The nice thing about poetry readings is……. the (un)discovered gems. With guest poet Ken Evans

Apologies. The cobweb’s a day late. It was half written yesterday when the dishwasher started to flash warning signs and to cease work mid-cycle. It turned out after some time that the impeller on the pump was jammed with a bit of broken glass. Or, because you’re keen on poetry, a shard. Anyway, it involved some finicking with tweezers and a lot of mopping. All is now well, so on with the post.

lucky dip stall

The thing about poetry readings is you pays your money (or, more often, don’t) and you takes your choice. We’ve been to poetry nights where the poet(s) and organisers outnumber the punters; one remarkable one in Bradford where the normally designated pub room was full of sleeping bags…….some may have been occupied. And those where the floor is taken by a manic street preacher who cannot be persuaded that the open mic is not the place for his grievances. The ones where the poetry is buried under an avalanche of jukebox and drunken revelry from an adjacent room. One memorable one where the poetry competed with Morris Men in the street outside. Ones where an audience member grows increasingly puzzled until s/he realises it’s not a Union Branch Meeting after all.

And there are poetry nights that are memorable simply because they make you feel good about yourself, about poetry, about the human condition. It was like that last Thursday at The Albert Poets in Huddersfield, not just because of the quality of the poetry, which was great, but also because there wasn’t even standing room. The Albert’s back room these days houses a pool table, and the poets are now out in the front bar, right by the front door on to the street. It’s an interesting space, and becomes even more interesting when a whole bunch of lovely folk hire a minibus and turn up in numbers. It happened in November when Ian Parks (who will, before too long, be a guest poet) was reading with Steve Ely and Smokestack Books editor, the splendid Andy Croft, and were supported by travelling fans from Mexborough…a bit like football, or music. Apparently, they liked it so much that they came again last Thursday to support Neil Clarkson, Emma Storr, Mike di Placido and Mexborough poet,Mike O’Brien, featured below. You might just see the orange barriers outside the door. The council were digging up the street, with drills and mechanical diggers. Which is always interesting.

And Mike Di Placido displayed, courtesy of Mark Hinchcliffe, one of Ted Hughes’ Mont Blanc pens, about which he’s written a belter of a poem in his collection ‘Crow flight across the sun’. It was a special night. Some of them are.

In and among all this are memories of poetry nights where you heard a poet for the first time, one who reads something that stops you in your tracks, makes you sit up and pay attention. Almost all of the poets who have been guests on the cobweb are in this category. Nearly all the contemporary poetry I own has been bought at readings (including some on residential courses)  where I heard these poets for the first time. (most people knew about them already, but that’s not the point, is it?). Ruth Valentine, Steve Ely, Rebecca Gethin, Christy Ducker, Jonathan Edwards, Roy Marshall, Jane Clarke, Shirley McLure…..and so on and so on. Which brings us nicely to today’s guest and (un)discovered gem.

In December I drove over the M62 to Liverpool for the launch of Coast to coast to coast 2, at the Open Eye Gallery on the waterfront near the Pier head. It was a lovely cold night, and I’d forgotten how nice it is to walk, all wrapped up, through mainly deserted spaces like the Albert Dock, and to enjoy light on water. It was like being a student in the 60s again. The world bright, new-minted. I’m hoping to dedicate a post to Coast to coast… in the very near future. Enough to say it’s the brainchild of Maria Isakova Bennett and Michael Brown, and they produce limited- edition, fabric-covered and handstitched pamphlets.

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They’re flooded with submissions whenever they invite them, and they attract ‘names’. Their second pamphlet opens with a stunner from John Glenday. There are poems from Suzannah Evans, Stephanie Conn, Paul Stephenson, Rebecca Gethin…

It was a splendid launch, with poets from all over, and one of those readings where I heard lots of poets for the first time. Charles Lauder Jr., Robin Houghton and the one with opening lines that jumped out at me from the page..a poem by today’s guest Ken Evans

“(where no DNA, prints or dental records exist, jewellery helps identification)

What survives is love, and jewellery –”

The whole poem follows shortly, but first, I’ll let Ken introduce himself..it’s a fascinating story of his arrival in this odd world of writing poems.

I find a lot of people come to poetry through crisis – break-up; divorce; a death; redundancy; an unexpected rift in the weave; an addiction, or the journey from addiction; or simply a mid-life loss of way. This last, though less dramatic, is just as debilitating – a creeping sense of alienation, that won’t be denied.

My own moment came after donating a kidney to my sister who had lupus. An incurable but not necessarily killer-disease, she’d reached the stage of dialysis. Without a donor, it can be a seven-year wait for a good match. Often, twice that. The op. went well, but left me with a collapsed lung (re-inflatable) and a loss of purpose (less easy to breathe air into.)

My job seemed pointless and stressful.  While presenting, I started swaying and for an instant, lost all depth of field, so that the person farthest from me in the room seemed as upfront and close as the person in the front row.  Unnerving. A cardiogram suggested a small stroke – a TIA (Transient Ischaemic Attack.)

[I’ve spent time speculating about the subtext of the gap that Ken leaves between this paragraph and the next. It’s one of those ‘In one bound he was free’ narratives!

“A kidney short, but an Arvon course up, I was away. A Master’s in Poetry at Manchester University under the brilliant John McAuliffe, Vona Groarke and Frances Leviston (and the then-Writer-in-Residence, Colette Bryce), and I was hooked.

Placings in Poets & Players; the Bridport; Troubadour; the National Poetry Prize longlist; Bare Fiction and the Nine Arches Press ‘Primers’ series – all boosted self-confidence, and made me start to think I’ll have a shot at this poetry-stuff, and I began living for the time I could steal at the keyboard/notebook.

I read all the time – as of course, all workshop-leaders tell us we must: mainly lyric North Americans like Henry Cole, Carl Phillips, Jack Gilbert (all recommended by John McAuliffe.) I also learned of the longer and downbeat, wry conversational line of Karen Solie and Louise Gluck; the density of Jorie Graham and the dazzling Sharon Olds, Brenda Shaughnessy, as well as Kay Ryan’s tauter and shorter lines, while Billy Collin’s apparently effortless way with verse won me over.

Cover_Evans_def_large

In 2016, I won Battered Moons, and published a pamphlet, ‘The Opposite of Defeat, with Eyewear Publishing, as well as making runner-up, in the lovely Jacky Kays’ generous judgement, in Poets & Players.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

There you go. And now I’m delighted to share some of his poems with you. Let’s start with the one that caught my eye at that December book launch.

True Forensic

(where no DNA, prints or dental records exist, jewellery helps identification)

 

What survives is love, and jewellery –

a Deposit Box in a tower-basement,

hennaed by heat, gold and sapphire, ruby,

 

diamonds burnished to a glitter,

scorched from their settings to outshine

their blackened fixtures.

 

Limbs, so firm and clasped in life,

burn lightly as a willow-branch, browning

leaves, a wick of fat beneath.

 

Flames dance upon our face, eyes.

The ring on a finger is an emissary

from a thin wrist of skin and time,

 

shrunken to a flare of alchemy,

distilled to what remains, the opaque,

a flaming geometry.

 

Our fire-licked embrace cannot shake

the faithful sleep of a Pompeiian dog,

the Viking amethyst, sunk in taiga,

 

that heaven, crackling, thirty floors above

our heads, brought down upon

the precious, and our semi-precious

 

 

Two things struck me straight away. The first was the texture of the writing, the consonants, the near rhymes that tie it together. It sings out to be read aloud. The second was the unblinking way it opens by borrowing from Larkin, and then subverting my expectations by substituting ‘jewellery’ for ‘love’. And the odd juxtaposition of ‘tower’ and ‘basement’. It all jumped off the page at me. And then I was taken by the notion that gems may have as much provenance as DNA is establishing our identity. It’s an idea that bothers, like grit in a shoe.

The fourth stanza is unnerving in the way it sets up the body as fragile, pliant and flammable. I get an after image of an auto da fe. I have to say that I jumped to the conclusion that this was a Grenfell Tower poem. Ken told me that it predates Grenfell. But Grenfell becomes one more layer of meaning in a poem of layers and strata. It was this poem and Ken’s reading of it that made me ask him to be a guest and send me some more.

Maybe it’s because I’m fascinated by the narratives of early polar exploration that I chose the two that I did. Fire and ice.ice

Orange

(based on Mawson’s diary, Antarctica, 1912)

 

at the food depot, two oranges on a crate under

the tarp. i can’t eat, even though i crave them.

 

their colour avalanches in my eyes.

cocaine and zinc-sulphate for snow-blindness.

 

i love such men that would leave them here.

if I perish, i am my last photograph, bent-double

 

in a hundred-knot wind, snow flying

from my shovel, skating my tripod legs away.

 

our last husky ate her puppies, which is normal.

we boiled her friends, the paws being toughest.

 

snow-bridges cave-in, their thunder is company.

a petrel flew into my sled from nowhere.

 

young Metz raved and broke a tent pole.

‘veh,’ he said, dying in my blistered arms.

 

i hired him for his hilarious English accent.

a climber, glaciologist, i thought him an idler.

 

he soils himself, i need his sleeping bag.

i am too weak, no, too lonely, to bury him.

the yellow lips, the other colour in the landscape.

 

I chose this for the ‘voice’. Maskwearing is liberating, but it’s harder than it looks to find the rhythms of a ‘voice’ and to sustain them. I like the way the tone is set by two phrases

i thought him an idler / he soils himself,

the way they act like a tuning fork for the rest of the poem. How do you read this narrator? If you were an actor, how would you imagine him? A man impatient of weakness in himself and in others. Something of a moral snob, and determinedly stiff-lipped, laconic, sardonic.

our last husky ate her puppies, which is normal.

I love the way the two points of colour, the intensity of the orange, the sallowness of the yellow, seem to dazzle in a monchrome world  It’s a very painterly poem, this, and a carefully managed one. As is the last one for today which attends to the other narrative of  polar exploration; Scott and Shackleton and Amundsen have their heroic/tragic/triumphant/epic journeys. We remember them, the gallant frontline troops, and pay less attention to support systems that made their stories possible. We tend to forget the patient work that has to go on for months and months of no sun, no day. Which is why I chose this poem, for it’s shift of perspective, and I suppose, for the dark humour.

 

At the Amundsen-Scott Research Station

 

Night came months ago and stayed ever since:

the moon, not waxing or waning, hangs high,

a mothball in a corner of a dark cupboard,

constant as the wind, a feral pet we feed outside,

seal air-locks against to stop the rasping lick:

we know all our moods, better than our own faces

fractured in iced-up port-holes. Each day arriving

minus thirty-eight, wind-chill off the scale.

 

Our work is talk, sensitive in the silence to each

blip or whirr of our instruments, an exact spot

the needle touches on the dial of the jet-fuel

in our generator. We dream in half-tones,

our only sunset a screensaver, for memory.

After homemade-hooch (no blow at the Pole

to wipe minds white) and a series of box-sets,

we play a game of who we’d eat first if all else

 

fails. Irrationally, for a lab full of scientists,

the men say the women, the women, the men.

 

So, there you are. A day late, for which I’m sorry, but I hope you’ve enjoyed Ken Evans’ poems and voices as much as I have, and that you can’t wait to buy his book. As for next week….I don’t know yet. It’s probably the dark days and early nights. It’s good job I’ve never been sent to the Antarctic.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Cat’s Tail

(In 1923, Inuit Ada Blackjack is the only female – and lone survivor –  of an Arctic expedition, marooned for two years on Wrangel Island. Her wages were for medicine for her tubercular son.)

 

A shag of tobacco for the shaman:

‘beware of knives and fire.’ He may as well foretell ice,

air, for knives are currency here and fire, survival.

 

Shiann sniffs out fire with his moist nose, as his tail

to the sky predicts our storms; there is only

my own brown eyes for the flashing of knives.

 

Bears are plentiful and curious; we eat them,

the liver a shared delicacy, though the men say

too much makes for delirium.

 

Long nights we huddle together, under the skins

of the eaten. The men pay no regard to me.

Only blue-eyed John speaks to me like I’m no child.

 

Alone on the island, waiting for first snow

to block the gaps in our flotsam shack,

I sew against the unpicking fingers of the wind:

 

fur hoods for the anoraks, linings for our boots,

a sack to carry the wood we scavenge. I am given a Bible

for self-improvement. The stories terrify.

 

South, in Alaska, my boy is made better by me here,

he will have a white-man’s life in the capital.

I cry every night to cradle him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The men hear my moans and shrieks,

fear I’m possessed by spirits of the dead, polar bears,

whales, but here, I concentrate only on the living.

 

One skin at a time, warmth for the coming winter,

pelt after pelt, I stitch my way home, the smell of snow

in the clouds, a weight at our makeshift door.

 

We bet on which way Shianns’ tail points each night,

casting smooth pebbles from the frozen bay.

If my wager equals any man’s, John takes my side.

 

Words falling with the embers to a murmur,

we get under covers. I whisper to Shiann

not to shiver, and to follow the way of my eyes with his tail.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Buzzing

 

Fearing

this orange loses zing

as I unwind the peel,

that tea in my cup cools

before I can swallow,

that blood draws back

from my finger-nails

even as they uncurl;

that I never again smile

at sunshine in a room,

that a breeze at an open

window I place a chair

before, slides away.

