July Poem Dump
Wednesday is about books and writing. (And reading). Once a month or so I share the latest poems I’ve written. Here’s July’s…
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:
That also includes a link to the previous month’s at the start of it. And so now let’s dig into what went up, in a poetry-sense, across July…
THE MOST MISERABLE FUCKING THING YOU’VE EVER HEARD IN YOUR LIFE — aka ‘SEMANTICS’:
Politicians will tell you,
blank-faced, expressionless,
that they’re there
to make a difference. And then
they make it worse. Meaning
technically, they’re not wrong.
A LIFETIME OF LISTENING TO LOU:
Lou Reed singing Wild Child…
It always gets me. The riff. Those
toy-store drums. And then the
lyrics about Genghis Khan and
a wizard’s hat. Like, what the
fuck was that? (I remember thinking
at eight, now again at 48).
Someone said, just after we heard
he was dead, that Lou Reed did
a lot with not much — managed
more with what he had than almost
anyone in music. Ride Into The Sun.
THE BANKS OF THE RIVER:
My brother is very busy, according
to our parents. They pass the news
between their songs, the boat that
crosses the river. What news, I
sometimes wonder, do they relay
to him? Are we busy? Or are we
lazy? Or somewhere in between?
A wee boat of its own, adrift,
awash; perhaps my brother’s
to even ask.
THRENODY:
Panic attack from the
Vietnam vet, thirty years on —
just the smells of the cooking
from the takeaway restaurant,
took him across oceans and
many more haircuts — and he
was curled up on the footpath
crying at the rotten thoughts
that fresh, sweet smell
brought with it.
IT’S IMPLIED:
My mother asked my father how many times
he had told me and my brother that we were
loved. And he held a pause. And we all laughed —
because we almost knew what was about to
be said. But then he shrugged, and simply
announced: ‘No need….it’s implied’.
We all howled with laughter, because you
can only scratch your head in comics and
cartoons.
Mum suggested it might be nice for us to
hear it. And he scoffed, ‘there’s no point —
It’s Implied!’ And this time he sounded
a tiny bit mad at the challenge. Not angry,
just frustrated. He had implied the love by
getting up early for sport, and always being
There. By answering all calls for money.
But we all agreed with our own shrug that
still it might have been nice to actually hear it.
Though we could live with the implication.
VICIOUS:
Lou Reed wrote “Sunday Morning”
on a whim. They needed one more
song — it was a throwaway tune
for the singer he wished he could
biff. Then, he got a sniff of the fact
it was going to be a the first single.
He pushed Nico to the side — for
the first of many times — and sang
the song himself. It’s the best vocal
of his career, so much so you might
say he doesn’t even sound like himself.
It’s not the type of conviction one
should see as being the model. But
then again, it almost is. A lot of fear
and hurt and confusion went into his
brand of coldness. A lot of sad energy
and loneliness and trauma-informed
response inside his version of boldness.
WE ALL MUST LIVE IN THE BROKEN POETRY OF THIS WORLD:
It doesn’t make sense.
So we must
make sentences.
We should be trying
much harder
than we are; that goes
for all of us — but
especially me. Otherwise
this could seem like
a lecture — and it’s not.
THE LOWER CLASSES SMELL:
George Orwell reckoned these
the ugliest words in a row. And,
well, Orwell ought to know. He
did the digging and the work.
He was there on the ground,
an ear cocked for the sound,
loneliness — and ugliness
don’t always smell the same.
There’s a stink to money too
that’s why they’re called the
filthy rich. It doesn’t resemble
a compliment of any kind.
PARADISE(S) NOT LOST:
there’s several
paradises right near
where you live.
Your dog(s)
will help
you find them.
TRUE SENSATIONS:
A busy week, I feel my back with stress; not
a good sign — last week it was my birthday,
but this is the real proof of age. I’m on the
bus, Lou Reed in my ears, singing What
Becomes A Legend Most — is that his most
underrated song? Totally slept on. I bought
the album in 1993, the day of the U2 concert.
We listened to “Legend” for the first time,
and lost our minds. Later that night, Bono
would duet with big-screen Lou on a
capable version of Satelite of Love.
On the bus to work, my back still hurts.
They say you’ll end up paying much later,
for the actions you take. But I’m grateful for
music that forever triggers memories.
True sensations…
HOW TO PICK UP WOMEN:
I found a book, while tidying up.
Our last communication, 23 years ago…
It was a joke-present, a book about
having success with women. One of
my friends has pretended to be the author,
and for comedy he’s saying he’s
sharing some tips.
Then Richard writes under,
“You can read as many books as you like,
but you will never be as good as me”.
It’s almost as if he is directly ignoring
the assignment, and finally trying to
project his true feelings. In handwriting
resembling a serial killer’s.
So, there you go. July’s poems. Written on my phone, walking here and there, or sitting on a bus sometimes; written while walking dogs — which even came out in some of the finished product. A lot of Lou Reed last month, because he was on my mind and on my stereo a lot. And just when I thought I was finished writing “Richard” poems, another arrived just like that…
So, let me know what you think. Or don’t. But, as always, a selection of words, some things hit, some things don’t stick at all, it’s always different, and differs from month to month, from reader to reader.
