When at school, nowhere else but the space that was given
And those tighter moments, when the neurosis of the time
Made no more sense than the 70s were supposed to…

Three lines, two times, and once we had become
The glide of a hawk, the times when we captured
All the dreams that had been spinning around outside

And put them in a small leather bag, pressed in tight
So that we could save them for later
Hang on until it all felt right

Dreams are alive in my head now
Good and bad, sad and mad
Wanting to be regrets, urgent needs to do things now

And so I jump out of the plane, ask rather than waiting
Sing rather than whisper, let go rather than clutch
And think that it is all too much, too particular…

Tags: Poetry

you see, when I was young and writing for all I could find
I read somewhere that it was wrong to use too many words
that end in –ing, so avoided it, wanting to get it right

how stupid though, how the rules that we get are really all
there to be ignored, to be recreated. When word writing
is like sound making, a kingdom where you can become your own king

and king can sing like the ings that are all waiting to be worshipped
or the swings that I sat on and went as high as I could
kicking my feet to the clouds, and feeling the rush of my stomach

whatever direction you take – no, wait – it’s me I’m writing about
take the you away, drift into the inner world of my mind
imaginations that are special, filled with quiet secrets

surely the inner signals that we fill the landscape with, are no
more than the rich resonance of colours and sounds, the
one meaning that fits with a spectacle of memories

now – the kingfisher, the colour blue, the word ‘just’
little ticks that litter these constructions, and the breath
the inward and outward signs of life, of purpose.

Tags: Poetry

Here is one of the poems which I wrote back in March. I’m about to start writing again. This one stirred me to the page again, and it brought to mind the golden eagles I wrote about in the last post to the blog. The birds in this poem were flying in a massive flock around a railway station as I stood on the platform waiting for a train to arrive:

Whenever she says she does she does
But the light never shines above her head
The way it should – like a veil

Like fingers beating on a microphone as a test –
Pulling patterns together that would be meaningless
Sense, connections, lines between – where the ends meet the means.

Tags: Poetry

The cowboys have gone out of business or
Pretend to be self-made commercial heroes,
The fantasy of TV is a bore,
His town and home barely exist in prose.

Scribbles underfoot were rare, too discrete
They left him to his own devices.
He looked for lovers, quiet town, no-one to meet.
Only sources of pleasure were vices.

Salt water on his skin, so the sun burns
Like breaths of healthy old he diverges,
Takes a girl out and watches as she turns
From beauty of which splendour emerges.

His town and home barely exist in prose,
In poetry oft’ times anything goes.

Tags: Poetry

Three are the ways that I have seen you
Gliding across the sky like Jove awakening
Wondering why there are honeyed spaces between
Every field of your vision, every space kept unseen

Remember the secrets you told me, kept separate
Not available for decipher
Un-placed now, re-arranged as though you want
Some bespoke arrangement that only I will understand

Never have I left such distance between as the moments of now
And the time is moving fast and slow all at once
How strange! Take a madman and put him on show
Make him a leader and watch the world glow

Tags: Poetry

Coming out of winter hibernation, I have begun a project for the month of March. 31 poems in 31 days. I’m also carrying a camera and capturing images as the month progresses which I may use to complement the poems. Here is the second poem – unedited or worked, just in its raw form:

Whenever she says she does she does
But the light never shines above her head
The way it should – like a veil

I watch the birds, 1028 of them, fly overhead
Like one organism, flexing and changing shape
Creating a mass of darkness in a blue sky surround

The sense of menace is as real as
The sense of plenty that sometimes comes through
Just when I worry about things too much

When the light shines above my own head
I can sometimes pull it down and through
Then the warmth of it all is palpable

Here comes the birds organism again, fifth time around
With each circle of the town, I can feel a little more sense
Understand the way 2056 wings can make a unified sound

Like fingers beating on a microphone as a test –
Pulling patterns together that would be meaningless
Sense, connections, lines between – where the ends meet the means.

Tags: Poetry

you’re at that age when
everything’s moving faster,
but you can’t play god.

Tags: Poetry

I keep a regular track of the visitors to the series of weblogs which I host using sitemeter. This helps me to see how many visitors are looking at the site, how they get there, and a rough idea of where they are located.