Fearing

all the hours boil down

to one – the last

of a party in which

I do not ask the girl

to dance, my taste

for beer is unproven,

my legs won’t walk

her home before her mum

is due, I don’t take wing,

fly to her across the room

bumping

a window-pane, drowsily.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Vigilance

 

She climbs you

like a rope

to stand

on your head,

keeping hers

above the water.

a rope-burn

in your lungs

as you hold

your breath,

dive to hold

the thrashing limbs,

waltz her back

to the steps,

lay her out,

cover her lips

with yours,

your palms, pressed

flat, squeeze hard

on her rib–

cage, her legs slacken off

splay,

her outstretched

arms imploring.

you press harder

as you always

intended, willing her

to spew,

full of longing and failure,

a blue bruise

on her chest marking

your emergency.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Six Sisters of Mahabalipuram

(After the 2004 tsunami, six temples emerge offshore

near Chennai, Tamil Nadu, underwater for over a thousand years.)

 

A bell on a hill tolls lament, white hotels

upended in a black cave, their horizons

lost, air sucked from the tops of trees.

After the roar, an echo of prayers

in temples, hauled from the wave

that swallowed the sky, a hole left

in the ocean, a sea-garden of worship,

lost since the early-seventh century.

 

Even the lone shore temple, scoured

of guano, displays a new Ganesh

in one sparkling arch. Crowds shake

with awe at the boats on hills, rickshaws

in palms, a miracle of a sculpted elephant.

Six stupas poke from a new sea-bed,

the six sisters of the coast, the cries

of our unburied daughters, further out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shadow

 

Stretching back down the path,

a second-hand whirring round

my appointed hour.

 

A dragonfly hauling summer

like timber in a net

under a helicopter,

 

over a final ridge,

into a blue valley, an outline

wiped by a shower.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Swinging of Bells

 

A bronze flick of a belt, drawn through

his waist loops, a snake gripped,

fangs impotent. He smells warm

from the Audi, his nails uncut.

I lift my dress over my head,

naked as the day he held me in hospital,

church-bells hammer the metal hour.

 

Breathing hard for what’s coming next,

the burden of my daily portion, a tolling,

four seconds apart, of the bell’s

tongue, rolled back through the swing

of the pendulum. At every vibration

my window dimples, the reach

of his bare arm, in my bedside-light,

 

a plank brought down on an unwanted

farmyard litter. Afterwards, I move slowly,

though not so slow as to renew his interest,

leave by the gate to cool my back on graveyard

slabs, and smoke the stubs left between

the plots, by the now-departed grieving,

lighter-flame singes the hairs on my arm.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Incantation to a Rain Doll   

(‘teru-teru bozu’ is a ‘shining, bald monk’ – a homemade doll hung to ward off rain, familiar in Japanese nursery rhymes.)

 

White spots grow

on the clean linen

in a cupboard,

mould on bamboo-clips

of washing-lines,

the traffic-police wear

see-through

shower-caps, a queue

for umbrella-dryers

in the supermarkets.

 

Bright tissue doll,

hanging from my window,

call summer back to play,

fruit ripens in plum-rains,

but tomorrow, let it

shine on your dome-head,

your pale monk’s robes,

throw light like a lantern,

teru-teru bozu, holy sparks

to make sunshine.

 

I ring a golden bell

to call you out to dance,

Sake to dampen your skirts,

and godspeed you down

the river. Tomorrow,

our hoikuen picnic,

don’t call us back inside,

teru-teru bozu,

rain on our horizon,

means I snip off your head.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Promise, teru-teru bozu,

hanging from my bedroom sill,

and I’ll sketch-in eyes

to thank you, scribble

you a tongue to taste

our picnic-air, draw you

a nose to smell drying grass

beneath our woven rugs,

teru-teru bozu, my ghost-doll,

monk-man, egg-head.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Teaching Mum the iPad

A Japanese soldier shames his Emperor to emerge

from hide-out to the ‘70s of ‘Saturday Night Fever.’

A tribesman finds a Coke in the water, a red conch

hissing a warning as he raises it on an altar.

Mums’ finger swipes the screen, this swoosh

What her eighty-six years have evolved for,

All modernity a pointing digit, reserve lost

for a keyboard intoxicant of email alerts, offers.

Her scratchings in the electronic cave leave

her breathless, a nun eating popcorn,

stunned by a code she has entered. Regular meals

fall by the wayside, the TV glowers in a corner cupboard.

Someone in Turkmenistan wants children with her.

She is in need of translation. She needs to open her curtains,

where I am a snake-oil doctor selling bright bottles

with contents-free labels from the back of a wagon

 

on a dusty prairie. There is nothing in them

material, but a tiny click of hope.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Mother as Stricken Fighter-Pilot

 

she wants to go. she knows to go.

the bones in her rib-cage are parachute straps.

from a cockpit, she peers over each wing-tip,

wanting to press Eject, altitude arrived at,

to shoot from the fuselage into the stars.

anaphalactic shock, a reaction to penicillin.

a plume of words, mainly ‘please,’ flame

from her engine-cowlings to the diagnosticians.

‘Chemistry is about atoms and their valency.’

 

I grieve for her words, ‘let me go. let me go.’

the voice from a mission, a cloud-flitter

with nothing to lose after her fly-past over

the crash-site, smouldering in foreign woods.

no bright stairwell, no shaft of light. if anything,

a drop, the metal, guttering in her bloodstream,

jets below a horizon, a vapour-trail, lingers in

the blue. no Mayday, but her plea, for the nurse

to not pierce a new cap of adrenaline.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Silverfish

 

peaty light, a December afternoon,

the same seminar each Monday,

after three, knowledge on the desk

in piles. silverfish eat the starchy

glue of book-bindings. I’m chewing

over a thing I read, and this being

university, people are polite, till you,

backlit like a moody 70s album cover,

break the tedium, silver hair a metaphor

I step into without self-consciousness.

 

the tutor suggests a tea-break.

my heart is not in a tea-bag and silverfish

are not silver, nor even fish. my heart

is beating lumps out of my head; stupid

to think you share a similar angle,

our ironies are different; foolish

to suppose I pan-handle your thoughts,

but I feel something creepy-crawly on the skin

like silverfish, who live for years in the sugary

crevices of books, tiny, undisturbed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tracks of the Ninja

 

The snowboard

a finish-line

beneath his feet

he can chase

but not

outstrip

 

a crow-hood

dark mask

breathable skin

lime flashes

underarm

kingdom of stamping feet

 

a shallow-breathing Ninja

 

mokuhanga:

one poison-frog

on his shoulder

to help in his battle

with the snow-serpent

wrapping the world

in a skin of crystal

 

trapper    benefactor

rock-hugger   winning

every game of

‘Rock

Paper

Scissors’

in a smother of white

 

enforcer

 

 

 

 

 

Ninja      meditating on

arc

curve

trajectory

a pebble skipping a frozen lake

small shifts

of knee, ankle, calf

the laconic bird-eye

kuro-kiri, the invisible one, shrinks

to a tiny dot

the stillness at his centre

schussing to the end

of the page

full stop

 

he flies

morphs

loses the property of friction

slides

through fallen fences of white

the moguls of the mind

 

a frog-hopper foaming-up cuckoo-spit

a Ninja from a woodblock

in a mind-game

with the snow

now you see me

                            now you don’t

 

at the base

of the run

captured swords

of snow

rattle

in his fists

shake

down

to his boots

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Fire

 

I lie when I say

the deepest flame

is blue, that air

doesn’t thicken

where you walk,

that I don’t cherish

the dent you leave

in my sofa.

 

That light can’t shine

through the helix

of your ear, that you

don’t stir applause

when you tidy your hair

above your brow; if I say

your eyes are blue, I’m lying

again. They are smoke.

 

If I say I’m not fixated

on your red toes

in those cork heels,

I lie more, and the way

whatever you say

is perfectly tuned

to a pitch I lean

forward into.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I lie too, about needing

protection,

when my only defence

is to fall hard and see

what the dirt kicks up;

pressed flat to earth,

winded, you draw

a finger round me .

 

I lie, I lie, because

what I want to say is,

things burn most blue,

where the mix is richest,

flame blackens further

the soot-print of older

fires, now tar-cooled.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Raising a Family

 

Uber stickers on taxis airbrushed in billows

of pavement breath; trams at Piccadilly clink,

their gentle, playground toot of horns.

Late-night shoppers, lit by windows, step-over

the hard barter of the homeless. Gallery pillars

guard a war collection, beside bars filled

with a weekend crowd, the music and cinema

of today, and laughter, recalled down the years

in the turning-circle of a growing family,

a tyre-tread in soft grass, undusted space

between small picture-hooks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fatherhood

 

You are funny they say, heavy with the irony,

as you repeat the old jokes that were repeated

on you, the one’s you swore you would never,

 

like where you offer a handshake, only to tweak

their nose between your thumb and forefinger

at the final second – hilarious? Never,

 

yet still you try and still they fall for it, allow

your smudge of silliness, the child indulging

the parent, and you, never

 

clear as to your role – grown-up, jokester, father –

yet susceptible to the DNA of a warm family,

haloed and revered – you promise never,

 

this time, really never, to pass on the old jokes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dr. No has a Superpower

(‘situs inversus’, the condition of being born with the heart and other vital organs reversed.)

 

Dr. No lives on,

his heart unfound,

right of centre,

SMERSH’s boss,

born back to front

 

like Donny Osmond.

I, too, an invert, mirror-

image of one

I see in the cranny

of an eye, my blood

 

splashing back,

as I rise from

between the identical

twins of my knees,

to see a double

 

pacing, the shadow-equal

of my first step, a ripple

from a wide-flung pebble,

a ring of Saturn, an aura

of the original.

 

If a reflection, a simulacrum,

the wrong-way cast,

grant me just this: the ghostly

superpowers of the inside-

out: to crack, and shatter

 

and be made whole,

to hate, then fall in love,

to die in war, reincarnate

in the peace, to eat a way

back to a full appetite.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To be opposite:

have lots of sex, then know

nothing about it.

Experience, then lose

it all to innocence,

 

to forget,

then pick colours

out in a higher-res.,

enjoy my pension

before I work,

 

meet mum before I kick,

save dad from

early symptoms,

his hand in my hand,

a perspiring bird.

`

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is Your Flight Attendant

 

In the event of an emergency a poem will drop

from the compartment above your head.

Place over your ears, breathe normally.

Read your own poem first before attending

to the poem of the person reciting next to you.

Familiarise yourself with the poem’s exits.

In an emergency, adopt the braced poet position,

ready to declaim when pressed. If you smell smoke,

kneel and follow the line of light poems in the aisle.

During turbulence, do not release your poem.

Do not leave your seat, even to perform verse.

Turn off all electronic poems including lap-poems.

Under your seat you will find an inflatable poem

to slip over your head. Pull on the punctuation to inflate.

For more metaphor, use the mouth-piece. Blow hard.

Thanks for listening to the safety poem.

The bar opens in ten minutes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On Arrival

in a blue bolt-hole, subbed-down to what fits

in an overhead locker. Left behind, paces I won’t take

between cloudy, bedroom walls,

the uncomprehending face of a vibrating mobile,

keys to ignitions I will not turn,

A contact I won’t contact.

 

My shirt, a burst of enthusiasm, bought by delay

in the lounge, and the dark glasses behind which a film plays

of the hatch opening out, to an egg-shaped light.

I advance up the aisle, step into a sunny yoke

spreading hot across the tarmac.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Behind the Liquid Petroleum Tank

 

Unlovely. A part I never go. Beyond

the mower’s manoeuvres and too tight

for the swing of a scythe, wilded

by stinger and bramble, blue calendula,

the grass overrun by moss.

 

One Sunday, I commit. Heavy gloves,

old jacket, newly-sharp secateurs.

A flat football with a map of Wales,

from any number of holidays

when it could have been wet.

 

A water-gun with faded Star Wars,

the one, if you aimed too close,

sprang tears from an outraged face.

Summer days of militarism. A sock,

blown from the line by a gust.

 

Sweet-papers, silver as the bright day

they came unwrapped. A digger-truck

with deflated tyres. One pair of your

mother’s knickers, if memory serves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Pole of Inaccessibility

(the furthest point from any landfall is known

as the Third Pole, and is located in the Southern Pacific Ocean)

 

Nothing comes in or out, even the wind

is a trespass, the sun barely tolerated,

a single press-up swallowed each day

beneath a bright muscle-tone of ocean.

Numerics in the jug of an eye, emptying

at 48 degrees, 52 minutes, 6 seconds South

123 degrees, 23 minutes, 6 seconds West:

long notation for loneliness.

 

A grid reference failing to describe the reach

of a glass door onto a porch, a gateway

to a vestibule, giving way to an atrium,

a threshold further opening to a chamber

domed by overflowing, liquid cupolas,

thin-glaze vaults over blue marble corridors,

ground and gyred, where eyeless tribes

enjoy their vapid, deep Heaven.

 

Only the waves, rinsing the silver, discarded

panels of left-over spaceships, slap at the silence:

no shout of land, and the taut rigging of the mind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Jesus with the Hammered-In Wings

 

Jesus is the kind of man you warn your kids about,

in that likeness at the entrance

of the Iglesia de San Juan Bautista.

 

Metal rods have hammered in three wings

to his statue-head, lending Him a look

of lobotomised surprise:

 

‘The Lord Ascending’, is his title,

with stare-through eyes and a gilt-edged robe

no ordinary fisherman would be seen dead in.

