Rolos

In the winter playground
The boy delves
In his pockets
Grey shorts over
Pink chapped thighs
As had all the others

December: break,
Ice and snow
Toggles and duffle coats
And bare shins
His thin gloves
Locates the target

A packet of Rolos

He unfurls the silver foil
Exposing dark brown circles
And, hand thrust out,
The Rolos are offered
To scraped knees
Footballs and wellington boots

In return
Impenetrable silence

No matched fingers
Extended to the silver foil
No swaps for sugar cigarettes
No words, no nods
A rebuff so irreversible
And dense as a vacuum

His first taste
Of estrangement
Of invisibility
Of finding the others
The shunned ones
Made rich with less

The Rolo lovers, those of
The Cave of Adullam
Dwellers to the East of Eden
Lepers with perfect skin
A kingdom of includers
Thawing the ice

Longing for Snow

January

A month to long for snow
Empty blue skies
And fierce cold
Sharp, virus-killing cold

Snow drops
And crystal-clear air
Short days
To compress an excess of joy

February

To rob Christmas
Of Rosetti’s bleak midwinter
Here is grey shadow
And cold to be avoided

A shudder that no scarf
Can repel

Unless January’s prayer
Is answered in
Blizzards blasted
To the waiting Earth

And a new generation
Learn how to spell toboggan
And frozen hands
Launch endless missiles

A month that demands
An open fire
That scorns the industrialness
Of ugly rectangular radiators

Deep cries for dancing flames
The crack of logs
Of wet gloves, and scarves
Steaming their way to Tomorrow

All is quiet
Cars are hibernating
Just the trudge
Of boot on snow

Let no one wish for dirty slush
Eliminate ‘thaw’ from the lexicon

March

March can stay away
Its unwelcome longer days
A threat to…this
Enforced Sabbath

More Than a Barber

Booking the barbers online?
Feels vaguely feminine
Am I having my hair ‘done’?

Arrived on time
Pushed on the door
And sat down, alone

A silent one, his head
Still as a barn owl
Is in the chair

The absence of talk
Of footy, or Trump, or carburettors
Is an unusual interlude

And the silence
Like invisible honey
Circulates the room

Looking for anyone
Who wishes to
To enter in

Into the unknown.

In the background
The circumcision
Of surplus hair

Continues, the squeak
Of the barber’s shoes, the
Schink of blades

The inane radio
Saying nothing, oblivious
To the moment when

Confessions are made
Clues to some inner world
Left scattered on the floor

Forebodings, snip
Longings, snip
Hopes and dreams, snip

The barber,
Waterlogged
With our words

Like a priest,
Unburdens himself
Sighing into the night

Gifts

Become like little children?
Infants? Really?
So, on with the shorts
Sit cross-legged, for hours
Or lie on your back, feet
Up on the sofa
Pick your nose if you must
And daydream

Make faces
And odd noises
Plop your cheeks
And play hide and seek
Try so hard
To stay quiet and hidden
For five long seconds
Become three again

At the sight of wrapping paper
Be bubbly with excitement
And use your perfectly-formed
Three-year-old fingers
To prise up and away
All that Sellotape
Let your eyes
Grow larger than the Moon

And learn joy, learn love

Learn Amazing Grace
Learn that sweet sound
The music of heaven
That longs for you
Not to be stiff-necked
But let the tears fall
As you collapse

Back through the griefs
The broken-heartedness
The shields
That have not saved you
Hold your hands out
And see you are three again
Three at last! Three at last!
Thank God Almighty, we are three at last!

Guitar String

Fingertips prise open
The waxed end of a packet
And fish out a thick E string
Golden, reflecting any light
It could find

I thread its narrow end
Through an aperture
The other bulbous end
Planted in the soil of the guitar
Out of sight

Flexed between two ends
Time wound me, tuned me
Turned metal into music
But you were with me
When time took its toll

Dulled now, flattened
Stretched, not broken
Requiring attention
Careful hands return
To cleanse and retune

Old Man Quinney

I’d be sprawled on the back seat
Beltless and free
When small, perched on a child’s seat
A clear view of the wild
Speedometer reaching 50
And feet playing with pedals

In front, a parent
Winding down a dirty window
And old man Quinney
Leaning in
His unshaven chin
Wobbling with the effort 

“Fill her up. Four star”
Words I’d hear like a mantra
Watching the petrol ball bobble
And numbers roll round
Gallons and pounds, just like
The one-armed bandit at the golf club 

