October Poetry Dump
October 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 October'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:
Follow that link back to look at previous months also. But for now, here’s all the poems I wrote across October. Some of them you saw, some of them you didn’t. Here’s the full range. As always, let me know what you think. Or don’t. That’s fine either way…I have my new book out next week, and so as I sign off from “Richard” I find a new form and themes emerging. Music is very overtly the focus once again.
FRIENDS WITH TODD RUNDGREN:
It would be like living inside one
of his songs, and you would always
be waiting for the break-up tune
you knew he would be writing
La la la-la, la-la la-la la…
(when all else fails…)
GALLIMAUFRY:
I still don’t know exactly
when he turned, I get the feeling it was
slow-burn, happening all the time. But three
years in the boys-only school certainly
didn’t help him. Or helped him to turn,
if you want to look at it that way.
But why appreciate that view? What
bothered me most was the easy way
he could win a room, take them over, make
you seem like the crazy one. Turn the
gaslighting down and the
heat up high. Bray loudly into the night.
That smirk was one for the pantomime
stage. The unsettled rage that cooked
so slowly inside him.
LISTENING TO BOB DYLAN AT RED ROCKS:
I walk the dogs to clear my head, and
yes, so they can clear their bowels —
we all have pressing concerns. But I
like to think that I learn something new
every time I listen to Bob Dylan sing
Most of the Time. Out by Red Rocks,
waves rhythmically crashing, with
more calm than it might seem, I
feel anew. Dylan’ best song blowing
with the breeze. The dogs both
dropped the load they were carrying.
And I guess I just did too.
BRIAN ENO’S TOP BOY SOUNDTRACK:
There’s some old joke about listening
to a Philip Glass record for three hours
before turning the side, because the
scratch meant it just looped on itself.
I’m listening to Eno and can’t tell where
it finishes, let alone when the clothes
dryer even started. Brian would like
that. He’d smile a wry smile, maybe
not for three hours. But also,
you might never know.
BUYING ‘A LOVE SUPREME’ ON CD IN 1993:
It was like a first house — or car.
You remember where you are, or
at least where you were when
you found it, though they tend to
say how it found you. You stalked
this down though, Asking for
Coltrane in the stores of Hastings
over 30 year ago — it was almost
like starting a fight. Were you calling
the owner gay? The only jazz they
had was Kenny G. But you found
Johnny C., in a store long gone now,
during a school sports trip. You
remember all the Neil Young tapes
and that Coltrane CD. First kisses.
Little notes passed. Some of the
other teens were shagging their
brains out in hotel rooms. While
you are having your mind blow
In a way you can’t ever forget.
JAMES NEWTON HOWARD SCORES THE SIXTH SENSE:
It’s almost as if he knew what to play,
and how to say it, like he’d been there
before. My dog in a bundle right next
to me. The world can wait. It’s early.
James Newton Howard using strings
to pierce to the heart, to piece it all
together — even without the bow to
tie up the loose ends. People have asked
how you know something is a poem, or
wonder how it can be declared. Look,
it’s because I said so, in my case
anyway. Might be the same for James
when he writes his musical cues. And
that’s not a comparison by the way.
I could never be that hopeful, just, you
know, different people, different methods.
WHY DO SO MANY PEOPLE HATE PHIL COLLINS?:
There’s a lot of people who tried to
pat their head while rubbing someone
else’s tummy; that’s how wrong
they got it. And a strange jealousy
festers. I think of Martin Sheen’s hair
in the film, Firestarter. (Seriously, I do.
Often). I’m convinced that Phil Collins
gets abuse and hatred because he’s bald.
Imagine him with the hair of Sheen.
He’d be an untouchable god, not the
punch line to coke jokes from
jealous wannabes in their post-punk
pants. Jean-jacket journalists
with two chords to their name.
SPLICE-OF-LIFE:
When I listen to certain songs, I hear
the tape hiss, no matter the format.
As if my own blood and sweat sits
deep within the track. A pencil to
tighten the truth of the situation;
The slight squeak and squeal of
the wheel getting away on itself,
even deep within itself. All those
hours spent listening. All that time.
I’ll never get it back, and wouldn’t
ever want that anyway. Evidence,
despite there being no final exam.
YOUR LATEST TRICK:
You write an academic essay
about the Dire Straits album,
‘Brothers in Arms’. The lecturer
gives you a ‘D’. At first, you think
it’s clever code; cute. You’re
thrilled until you hear him saying
“Nothing here but stoner nonsense”.
But all of his complaints about
the things you should have said,
and songs you should have mentioned
are from other albums. So you defend
yourself in front of academic council.