 

In a front pew, two women in the black

cardigans of God’s eldest, chat

with lately-departed relations.

 

Their knight-errant husbands in the square

sit in shade, canes out straight before them

like broken lances under a palm-canopy.

 

Hidden chanting on a loop raises the tone

suddenly, as I stare up to the perfect tongue

and groove of the Canary Pine ceiling,

 

the eggshell blue of the altar, the same

as the priest’s shirt, ironed by a doting parishioner

one cuff still damp from testing font water.

 

This need I feel to reduce and distance,

but still a clannish urge to feel the wet

lick of the familial, to belong with people

 

 

 

 

 

 

who share their last inch of palm-sap

from the shelf, ‘tree honey’, to sweeten

green bananas; islanders

 

who, with work scarce since The Crisis, shrug

at seeing their own fire service start forest fires

to keep in jobs and help their brothers and uncles

 

in the Construction business; for it is not God’s

work the fire starts in three places at once,

nor His will that after the blackening,

 

the green arches of laurasilva collapse. If He

is here at all it is in the straggled ash hanging

from charred trees, the blast of unforgiving

 

heat that swerves, last-minute, melting a boy’s

plastic slide and tractor in the garden to bright,

Dali-esque coins, but which miss his mother’s house

 

inexplicably: the village sky orange for days, a terrace

of prickly-pears soaking up flames; beyond, the blue

fire-break of ocean, and birds overhead, fixed to thermals.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Paradise Wharf

 

Rats bursting their skins, raindrops splat

the grey slabs brown, channel in gutters

with their brux and boggle. Under the eaves,

an umbrella hugs a plague-free piece

of pavement. Drenched, I shout,

‘’Scuse me!’ From under metallic flowers,

a voice says, ‘Hey, share my umbrella.’

 

Tall, in logo’d t-shirt and work-lanyard,

he’s grace, Barbadian, a Facilities Manager

at Bridgewater Hall. I apologise for the weather,

an Englishman.  ‘Oh, it’s pretty Caribbean –

for the rainy season.’ ‘How far are you going?’

I ask the rat-catcher, Pied Piper:

‘To the first bridge on the Ashton Canal. You?’

 

Rats jump my feet, their tails lash my brogues:

‘Just round the corner.’ I would like to walk more,

stay and watch a woman re-apply her lip-stick

in liquefying glass; the saxophonist in a doorway,

the brass bell of his music making a clatter

of our reflections, but home is a fridge singing

a capella, the up and down scales of an old boiler.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Brian Cox Says

 

By a tilt of my head, the beech leaves

outside my window become my son’s legs

at a bus-stop by the market; a slow lope,

too hot to walk quickly with a rucksack:

a gust of wind lifts a stall-holder’s canopy,

 

shakes me from myself. The cat’s ears

of a full black bin-liner, in a corner of the yard

and my eye. Turning left, sun dissolves light

on birch-bark striated like snake-skin,

the leaves, movements of a flicking tongue.

 

Brian Cox on TV says, ‘The world is beautiful

to look at, even more beautiful to understand.’

I keep listening, as a sprinkler tamps the lawn,

each swing tightening the sky a ratchet,

the blue, snappable glass.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Regimental Learning of the Great Stupendo

 

I am, in truth, a duck. Aged eleven,

the stop-clock of my feet are set

at ten-to-two, flat as the earth,

pacing a corrective, white horizon,

aiming for one minute to midnight,

or a straight-up noon,

ankle-bones in perfect line.

 

I tread the rule, curling toes round

the tiny hold I exert, tramping

tramlines of a badminton court,

light from floor-to-ceiling glass,

gym wall-bars drip cold sweat,

a smell of damp towels, of being

uncomfortable in my own skin.

 

As I trim to the teachers’ regimen,

I dream I am The Great Stupendo,

high-wire artist, pink toes

on the parquet, shorn of pumps,

red bite-marks on my stomach

from the elastic of PE shorts,

the whiff of socks, confinement.

 

For half an hour after school,

straight as the Romans would have us,

The Great Stupendo learns poise, balance,

anger; his feet with a mind of their own,

walk the wire. He flings his uniform

over his failings, feet out-splayed,

His fight back, zig-zagging, home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eating a Nut

 

no pale seed of Brazil,

lanugo of chestnut,

processed cheese of almond,

tan cranium of walnut,

no morsel of hazelnut,

but solid steel,

a polished hexagon,

ferrous in the mouth,

to bite on a thread, a nut

without a bolt – this is what he ate –

 

not to impress the girls

(for none were there)

but because he thought

he might, for the fizz

of the unquenchable

on his tongue, the gulp

as he leaps the top-board

where the improbable happens:

how he shat metal

and winked a silver-eye from the mire.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Advice on Men’s Shirts

 

Always wear the shirt of a late-teen

in your family, for a fabric-softening

of youth, their single crease of resolve,

the pheronome-stink of confidence.

 

Wear it for a slimmer fit, the sark

veneer of promise, a chemise

of dare and trust, marking all your

time significant and armour-plated.

 

Wear buttons undone, the sides

billowing in a breeze, gathering

heat through the arms, light

seeping through an insects’ wing.

 

Wear it for the crackled static

from a tumble-dryer’s planet,

the force-field of magnetised

hairs, a risen valley-mist.

 

Wear the collar up or down,

enjoy a pinch at the Adam’s apple,

the blood-nicks of rushed shaves,

cutting away to a hurried, next thing.

 

Leave the cuffs untied,

sleeves rolled or down, whichever.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jet-lag in Ocean Gardens

A sail tacks into what yesterday was Friday

and is again, today. A cedar gazebo has carved

human heads on beaver tails, a salmon swallow frogs,

a bear has a mosquito between his legs. This means

something to me, if I could stop to think.

By the fountain, there’s a grey lintel engraved in Latin:

Tuum est, ‘It is yours.’ Out on Salish Sea,

seaplane taxis buzz English Bay:

grey ocean and clouded sky blur, no shoreline

between where one ends and where one ends.

In the Museum of Anthropology, we acknowledge

we are on First Nations’ land, a concession;

like the snapper as he steps across my view

of the ocean, holding up his Nikon by way of apology.

My sight-line arrested, scuffs the slide-show

of white light over Greenland, playing in my head.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her News

 

The small of her back presses

for the cooler touch of the bed,

the piping on a mattress-edge,

 

her horizon. Blue waves of sheets

twist, uncoil, a sound in her rib-cage

as regular and startling as blood

 

in the mouth from washing her teeth.

This ocean, like a discussion of fearfulness,

becomes self-perpetuating, roils

 

with the energy of everyone not sleeping

this hot August night. I reach across

the bedside table, knocking over a lamp.

 

In a dim-lit aquarium, creatures

fix their grins on the equatorial groove

in the white pill I’m trying to resist,

 

rested on the book she has lent me

to read, upon hearing her news.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Light-box Therapy

A white moon in the living room, though our sky is a dark igloo,

carved from blocks of cumulus. This way for days. No thaw.

 

The light-box on the desk pours dappled enthusiasm on her,

a sleep-walker climbing a stairwell in a glow of D vitamins.

Blue wavelengths invite shallow bathing on their ascending steps.

Our black cat, who knows a thing or two about light, sprints upstairs

 

to our bedspread, seeking our old radiance. This false Spring,

my wife reborn in a new heat-spot, half-blind, illuminated.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Red Trouser Suit

 

Girls stare in white, knee-high, pereline socks,

black patent leather shoes and baggy cardigans.

Unbuttoning a full-length trench coat, I sashay

between Hillman Imps and new Marinas

in a staff car-park, scarlet-red polyester

bell-bottoms hug my hips, platform-boots

clacking on asphalt, matching carmine jacket

with epaulettes: sunshine on a months’ wages.

 

I feel like Carole King, the pixie-look, though, is pure

Lulu. A sprouting of sixth-formers on a wall shout,

‘Groovy, miss,’ unsure in their blazers. Mr. Castle

patrols, a dinner-guest from ‘The Irresistible Charms

of the Bourgeosie,’ showing at the Compton Cinema.

I go with a man in thirty-inch flares, who believes socialism

inevitable: even kids demo-ing against uniforms and caning.

With a Postgrad. Cert. in Education, I’m a woman

of work, a flame-red trouser-suit sensation.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Soundtrack

 

Men from the flat below are making love, companionably:

the sound like watching Netflix on a laptop, the screen

between their touching knees and hips, one glancing

at the other, to check they’re catching all the series’ in-jokes;

groans too, for a far-fetched sub-plot, nonetheless raising

a smile of recognition in both of them,

together, for an instant.

Or maybe it’s the football

they’re tuned to, and one, more knowing, grunts perceptive

comment on line-ups and tactics, that the other feels worth

repeating, in a lower register of pleasure. They follow

every pass in their stomachs, feel the kick inside

each hair on their soft rears, their perfect touch

receiving, passing back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Asleep inside the Elephants’ Ear

 

Inside the elephant ear of night, I crawl

the long tunnel of a mastodon; her ear-hairs

 

bristle, big as acacia, thorned with ticks.

I feel my way by a pulsing light from her heart:

 

grass-breath fills the lungs, squeezes me against

the warm bars of her rib-cage, high-arching

 

as a parish church. Heaving the charged

information-gathering of the hairs aside,

 

I see red veins through the thinning grey

of the ears, an imaginary dawn, but the hours

 

only continue along their trunk-swinging

lumber, under the elephant eyes of the stars.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Litter-picking on the Heights of Abraham

 

A tiny brain of chewed gum lifts from the path, giving a soft, elastic tug

to my yellow litter-picker. In name-badge and blue overalls, I happy

myself in detritus.

 

From the rubbish, fag-butts splay tobacco starfish at my feet.

Sweet wrappers, the sequin lashes of a drag-artist, wink

at me from dewy hedges.

 

Torn crisp packets skip silver creases across the Viewing Platform.

The rural from here is just breezy 3-D amazement, sunshine like hot ketchup

on new arrivals, bare out from the cable-car.

 

A souvenir necklace: I do not turn it in to Lost Property, but bag it for the compressor. The call, later, met with a blank: ‘No, we found nothing

of value, I’m afraid.’

 

In this control-group of a failed experiment, the blue bottle-tops are placebos:

litter is magic mushrooms, multiplying in my eye; the more I pick, the more is

made known to me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Minette

after Pissarro’s portrait of his daughter, known as ‘Minette’ (1873), Ashmolean Museum, Oxford.

 

Two years from now, she’s dead.

You can’t unknow this. Your eye

is compromised. You can’t view

the scene without thinking the wood-burner

in the background is a thunderhead cloud

swelling at a horizon. A window, off left,

opens on a garden where if she were well,

she could play in the sunlight. On the gallery

wall, a plaque announces her recent future:

 

  1. This fact waits in the frame, virally.

The fan in her hands is ghostly, a worm-hole

through which time crawls, a void in the canvas,

three-quarters turned, her stocking-legs

under tiny knees and a black school-shift.

Shy in her condition, she doesn’t confront –

not physically – but that eye is huge,

disproportionate, staring out, white pigment

advancing in accusation, or admonition.

 

I wonder about her father, the painter.

Does he build her layers with the cool-eyed

stare of art or the essential pain of family?

So much vulnerability, a desire to perfect,

take her suffering, fix forever her image on canvas.

We are all in this, witness to a beauty so tender,

slight, the wooden legs of the chair buckle under

an impossible weight, the claw-feet of the burner

bearing down on her, flames warming.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunshine on my way to Work

 

we are congruent   sliding doors   soft kissing

of rubberised light   we meet   a pursing

sweet consonance   between two transparencies

converging    the pavement tips   to pivot point

 

conjoining   elision   calving   cellular

marbled angles   separating

among pavement footfall   her perfume   a cloud

in a shop-front   her coffee   an upper lip

 

light snow   on a road sign   I am too old

she’s young   even for my son’s   partner

though something   of her   lingers   her smile

a query   clouding   formless

 

unforced   we slip   the light of    opposing generations

I have one thought   only   to talk to her   not about

her job   the brother   she’s never   joining   in Australia

the father   who turns up   only   in January

 

I don’t wish to talk about   her   housing ladder

her continuing   professional   development

where she may be   five years from   this juncture

this pavement   it’s not   my business   or interest

 

to speculate   nor conjecture   say to her   forty years

clearing   the frozen fjord of work    with a trowel

means thickets in front of her   the fact   she will   not recall

why she was here   why this   was a job   was important

 

I would   just once   this being   the sixth time

we cross paths at 8:44   on our   divergent   paths

like her smile   like a fish    to rise   from depths

splash a tail   on the surface    lift   my eyes

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Walk to the Beach at Ty Newydd

 

A bridge carries the single railtrack,

curling round the coast from Criccieth.

I duck under the swamp smell, a portal

 

to a far side, where purple willow-herb,

thrashed down by legs before mine,

shake flickering buttercups.

 

Fresh-mown silage, samphire spoil:

stare in those heaps without sneezing

long as you might, they yield no light.

 

Cloud-shoals on the Rhinogs,

the sea, a blue saucepan shine,

heading south into Cardigan Bay.

 

An oyster-catcher on pink legs,

stabs a beak in the oily syrup.