Only winners here
As the pleasant fumes invaded
The Zephyr Six:
Money handed over, a brown
Ten bob note, and change given
And cheerfulness 

Now the age of my father
I speak to no one
I can’t remember when I
Last talked to someone I paid
Exchange is a series of beeps
Before I belt home

No Heroes

Five men and a crane from dawn
Hoisted, laid, connected
A sewage pipe, its effluent carried
Daily, out to an incoming tide
No journalists, no cameras, no heroes

The mudflats at low tide
Like a magnet, drew the boys
To its edge. Tide one side.
Land the other. One found a
Mirror, flotsam, and turned

The world the wrong way round
The tide, without asking, seeped
In between the boys and the land
Darkness and dampness in the sea
Found its way to the sky

Surrounded by the inrush
Five boys inched their way
Drenched with storm and tears
Astride the unsung pipe
To landfall

Met by flashbulbs
And family
The famous five
Pictures in the paper
No heroes?

Wazzock On the First Tee

So small, helmeted and unstable
In the crook of the parabolic head
Of a bright orange tee
Sliding down its edge, unable to
Avoid the strike

A spoon selected and deselected
He heard the hyphenated word
Mashie-Niblick float down
For the first of four practice swings
Shuddering the air

Exploding in a shower of
Hurt and soil, Wazzock,
Now one with turf
Renamed as Divot
Landed on the fairway

Laughing as helmet and mud
Rolled from hillock to trough
A puncture in the 18 holes of
Wedged and puttered pain
Sliced to oblivion

Longing to be lost
Out of Bounds
To rest, recuperate
Bunkered back to
An above-par condition

A wazzock walked home

The Arithmetic of a Dead Tree

There’s a field north of Tiverton. In its centre is a dead tree. It’s either landed from another world and no one noticed, or it was abandoned by its fellow trees, removed by some inhuman force. Either way, it has lost the fight.

Pleasantly chilled this corpse
It was a stray thought
Not unlike the effervescence
Tumbling up from the morning’s antacid
Prior to the first incision

A hangover beat against her skull
Like lower-branch apples
Bouncing rhythmically
In the breeze, on hard ground,
Crushing to the cranium

Cause of death: unknown
She noted, adding abandonment
Internal contusion
Dictaphone didn’t argue

The timeline of death,
A matter of philosophical debate
Last moments preceded by
Irreversible decline
Autumn’s gorgeous browning

An annual preparation
For the final apple pluck
Its trunk and branches
Thrust up to heaven
In fist-like silent protest

Skeletal and off-white
Reflecting the sun that
Gave it life, reduced,
Unswaying, ready to rot
Subtracted to zero.

To the windward side
An apple, softened and bruised
Unloads its cargo
Nomadic cells multiplying
Secretly in the soil

In tiredness, she lay a palm
Flat on the upturned fist
Cause of life – touch

Mustard on Lamb?

The liturgy having passed through us
Once more, we scurried, smiling
Through the tended graveyard
With the organ raging in full retreat
To the silence of a Zephyr Six
And home to remove our polished shoes

Every third week
Sunday roast turned to beef
To remove the sickly nothing
Of communion wafers
And I, with a dollup of tap water,
Twiddled Colman’s Mustard powder
Into a perfect paste

If done, if repeated, if attempted
For pork or lamb the following week
My mother’d recoil in horror:
‘Mustard on lamb!’ Then,
‘You heard your mother, John
No mustard. Period!’

This house with its maze
Of mustard-like rules
A puzzle too perplexing
Too burdensome
Like an empire tottering,
Its final stumbling steps
Crumbling under a heavy load:
An indecipherable conformity

This house was my liturgy
My home, my rhythm of days
Of coal fires, ice on windows
The radio in the background,
Crosswords and pipe smoke
Dress patterns and pins
A piano barely played
The sweet smell of Airfix glue
And another Spitfire
To fly me far away.

Been to Church and I don’t know

It’s true to the wind
I don’t know where it blows
But it’s blown us here
A reverse-play building site
Living stones assembled
Drawn by unheard words

In file the called
Drenched in sweet oils
Instruments in His hand
Servants soaked
In the fragrance of heaven
Hear them as they sing

A river tumbling and still
Full of life and lights
Fountains pouring
From a throne unseen
It’s the Bridegroom
Calling to His beloved

Eyes only for Him
He plays one, then another
A word here, miracle there
Yes, I’ve been to church
And I don’t know
Where the wind will blow

Foul Drain

West Midlands Police ban fans of Israeli football club Maccabi Tel Aviv from attending their Europa League fixture at Villa Park on November 6th

‘National disgrace’ – Kemi Badenoch
‘Wrong Decision’ – Kier Starmer

One step beyond the unsteady gate
The cast-iron drain cover
Forged to fit tight to its borders
Disallows even a whiff
Of regular human discharge
Sludge and stench
Slipping inexorably downhill
Not a foot below, out of sight

Until its long-felt antipathy
For light and public gaze,
Old shackles cast aside,
Erupts and,
Seeping from beneath
Floods the public square
With a miasma of words

Who will shovel the shit
Back to the bottomless pit?
Will pulpits lie dumb?
Will uninvited prophets
Uncover awkward memories
Of Clifford’s Tower
And King David’s hotel?

Clifford’s Tower: 1190 in York, the massacre of Jews, approx. 150 dead
King David’s hotel: 1946, the Jewish Irgun militia bombed the British HQ, 96 dead

I Was There

I was there
To witness the first shove
And the wild, confident
Aggression of the man, Jacob
Who crossed the Ford
At Jabbok, weighed down
With fear and promises,

And I was there each hour
Of the moon-lit night-fight
I saw the lion-man’s eyes
Flash with unearthly colours
And music leak from his lips
In the struggle
Until dawn

I was there listening
To mighty Jacob gripping
The lion-man, yet finally
Disinterested in victory
Reduced to the whisper
Of one request
Bless me

The Lion-man extended a finger
Made of light and word
And touched Jacob’s strength
His hip joint dislocated
As a new name descended
From heaven and a new man
Walked the Earth

Remembering the Future

It wasn’t dementia,
I’m sure of that
But a glance

Along my outstretched feathers
Above the clouds
Wings left and right

Making the sun dance
Iridescent and normal
Thermal swimming

Strong and unhindered,
I left all my memories untended
Slipping into the present

Far below the cloud banks
Through to a tight circle of
Proudly assembled eyrie

I hear someone unfamiliar
Calling, pulling me into a dive
To unclench my prey.

Talons relaxing
I drop my dormouse load
In front of a hair-filled

Inquisitive, pleading ball
As recollection fires
And I watch

Myself forming again

The Need for Ice

It’s 11am, or thereabouts
The kettle switch flicked and
The red-light beams,
Noises build from the kettle
Creating the time to assemble
The familiar cup, unwashed
Rinsed, maybe
Then a heaped spoonful
Instant coffee, plus a sugar lump
The spoon circling and clinking
The cube to oblivion

Then the tipping
Boiling water…
…mind drifting now…
I jump back, legs burning
Hollers suspended
In lingering curses

A longed-for cause
Occupying the moment
Where my mind ended
Anchored in a movie
A scent
A memory of light
Falling from the overflow
Of her hair

Disturbed, once more
By the very thing
Designed to bring me peace
Trapped again
By a fire sent to burn
Away all that I don’t need

I shake myself
Free of meandering
And return to hard-core life:
Of the need
For ice

Universal Haiku

Dark, old universe,
It cannot contain itself,
A laugh bursts all bounds

MA Creative Writing, Exeter University Creating a Poem…live…part one

This is an invitation to join me in a 4-stage writing process to give birth to a poem.

Nine of us were assembled in a small seminar room waiting for kick-off to get the Writing Poetry module underway.

Anticipation, a little conversation, but we don’t know each other, so it’s muted.

In walked a poet…and a teacher. I won’t name him; description is more important. Maybe early 50s, torn jeans, old jacket, various rings on a variety of fingers, earrings, an impressive head of hair, and peering eyes. Every inch a poet. And with a rich vocal delivery.

And the content of lecture 1 was formational, rather than a download of information; an introduction to his way of detecting the ‘sweet spot’ in a poem as a combination of imagery, musicality, and shape (form, direction, and energy).

So, this blog post is to invite you into the process of writing a poem.

Stage 1. Read and reflect on
Stage 2. Write a similar poem. A list. On an object close to hand. I chose the fountain pen I was holding to take notes as a starting point
Stage 3. Pinch one line from the poem and build from there
Stage 4. Submit the poem to the group and lecturer for critical appraisal….next week. Yikes.

Stage 1 George Szirtes poem, Some Sayings about a Snake

Loved this poem. It enters by the ear and exits through the navel. Come on! Whatever he had in mind that rocks my boat.