Yesterday someone did a search on MSN Search looking for ‘poems on earthquake‘ and found my weblog for the poetry press which I run. There is a book of poetry which I wrote a few years ago called ‘Umbrian Images’ which includes a poem about the earthquake in Assisi in 1997. The site visitor was in Pakistan and was therefore presumably looking for poetry about the Pakistan earthquake.

Well, as a response to this, I thought I should do two things. First, post the poem about Assisi – I think it brings into focus the difference between these two disasters. This year has been filled with disasters of immense scale and suffering. It is easy to become numb to it all. But I think we just need to keep responding, doing what we can. The world of global media is a two-edged sword which offers us information on an unprecedented scale and immediacy – but it does give an armageddon quality to all of this. Our reaction and support is vital. (There’s a useful post about the impact of the internet on our view of disasters by Seth Godin here.) Which brings me to the second thing I can do as a response. Follow the link to the Disasters Emergency Committee to donate to the Appeal for the Asian Earthquake. Please help.

Assisi Earthquake
(some words taken from a Daily Telegraph article)

On the western edge of town
firemen fear the roof of the upper basilica
might not withstand
heavy rainfall.

The magnificent campanile’s bells
which sound when St Francis’s birds flock
have been eerily silenced as if
their tolling might be enough
to bring the tower crashing down.

The restorer says
“I know the fresco which included this detail.
I’ve restored it twice before,
to see it like this makes my heart sink.”

One local says of the monks,
“I don’t see any of them
rolling up their sleeves
and getting to work with a spade.”

Meantime,
twenty five thousand people
have no homes.

And
we look at moments of time
without the context of history
and emphasis becomes distorted.

3·10·97
13·47

Tags: Poetry

bright by echo of bright recall
there is nothing more

only the neatness brought about when we tidy as we go along
turning everything into some sort of song

then there is the won mind-set
no idea why!

then there was the loss of a consonant in a clever
smug sort of whatever

and finally we let it all go
pretend that nothing has happened

seal the secrets in a small envelope,
light a candle,

hold the secret over it
until it ignites, then let go and

watch the paper turn to blackened feather
light, and fragment, into the air

gone forever, burnt out of existence.

Tags: Poetry

The words begin

Like something that slips down the page – not sure

And an image
that is all that poetry is
something that we can picture in our mind

like the arrival of god
at a party when he hasn’t been invited
and the host is busy pouring drinks
nobody knows the way to speak

so the first person to open the door, says
“sorry, I know we must have met, at some point that is,
but I have no idea who you are, and you’re not coming in here!”

The door slammed shut…and then silence
nothing to say
the music dies away as the guests wonder whether
they have missed something really important
of consequence.

for it is all of consequences
outcomes
within the chaos of complex adaptive systems
we all try to make some sense.

seek out a god
and then when we find one,
we shut the door, refuse to recognise
ignore the voice in our head
and strike him off the guest list

safe in the company of those we know.

Tags: Poetry

Taking
Opening all out
Splitting a cloud like candy floss
Breaking air apart
An atom-smasher
Blaster.

Other words
Pretend
But do not understand the flow
Through all connections
No rejections
No sorry.

Not part
Not apart
Not even one strong sense of innocence
Would be enough
To split sides
Make asides
Not see.

Even when
The words are spent
The spoken sounds are louder than the heard
The things I say
Are not the same
As yours.

Tags: Poetry

I mentioned recently that I was due to give a reading at our local poetry group on the first Thursday in July. There were about 60 people gathered for the evening. It was the same day as the bombings in London, so there was an air of sadness and shock hanging over the audience. Earlier in the evening I had begun to wonder whether reading poetry felt like the right thing to do in the circumstances. In the end, like many people that day, carrying on as normal felt like totally the right thing.

I read 8 poems, including a number of poems included on this site recently. They were all taken from the “28 poems in 28 days” cycle which I wrote earlier this evening. I find that reading poetry to an audience changes my relationship to the poem. I hear it differently. In this reading I heard some lines as really strong, which I had not noticed before. I heard rhythms which worked, and some that didn’t. Overall I was really pleased with the material – I was taken by its intensity. And I felt that I had rediscovered some of the playful side of using language again.

What did the audience make of the reading? It is always difficult to tell at a poetry reading. Unlike a live music concert, it does not conclude with booing or frantic cheering. Poetry readings are an altogether more polite affair – at least where I come from they are.