The bubbled braids of sea-wrack,

 

a lost tribe, up to their tonsured brows

in sand, worked at by lugworms, who turn

the bracelets for a tidal arm to wear,

 

wash off, and wear again. I read men’s

suicides’ spike in the Spring: they cannot

stand a world that gets by, well enough,

without them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Denim 

 

His wife, matter-of-fact: ‘For you,’

she says in Norwegian, ‘You’re almost

his size.’ A neat pile of faded denim,

 

his wardrobe at the wake. A flashback

to his love for Albania’s Hoxha,

a pill-box on every beach, turrets out-facing:

 

heated nights on the merits of the Bowie

of Thin White Duke compared to Ziggy.

Our impasse, over Abba, which should

 

never even have been a debate,

let alone a running sore, the dialectic

of ‘Knowing Me, Knowing You,’ Ah ha.

 

The last you’d think, to force his mates

together like this, an invite we can’t refuse,

led via his gym-bag, the stop on the tram

 

after the ski-jump; kids finding him

on take-off, the blank downcast

stare of his forlorn, brown soles.

 

A ship-chandler’s rope;

a scaleable tree, a single branch

his launch-pad,

 

wirey hair girls ran fingers

through in the Union bar, just

for the hell. His striped jumper –

 

Dennis the Menace – the half

comic, feet-first plunge, branches

thrashing as they flash by,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a plan kept so close, its’ momentum

only now reaches through me,

as I breathe the worn marks he leaves

 

in denim, his flight-knees straight for lift,

bending for the perfect landing, to crash

through our teary pub window, friends

scattering like glass, caught in his hair.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Listening Below

 

Earphones earthed to a field,

dial-up a past that’s engaged,

or gone to Voicemail; a blip,

a halo-sound from magnetite,

hematite, the iron in the ground.

 

Not for the golden handful of soil,

a swing of the pendant, metal arm,

but for the second before the lip

takes the hook, and chooses

bullion, or ring-pull, or a nail.

 

Not for the money, or glory,

listening only for something more

than an incline of our own

breathing, the pleasure a fish

feels on breaking the surface.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At the Amundsen-Scott Station

 

Night fell months ago and stayed ever since;

Not waxing nor waning, the moon is up

as it has been for a month, a mothball hung

in a far corner of a cupboard, constant

as the wind, that feral pet we try to feed

outdoors and not let in. We know all

its’ moods, better than our own

fractured faces in an iced-over window.

 

Minus thirty-eight, wind-chill off the scale,

we talk of work, how our instruments blip

and whirr, the place of the needle on a dial

in the jet-fuel of our generator. Our dreams

crowd with colour, the sunset a screensaver

we open to remember. At the end of a box-set,

we play a game of who we eat first. Unscientifically,

men want to eat the women; the women, the men.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Getting a Grip

 

well into the bombing of old cities

 

soon after a baby is an ashtray for his father

 

close to when the girl is found strangled

 

the time of severed heads on battlements,

 

as a daughter lies in chains in a cellar

 

rebels throw expectant mothers down wells

 

almost to the day countries are rubbled

 

precisely when shooters stalk the mall

 

the moment of toxins laid in playgrounds,

 

bloody garrotings on the wi-fi,

 

I write in order to avoid the terrifying

 

and this is what gets met with horror: poetry!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Second-Hand

 

That red spine I’d know anywhere.

squeezed in a shelf, a slap on a cheek,

The bold, white font of the title,

in the second-hand section of Blackwell’s:

my tutor’s collection, not remaindered,

half-price, returned and stickered, hidden,

segregated from first-timers: empty,

embarrassed as a bedroom knock.

 

She being here, Guardian-garlanded, says there’s

no hope, to the ticking wires of my heart. The white flash

of pages, not dog-eared, no coffee-marks, the final indignity,

not even well-read. The spine broken, extracting

marrow. With an eye to the sales assistants

at the check-out, a finger peels away the yellow,

sad disclosure, undoing the confession. I find the right

section, the ascendant line of her belonging, slide

her in, at face value, between Auden, Larkin, the others.

 

In the café over cake and coffee, the solace of etymology.

The long reach of Latin ‘mundas’, rolls choral centuries

to arrive at ‘mund’ in Old English, to mean palm,

but also protection. There’s some redress to be had by this,

even a small recompense: there’s her hand,

my duelling second, as an assist.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Daily Ablutions

 

A slew of wet toilet-roll on the shiny floor,

a seeping between my sole and leather-upper.

I blame students who I’ve seen here, thinking

it’s a laugh, when I see the Adidas Gazelle’s

between the silver taps on the basin, a roll

of socks, a right-leg raised, a foot on the side

of the porcelain, lathering and caressive;

his toes, pulled by stroking hands, are red

nipples rising from the hot-tap. I’m looking

 

and pretending not to, as when someone shakes

drips from their cock beside me, the profane

and prayerful. I can’t pee and washing my hands

feels simulated. He gulps at the spout, my own

ablutions on hold, and with no god to go to. He slips

the shoes on he’ll leave by the bare cupboard

given over for prayer. At the door, half-ajar,

I pass by to where I scroll the hymn-numbers

of HTML, afraid the holy walls will bounce-back

the light, as magnolia.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

How Not to See Bears

A butterfly opens and shuts on petals of Indian Paint Brush

the colour of burnt shoulders. Light and a waterfall

topple through Alberta firs. The stream cools with sound alone.

The Parks’ Advice is clear:

Walk in groups of four or more.

Talk to let them know you’re near.

The forest floor is pine-damp, animated by midges. Thirty steps away

a bear brakes on her haunches, recoiling on sight of us on furred,

hydraulic legs, a dense animal stockade.

The Parks’ Advice is simple for when you meet:

Say ‘Hey bear! Use a low soothing voice. Lift your walking poles, look

non-aggressive.

She lifts her head, sniffs our insignificance. For three tall seconds

her cinnamon ruff shakes pollen from a moist snout. She has our heat,

our beating sides. Birds unstick themselves from trees.

The Parks’ Advice is stark:

Make yourself big with rucksacks. Retreat slowly

don’t make eye contact.

We tread back, damned by snapping twigs, a roll of rocks.

That quivering snout out of sight, we run, white-watering on adrenaline, crash

through bush, gash legs on logs. Enter the needle silence of the dark.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fresh rain drips from wild raspberries. We damn the moss that squelches under boots.  That noise we bend to hear, alert as bugs, is not her stamping feet, but our hearts seeking a back way out of our ribcage.

The Parks’ Advice is harsh: if a defensive attack, fight back; if aggressive, curl up, play dead. Once they know you’re no threat…

Water over rock, diminishes, rises, as if someone is flipping a dial up and down, to play with us. We realise it is not sound but distance we are listening for, not her. We pause, turned meek deer by half an hour lost in woods.

 

The noise builds, recedes. We stumble into a clearing where the sound converts to wet tyres swishing the tarmac as they roll by, pushing spray up the road, a silver shot of SUV flashes between the spruces.

Reprieve. We flag the next car coming, apologise

for bloodying their baby-seat, our dirty boots on their picnic-cooler,

and wonder at beautiful faces in the dark.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the donor loses conviction a minute

 

the consultant surgeon: ‘you can still say ‘No,’

even on the trolley to theatre. your call.’

I can’t,

to eyes in sealed windows boring through me

I can’t

to my haunted other self    even now

high-tailing

from the scene                                        I can’t

 

throwing a shirt back on seconds ago flung off

I can’t   down two floors in the mirrored lift

I can’t   reversing from the hospital car-park

I can’t   back through the one-way system

I can’t   in silence   questions pounding

I can’t   home to home-made breakfast

I can’t

Then   you    sister    lying    waiting   patiently

on your own   scalpel     saying      nothing

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Red Axe

 

We pool our unhappiness

to halve it

this will to a tenderness

an ingress

to our mutual deficiencies.

you enter here

lay mirrors

in my footprints

a double negative

obsidian

inlaid with grit

shadows thicken

white lawn

slant light

bare handle

red axe

tight   white   knuckles   grip

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

1976

 

I remember gobbing contests at the busstop after school   the gob dried before the bus pulls-in   chalkslugtrail   ‘76 I say    im 86   she says   Cataracts Angina Heart Attack Hips (both) Cancer (breast)   walkings a problem bloods a problem breathings a problem    the mole on her face is not a problem   benign hiphooray   butbyandlarge   life   is a   problemfullstop    seethrough box of drugs big as a spaceship keeps her in orbit    sometimes   she puts her footdown   zooms   to UrsaMinor   andback   in the time it takes to forget tomorrow   which arrives early to her mind   you cannot explain tomorrow is tomorrow to someone who says it is today   she says you’re funny   quizzicallook   like I’m pulling her leg that doesn’t work alongwitheverybloody thingelsegodgaveher    we forget   to mention   theoneissue   forgetfulness   haha    shes funnynamediseases   enough   yet   more die of heartbreak   said saul bellow   how wrong was he   very mum   whats that    HESVERYWRONGMUM   Oh   do you remember that summer   she says    she says tarmac in the high street melted    theysoldoutofRibena  at the cornershop   youre that SimonandGarfunkelThe Boxer song I say   hum   inaclearingstandsa boxer   andafighterbyhistrade   andhecarries   theremindersofeveryglovethatlaidhimlow   she sings and sings   why do I laugh when she sings when my heartisbreaking   when she sings shes   bloody lucid   for manyseveralseconds    click click click    her dental plate on the high notes

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Headphones off on the No. 6 Mango Bus to Bakewell

 

‘I dreamt Voldemort sent me to jail

for wearing Air Max Nike’s. What am I like?

 

My hair straighteners come off Amazon

in time for Gary’s party. I row with him,

 

he brings cider as a peace-offering. I nearly

chuck it back. He’s nice, though, Gary. No, he

 

never hit me with that recorder, that was Tilly.

He only did me with the back of his hand, thank god.

 

That new dinner-lady looks like that Indian off

‘One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest,’ don’t you reckon?

 

you wouldn’t ask her for more chocolate custard

unless you were desperate, would you?

 

I was born with two thumbs. I had to have an operation.

I told people the scar was where a shark bit me,

 

we lived in Brighton then, it seemed more realistic,

the sea an’ that. I should’ve put my job application in

 

today. I don’t want the job, but an interview’s an

interview, I reckon. I missed the deadline. Here’s my stop.’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Ineluctable Rise of the Forward Slash

 

‘We’re open 247’: much depends

on a forward slash. 911 is a US

emergency, 9/11, a crisis of the West.

A step-change as big as from him/her

to s/he  – delete what’s n/a.

It’s in the c/o your editor/mentor:

do they want apples and/or

pears? Three obliques equal blushes/

embarrassment in Manga. HTML slashes

to separate directories/ files, or to make

commands/closing text. Meanwhile,

our hyphens rust on the sea-floor, hulls

snapped, emitting the bubbles of a lost semaphore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Bus from Hammersmith Hospital

 

Clouds switch sunlight through the stain-glass

windows in the hospital chapel, from sweet-shop

red to a bold-tongued blue. In the Remembrance

Book at the back, Jean, a sister, is written-in,

with the careful notation of grief:

‘We only got to know you the last few years, love Edith,

your sister, and Harold, your brother-in-law.’ As if being

dead is like dementia, they stop knowing you. The pulpit

waits on a chaplain, who is hosting an atmosphere

at somebody’s bedside, an audition in hope.

 

Two Chinese women slip change from their laps

through their rimpled fingers, their Dad leaving them

by slow fractions. Coins for the bus-driver who knows

their stop. ‘How is he?’ the driver says. ‘Better, thank you.’

They have their fare, exact, each time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Next Thing Happening Is

piss hoarded in jars, bar-coded and passed to strangers.

A kind of self-harming, this submission to the demands of an invasive op.,

weeks of tests, stripping away of cannulae, red hairless forearms.

New words, all Greek: enoxaparin, nephrectomy, creatanines,

medical stuff. No-one mentions the ‘what ifs’? That one chance, yes,

however remote, that this donor, ill-starred, won’t make it back.

The surgeon says, ‘I’ve only ever lost one,’ the stiletto-man’s gallows humour.

All I can think is, it must happen again – do the math!  So I joke with the kids

 

ask instead what they had for tea tonight, who they played football against,

how frequent are the buses back, and did they get their homework done?

 

For who, in truth, wouldn’t want this – brushing the fringe from my youngest’s eyes,

the red sand in a Saharan wind turning the sunset vermillion?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

2017 seemed about the hybridisation of language and cultural re-versioning of histories of Sioux Nation poet, Layli Long Soldier, the Farsi-Persian borrowings and re-inventions of Kaveh Akbar and of course, Ocean Vuong. If I tired of being too far over the ocean with North Americans, there was the ferry-hop Irish voices of McCarthy, Mahon, Carson, Grennan and O’Donoghue; or in Scotland, Claire Askew, John Glenday and Burnside.

 

I’ve a full collection with Eyewear due in Summer 2018, and the poems featured are all from the book, ‘True Forensic.’ I hope to launch in Manchester, and see you there!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Just do it

nike_003

I’m aiming for a short post today. We’ll see.

I’m 75 tomorrow. This comes as something of a shock. Or, alternatively, as just a number. I prefer the alternative. However, I’ve come to acknowledge in the last couple of years that there are things I could do that I can’t do any more, or as well, or for as long. Physical things. As my joints grow more crumbly I can’t do hill walks that I could do five years ago. For a time, this made me very resentful and cross and bad-tempered and sorry for myself.

When that happens, you need to stand back and take stock. Like Ivan Denisovitch, with his own brand of practical Epicureanism; an audit of the things you have that could be taken away. Counting your blessings, I suppose. What happens is that I remind myself that though I can’t do what I did five years ago, physically I can do twenty times more than I could do fifteen years ago. Because ten years ago, I had new hips fitted.

Ten years ago, I didn’t write many poems, and the ones I wrote were not worth anyone’s attention. Five years ago I put my mind to it and determined to do something about it. Don’t ask me why, because I’m not precisely sure, but the thing is that essentially, I followed the exhortation of that Nike advert. Just do it. Whatever it is, do it, as well as you can. Don’t put it off, don’t make excuses, don’t talk yourself out of it. Just do it. And then keep on doing it. It’s really that simple. So why don’t we?  Metaphor time.

StephDavisSoloOuterLimits

If you’ve never done any rock climbing, this will look amazing, and remote and mad. And in any case, your senses may have been blunted by CGI images, and it won’t seem that remarkable. On the other hand, we all understand the business of height and of falling, and conclude that it’s all very well but not for the likes of us.

If you’ve just started rock climbing and got the bug, you might just dream of doing something like this amazing woman does with apparent ease. You can come to dream of it, you start to read about climbs and routes and lines, you start pushing your limits. And you hit a point when you know that’s it. You’ve hit your technical or physical limits. With me it was a combination of those and vertigo.

What do you do? You can keep pushing till you do something disastrous. Or you can be unhappy and resentful because you realise you’re not going to get better, and you’ll never do what the superstars do so (apparently) easily. You know you can’t do it. ‘It’ being defined what you can’t do.

Or you serenely face up to the fact that you never could have done ‘it’, but you certainly can do some of it. You know what it feels like, the pull of gravity, the cold of stone, the moments when you felt invulnerable, standing on a big safe ledge high up, above the world. I tried to catch that in a poem : Seen from above

 

“……that time, belayed high up on Gimmer Crag

we watched a tiny Mini puttering up the Langdale road.

It missed the sharp left turn, and, with a tinkling of stone,

ran slap into the boundary wall. There was a little plume of steam.

We smiled. Above us in the quiet, a kestrel hovered;

sheep coughed, and cropped.

Distance takes away all difficulty.”

 

It was that feeling of godlike irresponsible superiority that I could feel on even an ‘easy’ climb…this one being Holly Tree Traverse, which probably only counts as a scramble these days. Or, in Scotland, a walk. Still, I chanced my arm with a metaphor [climbing/writing] so I’ll push on. I can remember beginning.

climbing 2

I can remember the clumsiness with dealing with the gear, the ropes, the slings. All that. And eventually the clumsiness grew less. You get better if you practise. You remind yourself how far you’ve come, and if you want to stay sane, you stop worrying about the superstars, and you do what you can. You just do it. And who, knows, you might just get better.

The thing is, you won’t get better if you keep mediocre company. You learn from the company you keep. The fact that I can’t climb up vertical ice walls doesn’t stop me from enjoying the company of ,say, Joe Simpson. When it comes to poetry, I’ve set myself an annual task/routine. I choose a poet who I like via a handful of poems. It has to be a poet who’s kept on writing and writing. Enough to have a big fat Collected Poems. And then I read X poems every day for a year till I get to the end. So far Ive read Charles Causley, Norman McCaig,  and U A Fanthorpe like this, and on January 1st this year I started on David Constantine. 374 big fat pages.

To my dismay, very briefly, I felt the poetry equivalent of what I’ve felt about my physical limitations. It didn’t last long, but I think it came down to seeing that he’s a year younger than me, and his first collection A brightness to cast shadows was published in 1980. In the way of things, I estimate that he was 33 when he had enough material from which to select a collection, and then to interest a publisher. And there certainly weren’t remotely as many poetry publishers around then as there are now.And I was jealous. Which is, of course, not only a waste of time, but a waste of the emotional energy you’d be better off spending on things that matter. Let me share some the lines that put me in mind of that woman free climbing that terrifying blank face in Yosemite.

the clock pecks everything to the bone.  

[from As our bloods separate]

 

I see the damned are like this:

loquacious to no effect……….

incapable of nakedness

they rasp their hands on one another

 

[from The damned ]

the dead lamb picketed a ewe.

She cropped round, bleating

and chewing in that machinal way of sheep

 

[from Lamb ]

I’m not a stone, I’m dirty snow that in

her sunlight melts. It has no choice but to

[from Suddenly she is radiant again ]

 

How soon, I wonder, after how many Novembers

did the years begin to seem not paces

interminably around a pit nor steps deserting

a place, but slow degrees by which she came

over the curve of the world into that hemisphere

his face rose in?

[from In memoriam 8571 Private J W Gleave ]

 

Like shrapnel in the lucky ones

she carried fragments in her speech

remarkable to her grandchildren

but to herself accustomed

[from In memoriam 8571 Private J W Gleave ]

 

But with a history of ECT

and separation Milburn Margaret Mrs

did not attain the obliterating sea

she got no further than the DHSS

and on a Friday in the public view

lodged on the weir as logs do

[From But with a history of ECT ]

 

the morning’s broken glass

and brightening air could not pick up his breath

[From Boy finds tramp dead ]

 

you were working slowly on a smoke

and, tilting your indoor trilby, would appear

through clouds soon and would broach

your silence waiting like an untouched beer

for a man back from the gents

[Fron Elegy ]

 

The summer moon was terrible. It beamed

like Christ on Lazarus

[From Spring tide ]

 

It’s the company you keep. One who’s not afraid to learn from R S Thomas or Geoffrey Hill, or Tony Harrison or from Heaney or Hughes or MacCaig. Not afraid of ellipsis, awkward syntax, abstractions, rhyme or rhetoric. I shall enjoy my year with David Constantine, marvelling at what can be done with words. I was tempted to go off on one about the poetry equivalent of the X Factor, the world where all must have prizes, but I’m going to avoid the vexatious. Most of the folk I know in the tiny world of poetry and and those who write it are honest with themselves. They support each other. They don’t put on airs. They want to get better at what they do. As a rule, it seems to me that the more talented they are the more self-doubt they’re likely to have.

I’ll finish with an anecdote. Someone who I taught in my very first class in my very first week as full-time qualified teacher wrote to me a couple of days ago. For years he was a tour /stage manager for some of the biggest names in popular music.

“Speaking of booze and drugs, I also had a front row seat for Queen’s most successful times, from Live Aid to the death of Freddie, curtesy of the years I spent working for Elton’s manager, John Reid, who for a while managed both.  Elton at least is still there, or was when I last looked.

I am very aware that all the music history I shared, no matter how remotely, through truly golden years, is not really relevant to anyone any longer (except old farts like us) and an echo of the transitory grandeur of these events only reverberates briefly through history upon the death of a protagonist.  

The most surprising person who truly got that, was George Harrison, who I chatted with backstage during soundcheck at the Albert Hall, before he went on to join in a set with Eric Clapton at a charity event for Pamela Stevenson, that again, I stage managed.

At the time, George had not played live for 100 years or so and before he went on he said to me, ”Dunno why he wants me. Nobody will know who the **** I am….”

Keep that in mind. Then believe in yourself. What you’ve done is done. It doesn’t matter if it was good bad or indifferent. You can get better. Just do it.

constantine

 

David Constantine : Collected Poems [Bloodaxe 2004]. £12

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Milestones and landmarks (3)…with Kim Moore

drowned village 2

[Just to bring you up to date:

Today’s post will be the 275th since the cobweb was started in April 2014. I realised a short time ago, on the the basis that each post averages out at about 2000 words, sometime recently we passed the half million word mark. I reckon that’s worth celebrating, so I asked three poets to be guests again. I could have asked lots of people and namechecked many more…Hilary Elfick, Andy Blackford, and The Poetry Business in particular.

However, I wanted to say thank you for three landmark moments…

first solo guest poetry reading,

first invitation to be a guest blogger,

and

first time as guest poet on a poetry blog. Which, for me, was April 2013

So. Here we go.]

Like I say, there are so many people in the poetry world to whom I owe so much. Almost all of them have been guests on the cobweb, and some of them are extra special. However, I thought I’d stick to ‘milestones‘, and the final one of three is Kim Moore. She’s been a guest more times than anyone else, and she’s probably name checked more than anyone else (though it may be a very close-run thing with the Poetry Business).

I’ve been a fan of her poetry blog, The Sunday Poem for a long time, so when Kim invited me to send her a poem for her poetry blog it was a very big deal. I’d gone to a Puzzle Hall Poets Live night, in the days when Gaia Holmes was running it. Kim was the guest poet;I did one poem on the open mic and Kim took a punt on it.  Now, four years ago I’d had very few poems published, and I’d certainly produced no books or pamphlets. It’s moments like this that show just how important to your confidence it can be to have your writing validated by someone sharing it.

But that’s not all. Since then, Kim has been inspirational in all sorts of ways, not least via her residential courses. I’ve had two prize-winning poems come out of those. She’s taught me how to be rigorous with my own stuff ,how to read,  how to breathe through poems with long sentences (we both like those). She helped me to write honestly about the death of my son, and to find a language to frame it in. She gave me (and others) the example of her own courage in confronting personal trauma in her poetry, and also (for me) the way in which the myths of transformation can be a holding frame for our own stories. She has never stopped encouraging me to believe I can do it. Whatever ‘it’ is.

I’ve said thank you before. If you have the time, you can follow the link to something I wrote the year her first collection The Art of Falling came out https://johnfogginpoetry.com/2015/12/27/centenary-special-and-a-christmas-star-kim-moore/

When I read that collection I was convinced it would make a big splash. I couldn’t understand why it didn’t win every prize going. I felt personally affronted when it seemed to very quietly slip out of sight. But two years on, it’s suddenly got the recognition it deserves. Kim writes about this in a moment. So. On with the post.

I asked her for a poem from an earlier blog, and this is the one I chose. Whenever I read it, I think of the drowned villages that appear in times of drought. I like everything about it, its fully imagined landscape, that strange (but right) image of the man and woman whose hair flowed to their waists…and the bleakness of its vision, its pity for the human condition makes me weep.

 

drowned village 1

How The Stones Fell

(after Ovid)

 

We learnt that we were born from stones, that the last

man and woman to survive the flood climbed from their raft

onto the shoulders of a  mountain and looked across the water

which had swallowed everything.

 

For days there had been a sea but no shore, now as the water

curled back its lip and let go of the tops of trees

the man and woman followed, walking down the slope,

their feet touching the edges of the water,

 

their arms full of the bones of the earth, their hair long

and flowing to their waists.  They cast stones behind them

and from the hand of the man a stone fell and grew into

another man and from the hand of the woman

 

a stone fell and grew into another woman and so we grew,

our eyes like flints and our mouths tasting of the earth.

We were born from stones and we were destined to live

like stones, warming ourselves in the sun,

 

cracking when the temperature fell, we said there was

something of the sea in us, but in this, like many other things

we lied, it was never water in our hearts, we carried stones

in our pockets, we carried them in our hands.

 

It’s a poem that matters, isn’t it? It’s a real poem. A real poem?  I stick with Clive James’ definition. A real poem is  ‘Well separated’ . You hear ‘the force of real poetry at first glance’ . It’s marked by its clarity, its avoidance of ‘the spectacular expression that outruns its substance.’ What an important idea that is ..just that one word ‘substance.’ How good it is to be reminded that a poem has to be about something real and concrete, because ‘everything depended, and still depends, on the quality of the moment…whatever kind of poem it is, it’s the moment that gets you in.’ 

That explains to me why some poems simply nail ‘it’ for me. Poems that are memorable for themselves, that hold together, and surprise, and make themselves your friends for life. Like the poems that Gordon Hodgeon let me share with you. Like Jo Bell’s ‘The archaeologist of rivers’ and ‘Eve naming the birds’. Like Fiona  Benson’s Bright travellers. Robin Robertson’s ‘At Roane Head’.  But above all, and especially in these last three years, poem after poem by my inspiration, involuntary mentor, and special landmark/milestone guest, Kim Moore. And here she is to bring us up to date:

“The last time I appeared in the Cobweb was Christmas 2015 as a ‘Christmas Star’.  I can’t believe it was a full two years ago!  Back then, in 2015, I was still working as a peripatetic brass teacher for two days a week, which involved working in three schools and conducting three junior brass bands every week.   The rest of my gainful employment was spent as a freelance writer, running poetry workshops and reading at festivals. 

The biggest change since then is I’m no longer a brass teacher.  In September 2016  I was lucky enough to be awarded a Vice-Chancellor’s Scholarship to study for a PhD, which meant I could take a step away from music teaching and become a full-time student.  My PhD is a creative-critical PhD, which means that part of my thesis will be my second full-length collection. 

Brass teaching is the only job I’ve known – although as a student I had part-time jobs, brass teaching was the first job I had which became part of my identity.  It feels strange to not be a brass teacher anymore.  At the same time, I know it was the right time for me to move on.  It’s easy now to feel nostalgic about teaching, and if I go and see the junior band that I set up and built over those 13 years, I’m filled with longing to go back into my old life.  I almost enjoy that feeling of longing though – because it means I don’t remember the annoying aspects of the job. 