Stage 2. My ‘List poem’ on a fountain pen…written during the lecture, no time for edits

Some Sayings About A Fountain Pen

I don’t know, it’s a handful high
Spending time twitching to and fro
Weighing less with each hint of movement
A clock of sorts in indigo
Disturbing, that so much darkness
Lies at the core
A column of unformed words
It draughts Constitutions
Annoys restless Monarchs
The slender curve of the nib
Calms the writer
Fools the writer
Disappoints the writer if
It scratches or flows like glue
A pen should not be hard work
It lasts until it fades
The outer outlasting the inner
Unlike the writer

So…not quite a strict list. I found it impossible to constrict an image to a sentence. Maybe with time, I could have pared it down to essentials? But the task was to extract a line or a phrase, a key idea from the poem and re-work it. The last two lines, for me, were the message in the bottle.

Stage 3. Reworked poem (you may recognise this as Friday’s Irregular Poetry Corner Post)

Unlike the writer

Don’t be duped
Nothing escapes
The onward march to
I don’t know where

Swan Spring quills
Sleek-black biros
Grass-green rollerballs
SmartScreen scribblers, but

Who designed us
To chance upon
A charcoal brew of dyes
To daub, to draw, to draft?

Attached one end, and
Conceived in mystery
Words, hidden in ink,
Flood onto the page

And to mediate?
A handheld instrument,
Twitching to and fro
Emptying its gifts

Until the ink fades,
Nib-scratching the paper,
It’s outer outlasting the inner
Unlike the writer

Stage 4. Next week. Seatbelt on. I can see the editors’ sharp knives, glinting in the eyes of my fellow students and my every inch the poet, lecturer, AB.

Unlike the writer

Don’t be duped
Nothing escapes
The onward march to
I don’t know where

Swan Spring quills
Sleek-black biros
Grass-green rollerballs
SmartScreen scribblers, but

Who designed us
To chance upon
A charcoal brew of dyes
To daub, to draw, to draft?

Attached one end, and
Conceived in mystery
Words, hidden in ink,
Flood onto the page

And to mediate?
A handheld instrument,
Twitching to and fro
Emptying its gifts

Until the ink fades
Nib-scratching the paper,
It’s outer outlasting the inner
Unlike the writer

Sunrise amongst acorns

Lumpy and thick white
A surprising layer of ice
Clung to the windscreen
The clouds long since
Had slithered away
Accidentally like a
Duvet discarded
During the night

Ferreting, I find my
Woolly hat and gloves
Hidden away
While the acorns grew
And the horse chestnut
Spiky capsules
Fallen now, the summer sun
Has dried out the twigs

It is this blue-sky snap
That chills the bone and
Hunches the shoulders
A hope drilled in
Splitting the sheath
Rending the cage
Death running backwards
Life following on

Above the car park
Rises a hill and a trig point,
A freezing vantage point
Where water is arrested
And the wind howls
There are no trees here to witness
The broiling globe
Cast its first light

And fail to retrieve
The summer cauldron
And yet, zero degrees and less
Does its work, cracking
Open the seeds
The hidden hopes
And dared-for dreams…
…maybe this autumn?

He Took Me There

At my age, I’ll shed this skin
By Christmas
Honestly, when you look at me
Over the bread sauce
I’ll not be the man I used to be
A strange twist of newness
The replacement looking
Older by the day

Some parts are famously temporary
Wobbly teeth hanging by death threads
Nails, already not really us
Our breath, a sojourner at best
But the real you and me,
Living amalgams of all that has passed
Organic unions with our brokenness,
Our crimes, our guilt, our shame
Jealousies, pride, lust
Ambition, our hurt lockers
Can these death notes
Be peeled away like the teeth
To leave us new again?

Sunday by Sunday
The priests intone
O Lamb of God
Who takest away the sin of the world
Have mercy on us
Did the Lamb of God excise
Our sufferings and put them in
A divine supermarket trolley?
Removing our grief and sorrows
Far away, leaving us innocent?

Hauntingly we sing
Were you there
When they crucified my Lord?
Oh! Sometimes it causes me to tremble
No more so than now
When I can offer the only answer
Looking out at His mother
At Magdalene, at the soldiers
At those gathered, and beyond
Through His eyes
Yes, I was there
He took me there

Not just my sufferings
Separated from me, no,
The Suffering One,
He took me there

It is finished, I am finished
Now, at Christmas
When I look at you
I’ll be peering from inside
The resurrection and the life
Ah, don’t you worry about my aging skin
It’s the oldest trick in the book
Just you wait