I felt an empathy from the audience. As I looked around whilst reading there was an attentiveness which is always helpful. And there was a good level of applause at the end too. The highlight for me was after the event, when one of the organisers came up to me and said “that was fascinating. Thank you.”

The rest of the evening was excellent too – there was live music from a duo playing accordion and bagpipes, another poet reading, a poem of the month, and a talk about the poetry of Edward Thomas.

One good outcome from the evening was a resolve on my part to travel further afield and do poetry readings. Further reports here as they happen.

Tags: Poetry

I am due to give a poetry reading at a local poetry group at the end of next week, so I am busy choosing poems to fill the 10 minute slot which I have available. I’m going to take the selection from “avenues of in between”. Here is one which I intend to use:

I am the reaper, the big repeater
Spinning out the lines, the ones I’ve heard before
Echoing and etching everything I find
The craftsman at his task
Needing only to serve words to myself –
Or to anyone that will listen.

Having something meaningful to say
Screwing up pieces of paper, pieces of all
That I throw away, of the words that I hold on to
The turning wheel, the replay, and the play back
Finding my way to the something
That is new.

Inside the bones of my skull
A good tune, a few words that are useful
A speech, a list of things that I keep
Special delivery and a knock at the door
Searching the feelings just beyond reach
Opening out the corpse to examination.

Obsessive seeking, needing one more splice
A few moments in the recess of the day
A replay, then separate times that have not played before
Long tunnels under roads, scary times
Crazy instances of the books that I long to write,
The speckled memories of a few cheap rhymes.

Tags: Poetry

Mike Snider’s Formal Blog and Sonnetarium

The link above takes you to Mike Snider’s Formal Blog and Sonnetarium, a place I visit regularly to read his comments, poems etc. It seems that Mike has been doing a little late spring cleaning, and come across some poetry booklets which I sent him a while back. I still have a stack of his sonnets to read too – looking forward to doing this. I will post some comments when I have read them.

I can relate to the whole issue of spring cleaning as I look with dismay at the chaos around my desk, on my desk, under my desk and everywhere around the house. I am on the brink of a change of jobs, so need to get the paper chaos under control as soon as I can.

Tags: Poetry

A few days ago someone posted a poem as a comment to this post . I say, someone, because I followed the link to their own blogger profile and found a host of names and aliases. I think he is Desmond Swords – but not for certain! He is also Scalljah, Sloppy Bob, and Jan Manzwotz. The writer behind these names has series of blogs here, here and here. As well as being part of a group poetry blog here.

I thought I would return the compliment and post a poem to the Desmond Sword blog as a comment. I’ve copied it here too:

Yes is an s

blue light
water shine
flickers on down inside
the right-sided find
when the green blade

which rasps loudly

has passed downto beyond where
all that has clasped
has grasped
and let go

yes is an s
an expression
recessed
until

the menace of a huge open space
repressed and defaced
will open and re-appear
no fear

put it down
don’t let it in
shed some light now
fight now
just for spite now

playful but bitter
couldn’t tell who hit her
or when the game is ended
erased like
the reaction hoped and

a piece of the action.

Tags: Poetry

Fresh from the keyboard – words that make the first cut of a poem:

Words drip down like stains

I

Words
drip down like stains on the side of the soul
when the meaning that you sent was clear as hearts
and all that was spent

Don’t remember everything then – that’s all at sight
and I will regret from the moment my mouth opens
best left aside, underneath and always
that’s the best I can offer

A single rose, a symbol of the shows
the every expression that I ever gave to you
or made for you, then leapt over rushes and bushes
like some kleptomaniac crunch of a shower.

II

Words
flow out like spit down the chin
the sin I’m in, the skin I’m in
remembered conversations

Everything speaks to me like the
genuflections of reflections in the glass
of my mind, your kind should stop
being sharp to mine

Then the words, the often heard
in each moment that I offered
would be as clear as the hurting
now it’s all forgotten.

Tags: Poetry

and here is the remix of the 20th poem…

21 – classic deviation

Thursday 3rd February 2005

What it became

Before the slipping

Emotion

Never meant to be

Pushing all back to

A reflection of

What it once was

Now devout

World with a

With a speckled mirror

Of being

And ever shall be

Or do without

In an

Anguished shout.

Good ending.

Tags: Poetry