My PhD project is to write poetry which explores and represents experiences of sexism and I’m particularly interested in whether poetry can play a part in changing the way we talk about sexism, or even who talks about it.  A member of the audience at a reading came up to me a couple of weeks ago and said they  hadn’t even thought about the fact that they hadn’t read any women writers during their degree, until they’d heard me read poetry about sexism.  For me, this proves that poetry can be part of a conversation that will hopefully change the way we think and discuss sexism.  I know that writing poetry about my own experiences of sexism has changed the way I think about those experiences  – so poetry becomes a way of investigating, a way of knowing about not-knowing. 

The PhD has given me the time and space to think about the type of poet I want to be, and the type of poetry I want to write, and what I think poetry is for.  I don’t know all the answers to those questions yet, but I feel like I’m getting closer.  In 2015, I mentioned a sequence I was working on – ‘All The Men I Never Married’.  Who knew that this would grow into a fully-fledged PhD? Not me!

I’m still continuing with my freelance work as a writer around the PhD.  Luckily for me, I have a mortal fear of being bored, and I like working till late at night – usually till midnight, so I manage to fit in everything I want to do.  I am part of Versopolis, a European-funded poetry project which helps promote the work of ‘young’ poets in Europe – this year I got to read at the amazing Struga Poetry Festival in Macedonia as part of this project.  I run Dove Cottage Young Poets**, a fortnightly writing group for teenagers, which is one of my favourite things I get to do as a writer.  My friend Pauline Yarwood and I set up Kendal Poetry Festival in 2015 and we’ve had two successful sold-out festivals, and are planning our third, which will be running 7th-9th September 2018.  My favourite part of my work as a freelance writer is running residentials.  A residential poetry course changed my life, and I believe they can be powerful and exciting.  This will sound cheesy, but the participants who come on my courses feel like part of my poetry family now.  Many of them return year after year, and it is a real privilege to work with them as writers over the years.

Perhaps the most exciting thing that has happened to me happened very recently – my book, published in 2015, won the Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize.  Maybe I’m destined to win prizes with the name Geoffrey in the title? The judges were Gillian Clarke, Katharine Towers and Tom Gatty, and Gillian said such nice things about my collection in her speech that she made my mum and dad cry.  It was particularly nice to win this prize because I knew nothing about it until I’d already won it, so no nail-biting shortlists, just a lovely surprise that I wasn’t expecting.

**I should have said something earlier about Kim’s generosity, and about how hard she works, and about her concern for those young poets, too. Hannah Hodgson is one of them, and she’s been a guest poet on the cobweb. Not only a poet, then, but an inspirational teacher too.

I’m going to finish with three poems I chose from the many she sent me. The first one I loved the first time I heard her read it at the Chemic Tavern in Leeds. It’s got the long sentences that she effortlessly breathes through, that never lose their balance, and possibly my favourite image, the moment that draws me in, that memorises itself

 

 we lay twice a week

in each other’s beds like two unlit candles.

 

 

 All the Men I Never Married
No 1.
(after Andrew McMillan)

 

There was the boy who I met on the park

who tasted of humbugs and wore

a mustard yellow jumper, and the kickboxer

with beautiful long brown hair that he tied

with a band at the nape of his neck, and the one

who had a constant ear infection so I sat always

on his left, and the guy who worked in an office

and could only afford to fill up his car with £2

worth of petrol and the trumpet player I loved

from the moment I saw him, dancing

to the Rolling Stones. The guy who smoked weed

and got more and more paranoid, whose fingers

flickered and danced when he talked, the one

whose eyes were two pieces of winter sky,

a music producer, long-legged and full of opinions

and more trumpet players, one who was too short

and not him, and one who was too thin and not him,

are you judging me yet, are you surprised?

Let me tell you of the ones I never kissed,

or who never kissed me, the trombonist

I went drinking with, how we lay twice a week

in each other’s beds like two unlit candles.

We were not for each other and in this we were wise,

we were only moving through the world together

for a time. There was a double bassist who stood

behind me and angled the body of his bass into mine

and shadowed my hands on its neck and all I could feel

was heat from his skin and the lightest breath

and even this might have been imagined.

I want to say to them now though all we are to each other

is ghosts, once you were all that I thought of.

When I whisper your names, it isn’t a curse or a spell or a blessing.

I’m not mourning your passing or calling you here.

This is something harder, like walking alone in the dusk

and the leaves, this is the naming of trees,

this is a series of flames, this is watching you all disappear.

 

Previously published in The Dark Horse

 

The next one reminds me of an exercise that Kim set…I think it might use a Clare Shaw poem as a starting point….but the focus is on those sins of omission that plague us sometimes before we wake up properly. The memory of a wrong that passes without our intervention, because we’re afraid to do what we think is right.

street row

 

 

   All the Men I Never Married
No. 15

 

Remember that night we’d been out drinking

and on the way home heard raised voices,

 

saw a couple across the road, arguing, leaning

towards each other and then he slapped her,

 

once, across the face then turned and walked away.

She stood there for a while and then she followed,

 

down Rawlinson Street as the lights from passing cars

fell on her, then swept on by.  We didn’t call out

 

or phone the police.  We didn’t speak, not to her

or him or to each other.   When we got home

 

we didn’t talk about the woman in the denim skirt,

holding her white shoes by the straps.  I wasn’t

 

close enough to see her feet, yet I remember them,

the blackened soles from walking on the pavement,

 

the sore on the heel where the strap had rubbed

and raised a patch of red.  We did not speak of her

 

and so we made her disappear, limping into the night,

trying to keep up with that man, who knew she’d follow

 

so did not turn around, hands thrust into his jeans,

front door key hot between his fingers.

 

Previously published in Poetry Ireland Review

 

Finally, an absolute stunner, a showstopper. A poem that should make you rethink what you feel about Keats’ ‘Ode to a Grecian urn’ and its ‘still unravished bride of quietness’. How easily that ‘unravished’ can slide past your attention. It makes me think especially of Bernini’s “Apollo and Daphne” that’s so astonishingly made, so flawless, that you forget what it’s about, what’s happening. I chose this to say thank you for the gift of Ovid, and the tales of metamorphosis and transformation, and for the way Kim’s poems that confront the business of domestic abuse and its trauma made me see the Greek myths differently, and made them help me to see my own life more clearly.

ApolloDaphneFeature

 When I Open

When I open my ribs a dragon flies out
and when I open my mouth a sheep trots out
and when I open my eyes silverfish crawl out
and make for a place that’s not mine.

When I open my fists two skylarks fly out
and when I open my legs a horse gallops out
and when I open my heart a wolf slinks out
and watches from beneath the trees.

When I open my arms a hare jumps out
and when I show you my wrists a shadow
cries out and when I fall to my knees
a tiger slips out and will not answer to me.

Now that the tree that grew in my chest
has pulled up its roots and left, now that I’m open
and the sky has come in and left me with nothing
but space, now that I’m ready to lie like a cross

and wait for the ghost of him to float clear away,
will my wild things come back, will the horse
of my legs and the dragon of my ribs,
and the gentle sheep which lived in my throat

like a breath of mist and the silverfish
of my eyes and the skylarks of my hands
and the wolf of my heart, will they all come back
and live here again, now that he’s left,

now I’ve said the word whisper it rape
now I’ve said the word whisper it shame
will my true ones, my wild, my truth,
will my wild come back to me again?

 

Previously published in The North

daphne

 

What a way to end the year. Here’s a prayer and a candle lit for 2018. May your wild come back to you again. Although , in Kim’s case, I think that it possibly has.

 

If you haven’t already bought her books, then now’s the time.

If we could speak like wolves:  [smith|doorstop 2012]

(available via the Poetry Business)

The art of falling   [Seren 2015]

 

2017, the highlights: September, October, November, December

IMG_2387

SEPTEMBER

Jane Kite

Abuella

Today I have nothing to say.
Your mother’s breath was loaded
with dust from the mountains.
You were oil dunked on account
of the dryness. You slept all afternoon.
Your father called you pimpernel.

Today I have nothing to say.
Your mother’s eyes were blue, not black,
your father traded olives for a gun,
stole swallows out of their nests.

Today I have nothing to say.
I would feed you almonds and oranges.
Your sweet name gluts my throat.
You were gone for weeks.
I came outside and scoured the sky,
found you asleep in the sun.

(September started a sequence of ‘poems about hospitals’. There were poems from Bob Horne, Neil Clarkson, Charlotte Ansell, Ian Harker, Becky Cherriman, Rose Drew, Hilary Elfick, Lydia Macpherson, Andy Humphrey, Keith Hutson, Christopher North, Maria Taylor, Andy Blackford, Rebecca Gethin and Joe Williams. I’ve chosen this one from Bob Horne)

 

Waiting Room

With a flick of fins the fantails
twist and tumble, shimmy and climb
through clear water between shingle bed
and still air resting on the surface.
Hexagonal tank: perfunctory aquascape
of single black rock, more fit for a wall;
tall plant with a look of ivy,
and bubbles rising like hopes.

Our files are on the trolley outside Room A.
Have you seen to next week’s nutrition?
Three rows of chairs; front left’s mine.
I’m fitting things in, doing bits of both.
Opposite, a metal cabinet in battleship grey.
I’ll get found out if they ask any questions.
CRE to DAV, DAW to DOD, DOH to DYS.
You just go blonde, you’ll get there.

We’re running late; there are whispers,
shufflings as bodies are rearranged,
timetables changed. The goldfish,
refracted in angles of glass,
wind and weave in their element,
while we, with a weather eye,
we sit on, stare at the floor:
blue linoleum, like a big sky.

 

OCTOBER

Judith Willson

Noctilucent

We cross the garden: late sun, evening’s slack tide.
He is remembering woods below San Pietro, the ragged end of a war.
Soldier and red-cloaked shepherd meeting on the road,
the old man calling his dog, waiting in the white road.
He watches how it goes on happening, the time it takes
to wade knee-deep in dazzle
towards the soft chalk curve between the trees.
The red cloak burned in his eyes. His hand, unsure.

He says, If a person walking raises his hand
he sees the shadow of each finger doubled.

Trees slide down to lap us, attentive to our solitudes
until the hollow dark is filled with memory of light –
fluorescence, phosphor glow, poppies’ slow burn.
Ghostlights to guide our double-going.

 

Ruth Valentine

like tolstoy
1
Not in hospital; nobody wants that.
Nor the pale-blue rooms and communal eating-spaces
of the hospice, however kindly. Not alone
on an industrial estate in Switzerland,
being filmed stating Yes I understand
if I drink this liquid… Not even in bed at home
surrounded by sobbing family, Victorian
fantasy of reunion and forgiveness.

Since it’s going to happen and won’t be dignified,
you could do a lot worse than a railway station
waiting room. Say Barnham, where after class
with the boys from the boys’ school we dawdled for the connection:
coal fire, view of the station pub, a playground,
mourners hurrying up from the underpass.
2
I’ve certainly known some beautiful railway stations.
St Pancras before it became a shopping-mall
and they hid the trains: wood-panelled ticket-office,
six empty tracks leading the mind north
past the gasometers to an improbable
state of grace; or Milan with its Day Hotel,
where you could have a shower and a change of clothes
in time for your Last Supper with Leonardo.

But the number one station for dying in
must be Ljubljana: the driving snow, the boys
off to art college in Venice, the gun-metal
socialist-realist trains, their sides announcing
the life beyond: Budapest, Bucharest,
Prague, Skopje, Thessaloniki, Athens.
3
You’re not taking this seriously. It’s not about
childhood or tourism or the early years
of your marriage. You are deciding where to die,
assuming you have a choice and aren’t knocked down
by a single-decker bus at Turnpike Lane,
or a heart attack in the Parkway ladies’ toilets.
It’s losing control of your body, shamefully,
and your mind, which will stop writing poetry forever.

So what you need is less the architecture
(though a final view of a vaulted wrought-iron roof
would do for transcendence) than the sound of trains
leaving for cities you can dream about
in the final minutes, and busy humanity
with its suitcases and phones and sudden weeping.

NOVEMBER

Zetta Bear

 
Stalker

The man who thinks to woo me by explaining
how to shoot a deer strips by the fire
peeling clothes off his blue patterned skin
in his kitchen with the back door wide open
to the windy night he’s come in from
wet through after standing for hours
waiting for his doe to show herself
waiting for the heart shot.

While in his shed ten grey rabbits hang from a pole
one hind leg slotted neatly through the other,
his muddy graft hangs from a hook,
and the doe he has shot and gralloched,
turns and cools, waiting quietly for him
to return and undress her.

 

Anne Caldwell

The Gate-Opener

Alice tramps along the Pennine Way all summer and remote, Cumbrian sheep farms in the winter; lying in wait for ramblers, vagabonds, genuine Romanies, long distance walkers, locals out for a stroll and fair-weather campers. She loves them all in different ways. Legendary throughout the north, she can negotiate any kind of five bar, kissing or latch-key gate; unlocks padlocks with a hairpin that she keeps in her knickers; always shuts and secures each field after strangers.

She collects all the smiles, nods, pecks on the cheek and cheery thanks like bunches of wild flowers. One bright evening, Alice meets a man who has walked in solitude for miles and wants to tell another human being of the boggy moors, sodden clothes, the way the mist came down, his pedometer readings.  The exact number of miles traversed.