Your argument is “it’s music journalism”.
You get an ‘A’. The VC steps forward
to shake your hand, and from inside
his robes, grabs a saxophone.
He blows that thing real good. Then
asks what you think. You give him
a ‘B’. He starts to cry. Then bottles
of wine-cooler for everyone. He’s
over the moon, takes a line from
a tray. Says you’ve made his day.
FEELING THE LOVE:
Brian Eno telling David Bowie
that I Feel Love by Donna Summer
is the future of music. David
Bowie telling the world
something similar through
songs like Fashion and Boys
Keep Swinging, and I am The DJ
(He was what he played!)
That Summer of disco was
slippery hot and mechanically
charged. Giorgio Moroder dialling
science fiction onto the dance floor.
LISTENING TO AFFCO BY THE SKEPTICS ON A LOOP:
There’s two national psyches to this
country, the one we want people
to know, and the one we can’t seem
to talk about. A lot of angry men, lost,
and the dirt piles up. Hurt, so they strike
out to hurt. This is our country’s
deep shame. This is the dark side
of All Black fame. There are two
national anthems for this country,
that sonorous nonsense they play
at the game. And the industrial
clatter that barks through my brain.
PAUL HERTZOG’S SCORE FOR BLOODSPORT:
He’s a school teacher now,
couldn’t get the Hollywood gigs.
But he wrote the music for
two films starring Jean Claude
Van Damme — and what did
you ever do? I nearly cry
with elation when I listen
to the music from Bloodsport,
when ‘Frank’ comes back
and the face of his girlfriend
is just a cake of pure joy.
Paul Hertzog’s music
the sweetest icing, the very
best frame for the picture.
THE LIVE VERSION OF ONE MORE NIGHT:
There’s a scene in my head where
a guy is driving in a car, a body
in the boot. One of several he’s both
collected and disposed of inside
the same (productive) week. And
the music in his head and/or on his
stereo is the Phil Collins ballad,
One More Night, strictly the live version
from the Serious Hits record. Such
scenes only feel perfect when
they’re deep inside your head. Like
the perfect plan for murder, it’s best
I do not share it. Let the saxophone solo
linger, as the blood drains from the tune.
EXPLAINING SUZANNE VEGA TO MY FATHER:
My dad once told me that my brother
had been in a room with John Key.
the former Prime Minister of NZ.
“That’s pretty impressive”, he added.
I told him his other son, meaning me,
had shared a cup of tea with Suzanne Vega.
“She wrote that song Luka”. I also
pointed out we hadn’t shared
the same cup, it was in fact Tea For Two
(always worth pointing out when it comes
to the arts). There were oysters at
the John Key Shindig. The beer flowed
like wine… “She also wrote Tom’s Diner”,
I found myself saying. The old man fumbling
for the remote, finding some Motorsport.
Telling me also: To “Shhhhh”
JAMES BROWN HATES MY POETRY BUT “I FEEL GOOD” ABOUT THAT NOW:
Not the Godfather of Soul, just some
Wellington poet. So not the messiah,
just a very naughty boy. But he tore me
a new one when he read the old poems.
Told me I had nothing, and should quit.
So that’s what I did — for a bit. He really
put me off poetry — mostly his. But also
my own for a time. I re-read his remarks
and realise he helped me build a better
version of whatever it is I am trying to do.
I should probably thank him one day.
Does this count? It might have to.
DAVID SEYMOUR’S NOT FANCY:
David Seymour is frightened of poetry,
doesn’t understand it — loves free speech
unless it’s calling him and his drunk uncles
racist. Which they are. (White people hate
being called racists — possibly more
than they hate brown people). David Seymour
is actively weaponising his empathetic
black hole. He is the void. Poetry made it in,
but refused to tickle his fancy.
Mostly because there’s nothing there.
COIN TOSSING:
If you are afraid of imposter syndrome
it’s because you know deeply
about your own self-sabotage. You think
this means others know too. But only
you know about the worst versions
of you. So your idea that you are not
good enough comes from the examples
you already have. That is your proof.
It’s unconnected though, and only
you see them as two sides of the coin
you must toss; the two sides of you
projecting (or is it protecting?) loss.
So, that’s October. I know there’s a couple of days left, but that’s likely me on the poetry front for this month. And remember you can still Pre-Order My New Book - and details on the launch to come:
And those awesome Phantom Billstickers posters are showing up around town:
And it’s not like The Richard Poems isn’t about music. I think it’s as much about music (maybe more) than my first book of poems:
