December (2024) Poetry Dump
Wednesday is about books and writing. (And reading). Once a month or so I share the latest poems I’ve written. Here’s the last one from 2024. December’s poems…
I seem to have started this thing where at the start of a month I share the previous month’s batch of poems. I’m writing them when and where I can, sharing most of them on this site here, although not often emailing them out to you directly, so instead I gather them all in a ‘dump’ here at the start of each month. Here’s last month’s:
November Poetry Dump
Follow that link back to look at other months across last year too. But, for now it’s time for the final one from last year. All the poems I wrote and shared in December of 2024 — some you’ve seen, and some will be new to you, and many you will have missed anyway, in the deluge of my newsletters and your life and its other admin.
THE DJ PLAYS NOSTALGIA:
Certain songs, man. Like certain photos,
and like many rivers; like the car trip
to the best holiday destination, and
the feelings you get when you haven’t
been home in so long. They say you can
never go back. But we are always going
back. That’s what any second listen is,
and any more that follow. That’ s exactly
what music is — and where the best
stuff either takes us, or shows us where
it’s been, how it was born, all the while
reminding us of some sense of purpose.
SIMPLY READ:
told a mate the book I wrote was probably
the world’s most mentions of Pink Floyd
in poetry. He said, “Let’s hope so”. But
I don’t know. I can’t stop writing about them,
listening to them, reading about them;
someone tipped the sauce bottle up and really
smacked the side of it extra hard.
Because all of this gushing comes entirely
from me thinking about a character in my life
who loved Pink Floyd but hated proper friendship.
I would say most of my really good friends,
if anything, hate Pink Floyd. But I have always
liked them, and/or mostly loved them.
And “Something got me started”…
oh no hang on, that’s another dated band
that was really successful, but mostly people
really hate them.
WHERE’S THE STAGE? WHERE’S THE AUDIENCE? AND WHERE’S THE MONEY?
Coleman Hawkins all but invented
the tenor saxophone for jazz.
Three questions were at the heart
of any performance by him.
He played with body, mind, and soul.
His whole self in every recording
or show. But all he ever wanted
to know — was where’s the stage?
Where is the audience? And where
is the fucking money?
THIS ONE HURT:
I met Alejandro Escovedo after his gig.
He was signing posters and things,
he gave me a laminated backstage pass,
signed — and I turned it into my favourite
bookmark. I was drunk, been at a wedding,
and I saw him stare right through me; felt
his eyes. So I cut short the conversation
and trudged home clutching the lanyard.
A few months later I lost it in an airport,
on my birthday. Then gave up drinking
very shortly after. They say never meet
your heroes, and I’ve had experiences
either way. But I sure wish I had that
bookmark still, and I still wonder which
word I slurred. Must have been one dead
giveaway. I’m usually good at covering
my tracks. But Alejandro was a junkie.
So he’s obviously even better at that.
THE TURNING (AWAY):
They say there are two wolves inside
us, at the least I’ve got two dogs
beside me. One I walk, as he toddles
behind, and one that walks me, out
leading an imaginary charge, dancing
around shadows. Pink Floyd still
on my headphones, providing
the shadow of the sound the teenaged
wolf in me tried to dance around.
One of the things the other wolf inside
has always known is that you cannot
dance to Pink Floyd. You are forced
to find yourself, which is the opposite
to a lot of music. An imaginary charge
to the top of a hill, to howl from
my dark side. At the moon.
DREAMS ‘ARE’ FREE:
applied for a job in radio more than 12 times.
And got one interview. It went well
I guess, though not good enough. They
offered me a spot on the reserve bench.
My reply was that I was a grown man
with a family and mortgage, so could
not work for free, or stay free to work
only when they required. I gave up all
thoughts of working in radio, and found
work elsewhere. People still tell me
they hear me on radio and like what I say,
though I’ve not been on air for at least
three years. I found work anywhere else
instead — and gave up my radio dream.
It sucks, sure, but no one can tell you it
pays to stick to your dream.
FIGHT OR FLIGHT:
There was a bird that got caught
in the lawnmower —
and we gathered around to watch it
either die, or fly away.
My aunty told my uncle to shield
us all from it — but he reckoned
there was a lesson, and told us all
to watch. He raised the shovel
high above his head and hit down hard.
The bird came to life and flew right
past our heads. I still wonder sometimes
what the lesson was meant to be.
But not long after, my aunty and uncle
were divorced. So perhaps the lesson
was not for us kids. Then again,
maybe it was…
REPORTED SPEECH:
Journalism is a neurodivergence, it has
been decided. An announcement is due
to follow, with many of the practitioners
being in two minds about whether to admit
to this. But there is no doubt in my mind,
believed the CEO of Newspaper Writings.
“We take stories, we make them our own;
all the while claiming impartiality”.
“So there’s certainly an irony there”,
he later conceded. All writing is selfish
someone later said, off the record —
of course. They will still be reported.
60 MONTHS:
I’m at the point where I can wonder
what alcohol masked, did it make me
more extroverted, was it some sort
of self-medicating? The answer to both
must be yes. If you enjoy a drink now
and then, or even all the time — that’s
fine. You do you — as dullards tend
to say. I’ve dulled my senses, across
something like 30 years, am pleased
to be getting some back. A little added
sharpness, and awareness, the little
pieces I clearly never cared enough for.
HITTING A SIMILAR WALL TO ROGER MCGOUGH:
“It’s like bashing your head against
a brick wall”, he said, while listening
to Pink Floyd’s album, The Wall
CHILLI OIL:
We tell stories to survive. And tell lies
to make the stories zing! A little bit
of story hot-sauce; the bit where anyone
listening says (or thinks): “no way”.
No, totally, you say, in reply, you couldn’t
make it up. Except you just did, often
with the thing you wish you said
at the time, but thought after.
That little conversational condiment.
CLIFF’S NOTES ON SAVIOURS:
You find the god of your choice
in the place where you look.
Church is a verb as much as
it’s sometimes a noun.
I find my religion several times
a week, although I never quite
call it that; I’m always looking
for a new place to drown.
IMMATERIAL WORLD:
I like George Harrison a lot - though
as time goes by, he seemed such an
angry, nasty guy — deeply masking
as a Man of Peace. Actually stubborn,
and petty, and none of the things his fans
would want to accept. The baby of the band
suspended in arrested development.
Still, what have I ever done? Never found
my band of Wilburys, nor a little
Chiffons song to call my own.
CLEARING THE COAST:
If you say, “but I don’t know!
No judgment” right after
a run of gossip, including
your judgment of the scenario,
it can really help. Not as much
as your thoroughly sound advice
would, naturally. But enough
to absolve you of any guilt.
And that’s something.
It’s really something.
So, that was December. I started the month slow, on account of November’s big month — a couple of readings, the release of a book, etc — but I really wound into it as the month went on, even writing a few while on holiday. And I’m pleased with the results. Anyway, feel free to comment or ignore, but I hope you found something there you liked.
Thanks for reading. That’s 2024’s poems all wrapped.