 

DECEMBER

Sue Vickerman

The three wise men

To cap it all it was cold. Really cold,
and rough terrain, and all of us old,
and nearly coming to blows over the route
through those dark dunes to get to the bairn,

and we were loaded up. So heavily loaded
and the camels weren’t good. How they groaned
under all that gold. But we had a role,
and there is no record of us moaning,

nothing of three wise men with frost-bitten toes
missing strong brown Yorkshire tea
in that strong-brown-tea-forsaken desert
and nobbut camels’ milk, no cows,

and no really boiling water, nor proper pot,
and blaming each other for who’d forgotten it
and as we plodded, read in the stars the laddie’s fate –
what we each thought we could well foresee –

but disagreed on every time and every date,
and finally had to agree to disagree.

 

Gaia Holmes

Hope

Though it seems so dark
and the ceiling of the world’s a wound
and so many hours have been bruised,
and so many lives have been broken,
there are stars up there tonight
and we must name them,
we must love them,
we must whistle them down like dogs
in faith of their shine
and they will be loyal.
They will show us where their bones are.
They will teach us
their soft, bright tricks of devotion.

And even on the blackest nights,
when hope and protest
are knotted in our throats,
when our smiles have been tarred
and buckled with the weight and stain
of shadows,
we have to remember they are there,
those glittering sky-hooked prayers,
prickling and humming,
embedded in that thick and lovely blue,
guarding us from spite,
keeping the moon from slipping,
herding the pale lamb-like dawns
into our sleeping houses
where they flow
through all our rooms
fluent and loving as milk.

 

Roy Marshall

Waterloo Teeth


Wigmakers, jewellers and blacksmiths
all dabbled as dentists, wrenching surrogates
from the jaws of the sugarless poor, fixing rotten grins
with ivory, tacks, and piano wire.
Grave robbers bolstered the enamel supply
until a windfall arrived; Tobacco stained, cracked
or drummer-boy smooth, a harvest from Belgian fields
where soldiers flapped like rooks,
knelt or crouched with string and pliers, moved
from head to head, filling pockets and purses, noses pegged.
Handfuls of nuggets, sorted and sized, tipped
into boiling vats, the ends chopped, each set matched
for colour and shape as if sprung from the gums of a child;
enough, if a cart overturned and spilt its load, to make
a sewer-cleaved street into an ivory road, or turn
parliament’s blackened smiles off-white.

 

Right. I’ve one extra-special post coming up before 2018. But I’d not forgive myself if I forgot to say an extra special THANK YOU to

Small Poetry Presses and the Publishers, and in particular, to Brett Evans of PROLE, Bob Horne of CALDER VALLEY POETRY, Martin Malone of THE INTERPRETER’S HOUSE and Sarah Miles of PAPER SWANS.
Check out their stories in the Archives

 

And

 

A huge thank you to Laura Potts, Steve Ely, Keith Hutson and Pascale Petit for writing about SEQUENCES

 

and finally
Thanks to all of you who follow the cobweb. Have a Happy New Year, and I’ll see you all for the final post of 2017

2017: the highlights. May, June, July and August

 

 

window 3Here’s a thank you to everyone who’s followed the cobweb posts and made Sundays spent writing them worthwhile. And special thanks to all our guest poets for their generosity in sharing their poems and writing about themselves (the latter saves me more work than I can properly repay them for). And here’s a wish for better new year in 2018 for this damaged world than it got in 2017. Here we go.

MAY

Alicia Fernandez

Roadmap

The plan is to plunge into the canal
and collect treasures that I can
tape to your bed frame:
shivering damp daffodils
and rusty Czech crowns.
I will spend hours knelt over them
on the floor, sorting through the colours
and the different levels of degradation
and glow. I intend to take my time.
In the absence of a garland of ivy
there will be unravelled tape from a cassette
of the Small Faces’ greatest hits
and a collection of blanched stamps
featuring forgotten railways and beaches.
I will fill you with fugitive expectation
in an attempt to retain you. Don’t go yet.
Paper butterflies and fairy lights
will do the rest. It will take a while.
Once I have finished my display,
my hand will grab your hand and
drag you back from the caustic world
where I left you behind.

 

Hannah Hodgson

 

The diagnosis

I see a bruise on his vocal chords
as he delivers a package
no postman could.

“You aren’t going to get better.”
I try to breathe –
but my eyes sting of paper cuts

and my chest heaves silent tears
into storage.
I nod, words trapped
In the clasp of my lips

 

Natalie Rees

Washer Woman
By night she would take their best poems
out into the back yard.
Douse them in lemon and vinegar.
Scour each word
with baking soda and salt.

She would unpick
the awkward images;
the forced connections
that itched their neck by day.

She would wring out the phrases
dyed with language that did not fit –
the Greek myths,
the borrowed registers,
the Latin names for trees.

She would carry them in a heap.
Peg up their stanzas in plain knit,
let their line endings drip.

 

JUNE

Clare Shaw

This baby
This baby is a hurricane –
it’s the thunder of an underground train.
You can hear it coming from miles away.
You can feel it in the walls, the floor.

It’s the roar beneath the city street;
the earthquake that wakes you,
shaking beds, breaking plates.
This baby dislodges slates –

felled a steeple in Dudley.
This baby could kill.

This baby is news, big news.
This baby makes you huge.
Makes you Africa and Russia,
proud. A high hot-air balloon fat-filled with fire.
You could explode with it.
Stand clear! This woman could blow any minute.
*
This quick blood-bloom of certain cell
could grow to anything –
snowflakes forming like a wildflower,
a sly-eyed gull; a dinosaur;

a deep bellyful of weed.
This baby is a fallen seed.
The thin grass blade that ruptures the road.
It could open you up –

your stomach, the shape of a book not yet written;
the curve of the first word
of the book you wake speaking,
always forgotten.

It’s like that, this baby –
the light of a star that no-one can see
travelling ten thousand light years
to catch you unaware

knelt as you are in the slow Autumn rain,
heaving with dreams
and your body a poem
on the theme of ‘This Baby’.

Think of a name.

[from Straight Ahead]

 

JULY

 

David Wilson

Bivouac at Harrisons’ Rocks

Leaves turn from green to grey.
On the breeze a scent of hops.
A star appears. A bat.

Beyond silver birch trees
a train sounds its two-tone horn,
slows for a bend, disappears.

We’re fifteen years old
with apple pies, cans of Sprite,
and dreams of the Eigerwand.

Above our ledge a sandstone roof,
below us the drop. Not far
but far enough.

 

Keith Hutson

Bad Impresario

i.m. William Paul 1820 – 1882

 

William Paul, with millions to waste

on battling boredom, wondered which place

in Blighty had the least discerning taste:

 

could he unearth a town where utter tripe

would be considered culture at its height –

silk purses not sow’s ears – night after night?

 

Two dozen hardened scouts were sent to scour

the land; five hundred flops auditioned for

his troupe; the ten most woeful went on tour

 

including long-abandoned novelties

like Lady Clock Eye, Baldwin’s Catholic Geese,

The Human Mop, Frank and his Dancing Teeth:

 

from Cumbria to Cornwall no one asked

them back, except the Palace, Halifax.

 

AUGUST

 

Christy Ducker

Vaccine

My mother kept me from fairy tales,

not wanting those women in boxes

with all their waiting to stall me,

but when I grew up and found myself

boxed-in, I couldn’t see the walls

for years, not having rehearsed horror

 

in miniature, how a storyteller

or scientist might. Today, in the lab

I learn how to make a horror small,

that we boil it and pin it inside

our own blood, to teach ourselves

the lesson: naivety kills

 

but memory inoculates, measured out

at the right dose. For lupus, try

absorbing a microgram of its snarl

so you might bite back. For Cinderella

disease, take only its slippers,

appear to swoon but prepare to kick.

 

The science of self-protection asks

we rewrite the story of what appals:

be glad the hairs on the back of your neck

stir when a wolf comes near you.

For grief, devour a sugar skull

and dance on the Day of the Dead.

 

 

 

 

 

2017 .My favourite bits: Jan, Feb, March and April

minions-at-the-firworks

Here’s a thank you to everyone who’s followed the cobweb posts and made Sundays spent writing them worthwhile. And special thanks to all our guest poets for their generosity in sharing their poems and writing about themselves (the latter saves me more work than I can properly repay them for). And here’s a wish for better new year in 2018 for this damaged world than it got in 2017. Here we go.

JANUARY

Jane Clarke

When winter comes                                                  

 

remember what the blacksmith

knows, that dim light is best

 

at the furnace, to see the colours

go from red to orange

 

to yellow, the forging heat

that tells the steel is ready

 

to be held in the mouth

of the tongs and it’s time

 

to lengthen and narrow

with the ring of the hammer

 

on the horn of an anvil,

to bend until the forgiving metal

 

has found its form

in the sinuous curve of a scroll.

 

Then file the burrs, remove

sharp edges, smooth the surface,

 

polish with a grinding stone

and see it shine like silver, like gold.

 

Ian Harker

The caretaker compares himself to the happiest man alive

 

Freddie Mercury employed a butler

to serve cocaine on a silver salver.

Me, however – I’ve been a caretaker

for thirty years, give or take –

 

I had a spell

as Creative Director

of the Royal Opera House,

Covent Garden –

 

but now I’ve got to get up at half six

and work one Saturday in four, locking doors,

unlocking doors, switching off lights, moving chairs

for layabout provincial thespians.

But you get free tickets they say down the pub –

not seeing that I got free tickets at Covent Garden

but would give them away to incredulous

Community Support Officers,

who doubtless sold them on eBay.

 

Anyway,

the Happiest Man Alive

does not have to get up at half six

or work one Saturday in four and does not have to put up

with the square outside full of ladyboys.

 

How I wish I was caretaker for the ladyboys,

the ladyboys who come every year from Bangkok –

all the way from Bangkok and I would come with them

and move not chairs and water-coolers

but armfuls and armfuls of sequin bodices,

piles of lilies, stargazer lilies making me sneeze

and lashing my new tan with sticky bitter welts –

on my arms, my shoulders, the teeshirt I bought in Dortmund

so that when I go on my break and stand in the rain

smoking a fag people look at me strangely

covered in suntan and pollen and I smile and say

Yes! I am caretaker to the ladyboys

of Bangkok! And I’m on my fag break!

The Happiest Man Alive!

 

Maria Taylor

Poem in Which I Lick Motherhood

I have several children, all perfect, with tongues made of soap
and PVA glue running through their veins.

My boys and girls benefit from eating the rainbow.

I iron children twice daily. Creases are the devil’s hoof print.

I am constructed from sticky-back tape, pipe cleaners and clothes pegs.

There are instructions for making me. Look at the appropriate shelves
in reputable stores.

I am fascinated by bunk beds, head lice and cupcakes.

You will only leave the table when I have given you clear instructions.
So far I have not.

The school-run is my red carpet.

Yes, you’re right, how do I manage it? Though, I didn’t ask you.

Dreaming is permitted from 7:40 to 8:20 am on Saturdays, Bank Holidays
and on mornings when I will be engaged in healthy outdoor pursuits.

My children’s reward charts are full of glittery stars. I am the Milky Way.

Crying is dirty.

One housepoint! Two if you eat up all your peas.

I always go off half an hour before my alarm. In the morning I speak
a complex language of bleeps and bell tones.

Chew with your mouth closed. No. Don’t chew at all. Admire the presentation.

Underneath my ribs is a complex weather system of sunshine and showers.

Heat rises from me and blows across the gulf stream of my carefully controlled temper.

Sometimes I am mist.

(First published in Poems in Which)

 

FEBRUARY

Julie Mellor

Ode to the Scar on my Wrist

Yellow stars of skin where the break was pinned,
a car crash, Hereford, student weekend
of Pernod and black, my friends,

Susan with the cowlick fringe,
her boyfriend from the Rhonda,
and Steve, who would run naked down any street

at midnight for a dare, all of us in a hire car,
speeding down that road with the hidden bend,
scream of wheels spinning mid air,

the roof crushed in the long roll down the bank
and us, after our minute’s silence,
clambering out with no more than a graze,

except for the compound fracture to my wrist,
and weren’t we the lucky ones, in love
with ourselves, the resilience of our bodies

taken for granted, and didn’t we drink ourselves
stupid the following night, quoting Talking Heads,
this ain’t no party, this ain’t no disco,

 this ain’t no fooling around, me with my arm in plaster,
flirting with the fireball from a box of matches,
a pub trick that set my face alight.

 

MARCH

Steve Ely

 

No man can serve two masters

Walking that kelp-wrecked,

Hesperidean strand, notes

sanderling, turnstone, purple sand.

Shags hard and low across the surf swell,

crab boat’s outboard drone.  Hauled pots

and crates and nylon holdalls,

pagurus, AKs, shrink-wrapped keys,

the freedom of the golden isle

where phalaropes flirt

and red-throats flume and wail.

 

Carola Luther

The Rising

The roof of the distant house is still attached,

lashed down with tarp and rope

by the woman who floated past

on a section of road.

 

Now fieldlakes are sea. I watch wavelets

lap at tip-toey hooves of sheep and goats

on archipelagos. Tail to tail

they stand stock-still and stare

 

at this tree, at the house, at the ridge

in the distance that hides the farm.

Only when hocks go down do they bleat.

The bleating goes on.

