is a serious point
made smooth:
why make love when it mostly shit
and madness;
in glaring reflection of a shitless future.

Sorry I didn't mean... if you're busy
I was just saying how frustrating it is
to read. Again. I didn't mean sorry...
how frustrating if you're busy. I say
I was just reading again, I say sorry
again, again, sorry again.

Again, I didn't mean sorry: again.

....

C'est une Pipe

La feu c'est margin des lune entente
concord la lune un feu.
Mes tout; sept pas; mon encore
la lune.
Que quelle fille, appel mon coeur,
c'est feu, je jure la lune.
Avec mon coeur, mon feu, mon lune:
mon coeur, pas lune, mon feu.

....

Letters Found
You, like Sylvia, only knew two words,
always and never: which you carried caged
like linnets of a stolen song.

How nice to take a knife to you,
your watermarks, your curling hand,
to read afresh your streaming thought
before that well ran dry.

Or so I thought; and thought now,
appreciating these love letters
to one hundred petty brightnesses:
as luminant as rain.

....

Between Stations

intemperate frigid loved unlovely love
grasping with the sweating palms
sweating hard in chasing time
in reaching for the well kept wine
we crush the glass before we drink

what line may bind the larking flite
or ken to understand in song
scrolled litany unwind of those done wrong
by us - or others unappeased
frigid loved unlovely does not love nor care

unlovely let all be mud toed between the parts
of childhood we lived and forgot
when debonair was but gauche glanced
consequential free from following event
without the tape nor starting gun

or there beneath the arching shadow
bedded with untraveled tramp
unloved frozen by chilled fingers
of illuminate always lightened night
we may cling still unless we push

we might wake surprised to found
what yesterday blocked unkind
within us has within ourself out drunk
not applied the metaphor or smile
illiterate of all we fear to feel of dust

....

for the workshop....

Eden's Loss

Where yesterday, they lay unbound within
that pit of joy: skipping pleasure's eye shone:
processing o'er the virgin stars of night.
Uncleaved, the fruit, no cloven star reveals
but split between it's equal parts, seen
in critical comprehension; what perfect
in created form: forms patterns accidental.
As the bud yields to the bee, craving the light
it opens fully in it's natural innocence: so they,
there, entangled of their duty reach for that
reflected: reflected in the surging of the heart.
And thus they fall in generation. In expression;
in the turning of the lamp-light low, they dim
to shine with brighter swelling fire; but fall:
not from grace, or lost desire, or shame.
Just the ticking hands of time. And the space
which hourly grows, where before it pruned
in constant of those dreams not present.
When they might, in the sin of adultery, reflect
upon their lesser self: and that they did not know

...

starts at 8 for 8.30, at the Beehive on Westgate... do come along....