 

The man who thought he was alone in my tree

croons a song of comfort. A tenor.

He sings to the beasts in a tongue I don’t know

but it could be Hebrew. Perhaps he’s a cantor.

 

He reminds me of my mother so I join in quietly

in Levantine Arabic, her home language.

I’m godless and tone-deaf but harmonise

as well as I can.

 

He looks up at my branch, shock in his eyes,

raises arms in the rain. I think he weeps.

We both sing louder. From the visible

tip of the hill, a bark. Vixen.

 

Two dogs howl from the house.

The woman leans from an attic window

dog either side and a chicken. She’s waving.

I think she’s a Christian. She sings

 

of waters that stood above mountains,

covers of the deep flung out like garments,

and a God who came to rebuke

the waters, and the waters fled, they fled.

 

A bellowing stag on a knoll to the east.

I hear scream of hare and keckering

badger. Moles and beetles join in

with squeak of weasel, squirrel, rat,

 

even dumb worms open their mouths

to mouth at capsizing frogs

and otters that mew from a channel.

Then the sounding of cattle.

 

It is ox-horn and shofar calling

to the planet’s diaspora, and I see herds

in silhouette from the milkfarm amass on the hill.

A lion from the zoo on the moor

 

roars his answer, and there is sweetness

in the sound of cow and lion lowing together.

I think of my lover and I miss her.

And just as  noise reaches crescendo, birds

 

rise up like bodhisattvas, and all things with wings

strain skyward as one to lift the world.

Crows, bees, peregrines, pulling

skyward with bats and swans,

 

and on the backs of hawks, the little things

singing and singing, mayfly, crane-fly, wren;

and high up, a harrier, and there a dove,

I’m certain I’m looking at a collared dove,

 

and I turn to ask the man who chants kaddish

when I realize that he and the sheep

have gone quiet, the goats are swimming

in silent circles, and water pulls at my hips.

 

APRIL

Judy Brown

From Platform 1, Blackfriars Station

 

There’s something over-familiar about the cranes

rising through the city.  For centuries its huddle

was spiked only by the paraphernalia of spires.

Through the river-soaked glass of the new station

we can measure the torturer’s bamboo as it grows

into a friable body.  The shallow-rooted boroughs

might be peeled off, easy as a roll of turf.

Here the earth has already crumpled, spills skeletons

which are coppery-blue from buried money.

Skyscapes are a story I’m bored being bored with.

Still, the latest towers are eating light like plants,

donating grace as they hurry into their final poise.

A confession has been exacted, then simplified.

All that remains as we sink down into the tunnel

between platforms is the city’s current heraldry,

its long bones opening our skulls to the air.

 

Published in The Scores (thescores.org.uk), September 2016)

 

 

 

 

Milestones and landmarks (2)…. with Roy Marshall

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[Just to bring you up to date:

Today’s post will be the 271st since the cobweb was started in April 2014. I realised a short time ago, on the the basis that each post averages out at about 2000 words, sometime recently we passed the half million word mark. I reckon that’s worth celebrating, so I asked three poets to be guests again. I could have asked lots of people and namechecked many more…Hilary Elfick, Andy Blackford, and The Poetry Business in particular.

However, I wanted to say thank you for three landmark moments…first solo guest poetry reading, first invitation to be a guest blogger, and first time as guest poet on a poetry blog. So. Here we go.]

In the five or six years since I started to take this poetry business seriously, and started to read poetry blogs, and to go to poetry readings on a regular basis, and, indeed, to to read at poetry readings, I’ve started to be aware of poets who regularly travel considerable distances to read and listen. There are a lot of them around, but I’m thinking of some in particular (pleased don’t be miffed if I’ve missed you out). For instance, there’s Michael Brown who I first saw at an event in the West Riding. He’d come all the way from Teesside to read…and , as it happened, got a shorter amount of time than expected (as was one who’d travelled from Barrow. I’ve written about this before. Nuff said.) Since then I’ve seen him in Leeds, in Halifax, at the Square Chapel…where he’d simply turned up to support the guest poets. He rocked up to a mini-launch in Staithes. Last Tuesday he was in Liverpool for the launch of Coast to coast to coast which he co-edited with Maria Isakova Bennett. And She’s another I’ve seen in Sowerby Bridge, in Leeds and elsewhere. A poetry traveller. She lives in Liverpool.

And then there’s today’s guest, Roy Marshall…Halifax, Hebden Bridge, Sheffield, Leeds; recently he was up in the north-east…….and then all sorts of venues in London, and around the Midlands.

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An indefatigable traveller, he lives in Leicester. The point is, none of them do poetry for a living. It costs them in time and cash. God bless them, every one. And Roy also writes poetry reviews, and a regular and well-followed poetry blog. Which is why he’s our guest today, because he offered me a milestone moment. My first guest blog post…which was about landscapes and a sense of place. You can find it in the archive..October 2015. Time to meet him again.

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Roy Marshall was born in 1966. His mother was born in Italy, his father in London. Roy wanted to be a writer as a child and young man but became distracted for about twenty years during which time he found himself variously employed as a delivery driver, gardener and coronary care nurse, amongst other occupations.
His pamphlet ‘Gopagilla‘ was published by Crystal Clear in March 2012 and was very favourably reviewed by Andrew McCulloch in the TLS.
‘Gopagilla’ has sold out and is no longer available. A full collection ‘The Sun Bathers’ was published by Shoestring Press in November 2013 and has been shortlisted for the Michael Murphy award. The book has also been received very positively in ‘The Warwick Review, ‘Under The Radar’, ‘The North’ and elsewhere. You can buy a copy by clicking on the ‘Sun Bathers’ page of his poetry blog. at http://roymarshall.wordpress.com/.

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He’ll be giving us an update very shortly. But first, here’s the poem I specifically asked for on the last post about him, because I heard him read it in Halifax and new it was the real deal….it did what Clive James asks of a poem. It’s a moment that draws you in; it seems to memorise itself as you hear in.

Zoetrope
Being no twitcher
I can’t tell if it’s a black swan or cormorant

speeding beside the train, the near-naked trees
interloping

to turn a glimpse of what must be
the most elegant of trajectories

into a zoetrope that strokes
the rooted eye,

wings fully open and now
closed, neck stretched to spear the sky,

and me in the carriage, alone
and transfixed, as far from that bird

as a child, his eye to the slot of a spinning drum
in an empty Victorian nursery.
First Published in New Walk Magazine

First I liked, a lot, the elision of the zoetrope’s imperfectly synchronised moving image with the flick/flick of something seen from the windows of a fast train. It seems to me exactly right. I like the exactness of verbs: interloping, strokes, transfixed. I like the simple honesty of it all.  I can’t tell. It comes without the knowing self-deprecation of that line of Larkin’s that I’ve never liked, in a poem that I love: someone should know. And finally, that image of the poet, alone, transfixed, not knowing, being involved and ‘outside’, simultaneously. It’s a beautifully crafted poem, I think. So, let’s find out what he’s up to now.

 Thank you for having me back. What’s happened since October 2015?

I started and finished an MA in creative writing at Sheffield Hallam University. I applied for and won an award to do it, so it didn’t cost me anything except time and travel costs. My expectations were high. I believed I might learn a lot.  Maybe I did. I’m still figuring out what I learnt. I guess it was partly what I already knew- that is, to trust yourself and don’t acquiesce or automatically give undue authority to those who hold positions of authority.  I’m glad now I went back to university. I could leave the chip on my shoulder behind on the way out.  One tutor was very dedicated. Others, far less so. I know all courses and tutors are different so perhaps my experience was atypical. The best part of the course was making new friends and hanging about in Sheffield. I eventually received a distinction. However, I thought feedback from one or two tutors was poorly delivered, discouraging and very confusing in some instances. As a bi-product of this experience I became interested in what makes good, useful, constructive feedback and put down a few thoughts about this subject on my blog.  (you can link this if you like John –  https://roymarshall.wordpress.com/2016/01/26/the-art-of-constructive-criticism/

I’ve also used my blog to share poems by new poets. I like to keep an eye out for work that excites me and then I ask the poet if I can feature some of their work. Several of these poets have since gone on to have collections published, including James Giddings, Emily Blewit, John Challis and Keith Hutson.

Personal highlights over the last two years have included reading at Manchester John Rylands Library with Liz Berry, a beautiful place, and at the wonderful Swindon poetry festival which has a lovely vibe. I also enjoyed a reading with Kim Moore and Alison Brackenbury in Halifax, not least because I love visiting my friends in the North. I’ve received a few prizes, one being awarded by Don Patterson at Wenlock poetry festival. He told me my poem,’ The Pack,’ was ‘f- ing brilliant.’

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My second book, The Great Animator, was published by Shoestring Press in spring 2017 and has had some lovely reviews. Also, some cardiac nurses wrote to say my poem ‘Carrying the Arrest Bleep’ is up on the staffroom wall, which I was very pleased about.

After the book came out I wrote almost nothing for a while. The political situation, both domestic and abroad, obsessed and depressed me. I found my energy drained by reading reams of updates on political developments here and elsewhere. I felt that if I wrote anything at all it needed to reflect societal changes, but I didn’t want to write ‘political’ poems that were simplistic and crass. Now I accept that it is all right (and maybe a political act in-itself) to create and keep on creating whatever you feel you must.  There is no obligation to make every poem political with a big ‘P’ and it is not an abdication of responsibility if you don’t. I do want to write work that is reflective of my concerns, but I am happy to be patient while my conscious or unconscious mind figures out how to do it. In fact, as I write this I am realize that some of my recent work already does reflect my social concerns, one way or another.

I’ve also been through a period when my writing seemed to fall short of my own standards.
It took me a while to remember that it is normal for confidence to fluctuate. After a productive five years (one pamphlet, two full collections) I now understand that it is all right to take time away from writing and reading poems. Most important to me are the few good relationships I have developed via writing, and it is a great bonus to have the knowledge that poets that I like and respect also like my work. Poems will come if, and when, they are ready. Nothing is quite like the feeling when a piece of writing feels as if it might be going somewhere.  I first experienced this ‘caught up’ or lifted feeling as a child, and I feel blessed every time I rediscover it.

What he doesn’t say is that he regularly posts his beautifully observed and composed photographs on Facebook**….’beautifully observed’. That’s the keynote. Like me, he doesn’t ‘know’ a lot about birds in the way an ornithologist knows birds. But he sees and ‘knows’ individual birds at precise moments and records them in ways that go a long way beyond lyricism. He’s in the tradition of Heaney and Hughes in this. And, like Hughes, he can’t resist a crow.
 

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From the Book of Crow Etiquette

To avoid association with a crow’s death
feign a limp or otherwise disguise your gait
when passing a crow funeral. In order to escape
a scolding, don’t contest a crow’s right
to your roof or disrupt its visceral business
among fledglings and eggs. Crows have memories
like wet tar, can recognize the white-stitched ribbon
of a fruitful carrion road, the location of a yard
from which a stone was thrown. Tame crows
give pet names to their keepers; make of this
what you will. Crows that are damaged or ill
are often assisted by others, or else
done in. Decades may pass before a widowed crow
casts the cross of her shadow
on a long abandoned farmyard. A murder might mob
the one-time owner of a slingshot, now
a grandfather in the park. Crows bring gifts
to those who feed them, to children with no prejudice
or fear of crows. You might not need
a stash of broken necklaces, Airfix kit
of sparrow bones, lens cap rinsed in a birdbath,
nor a half heart locket inscribed with ‘Best’.
You may not wish for ‘friends’ to priest a garden fence
or wall, who call before your alarm sounds
and pick at your open dream.

From ‘The Great Animator’ (Shoestring Press, 2017)

There you are: The Poet’s Book of Crows. I like the even tone of this, it’s absolute assurance, and the way I never feel disposed to argue with it as I read. I like the assurance of the line breaks, and, above all, the ‘moment that draws you in’, which, for me is this:

Crows have memories
like wet tar, can recognize the white-stitched ribbon
of a fruitful carrion road.

Just listen to the way everything is pinned and stitched by all those precise consonants, all those ‘t’ sounds. I love its texture. Finally, though, just in case you think his poetry is all about birds and photographs (when it’s not about the life of a cardiac nurse), lets finish with one I specifically asked for. It doesn’t get a commentary, because it speaks for itself.

 Waterloo Teeth

Wigmakers, jewellers and blacksmiths
all dabbled as dentists, wrenching surrogates
from the jaws of the sugarless poor, fixing rotten grins
with ivory, tacks, and piano wire.

Grave robbers bolstered the enamel supply
until a windfall arrived; Tobacco stained, cracked
or drummer-boy smooth, a harvest from Belgian fields
where soldiers flapped like rooks,

knelt or crouched with string and pliers, moved
from head to head, filling pockets and purses, noses pegged.
Handfuls of nuggets, sorted and sized, tipped
into boiling vats, the ends chopped, each set matched

for colour and shape as if sprung from the gums of a child;
enough, if a cart overturned and spilt its load, to make
a sewer-cleaved street into an ivory road, or turn
parliament’s blackened smiles off-white.

From ‘The Great Animator’ (Shoestring Press, 2017)

So there we are. Thanks for being my milestone guest poet today, Roy Marshall. One more to come before the year’s ending. And thank you to all of you for listening. Have a great Christmas.

 

** all photos, apart from the those of the book covers , are Roy’s  intellectual property  should be treated as copyright