Poems. And Ideas That Would Like To Be Poems.

Wednesday is for books and writing. Today some new writing. The latest poems. And ideas that would like to be poems.

From time to time here I share some poems. You’ll know that if you’ve logged in more than once or twice. I like to share what I’m up to. What I’m thinking. What I’m writing. What I’m trying to get down on the page. It doesn’t always make for the greatest engagement with readers, because, as I said to someone just recently, “poetry is to writing and reading as jazz is to music and listening”. The context for this was a publisher telling me that they did not like poetry. (All poetry, not just mine). She listened to my line and then said, “I hate jazz”. It was a pretty perfect exchange really.

Some of these poems have been shared on “Off The Tracks” - which is now living here on Substack too. But you wouldn’t know that unless you knew to look for them. (I don’t email them out). Some of them have been posted on Instagram as well or instead. Some are new this week. None are older than July. So here is the new batch. Some musings from the last few weeks. Let me know what you think. Or don’t. But either way, you can have your Wednesday back soon. I hope you plan to use it to listen to Horace Silver’s Song For My Father.

*

Snack On The Rich

the wealthy will eventually devour
themselves, all of the crockery, the
cutlery, soft furnishings…

They’ll leave nothing more
than finger-food. That’s for
the rest of us, proof they gave back.

*

Recycling

It’s hard to know what’s new -
because the answer to that question
barely seems satisfactory; often it never
even arrives. It’s a very bad question.

And should not be asked under
the sun. But, when dancing
in the moonlight it’s so hard to resist
oldest tricks from second hand books.

*

Everything Is Connected

the band in the pub
plays the theme from
Country Calendar

and you are not here.
I miss you -
There is no connection

but everything is
connected. Everything
is connected.

*

In My Dreams Van Morrison Is Dead And That Doesn’t Make Me A Good Person But My Dreams Have A Wonderful Soundtrack

Just lately, I’ve started fantasising about the idea that in a parallel universe, Van Morrison blew his brains out in 1980. He had just released 1979’s Into The Music, and 1980’s Common One would be the first posthumous release in August of that sad, sad year. We’d get 1982’s Beautiful Vision and no more. No cruise-ship jazz-lite, no songs about vaccines and Facebook, no collaborations with Eric Clapton. Just 15 years of magic. The man singing in his own language just after inventing it. Those big bellows of Caledonian soul music, and that deep soul-cry that searches for a home outside the metre of most music but nestles into the bosom of his ideal of rhythm and blues.

Bigger than Dylan, better than Lennon, fewer faux-pas than Stevie Wonder or Joni Mitchell or Willie Nelson. And only a few complaints of him being rude backstage, and a tricky interviewee. Big deal. We would have all that glorious music. And the sadness of there being no more. No chance to fall from grace, to stumble down the rails, to rail against the world without ever acknowledging the privilege of his position.

Van Morrison. Dead at 35. He blew minds. And we miss him.

I want this. I want this more than any “Comeback”. I want him to have died in a fire, or by his own hand. I want only the best from him. And none of the worst. And this is not my finest moment. I know that. This is not my Veedon Fleece. This is not my Astral Weeks. This is Too Long In Exile. This is Days Like This

Hey, It’s Too Late To Stop Now…

*

No Bad Spell

When it’s cold in the early hours and I’m
awake and you’re not, I put my foot by
yours, and toes instinctively curl.

And warmth exudes. Our soles are
touching – and you could also spell
that another way.  

*

Listening to Patsy Cline on TikTok

beautiful voice, but what is with that haircut?

Those eyebrows though! DAMN!

She a'ight but bitch be CRAZY for looking

that way. For Reel! Willie Nelson make $25

on that song? He the one who really Crazy!

*

Apprenticeship Novels

Emily Perkins is reading from the stage.
Her new novel is alive. And, well, it sounds
very good from what I’m hearing.

When I was a different person, I read
many of the stories in her first book
in cafes and on the seats in Cuba Mall.

She is not a particularly autobiographical
writer. That is all I am. There’s no real need
to mention either of those observations,

music less present them as facts. But I
must read the new book. Rather than re-read
the old one. Is that also a metaphor?

It feels like it could be.
Just as this feels like one of the
worst ways to ever end a poem.

*

Framework

if i am the glue, you are the glitter -
holding things is what i do;
it’s you that makes the picture.

*

Three Pies For Lunch

I took the dog for a walk, stopped
at the bakery on the way home and
bought three pies: one for my wife,

one for my son, and one for me. But
the person serving said, “are these
to have here or takeaway”.  

Who sits and eats three pies in public –
I thought, as I sheepishly said, “takeaway
thanks”.           We are all judging people.  

All the time,
I thought right then.
And continue to prove right now.

*

Disappoint Is The Only Appointment I Keep

Spiritual anguish isn’t so bad
once you’ve changed the sheets
in the guest room.

Okay, so it lives rent-free but makes
no real mess - beyond the existential
dread. And time needs to pass.

You can’t mark it only by birthdays,
and you need to own your mistakes.
Make up the spare bed and let

them all have a place to rest; let them
get comfortable. They’ll be
some comfort to you in the end.

*

Not All Heroes Wear A Tiny Cottonwool Bagde With Medical Tape On Their Sleeve

I gave blood today!
But then, I often do.

Every week day from
quarter past nine
until quarter to five
I’m there at - or near to -
my desk, dangerously close
to being on - or near -
the cusp of replying
to an email; of scheduling
a meeting that will obviously
feature robust discussion,
and jargon for Africa (which
is a charitable donation so
it gets a deduction). I’m also
putting notes in calendars,
seeking fruitful collaboration,
aiming for scaleable outcomes,
desiring that agile approach,
craving a good hard deadline.
One can’t come quick enough!

I gave blood today.
But then, I usually do.

*

Dinner With An Old Friend

He repeated himself so many times that even I lost count.
And I don’t drink. Though you wouldn’t believe it if you
only had his stories to go on. It was a lovely night, though

bittersweet. He was lost by the end, and took help down the stairs,
he struggled with the seatbelt, but that was the least of the worries.
We heard about work, how he’s being replaced – so his plan is

to give even more of himself, until he’s dry like a husk, grey like a
shadow and broken like the record he kept spinning all night.
Spinning out of control, and then over and over again.
 
And once more – but not even for good luck. This one purely for the
nostalgia. That’s the cage where he lives. The radio played That’s Just
The Way It Is, as I dropped him down the road. “Some things will

never change….”  And then Life’s What You Make It to immediately follow.  “Yesterday’s faded/Nothing can change it”. Talk (talk) of just celebrating it.  
You can’t escape it/shouldn’t back date it/also no escaping it. He was

getting more help as he tumbled out of the car, and up some more stairs,
eventually to bed, after one more drink, and another go at telling the best story of the night.                       But he won’t get the help he needs.

*

When Your Comfort Is Shook

I call myself a privileged mess.
It took me years to find myself - and
yet, all the while, I was never lost.

That kind of luxury not only writes white -
it’s dressed in beige, it knows instinctively
where to find the cream.

One can atone, without ever needing to
fully apologise. One can remain content
and changed as well.

*

Roy’s Okay!

Roy reckoned he’d seen the real Floyd five bloody times, and that’s what he said there at the Pink Floyd tribute band’s gig.

He’d been silent the entire first half, but then he asked how you were finding it, and before you could answer he started in on how many times

he’d seen the real deal and how many times he'd seen all sorts of tribute acts too. And as you wondered whether it was just about keeping

the dream alive, and as you wondered if Roy was even okay, he started to tell you about how the fertiliser truck had claimed his wife, just three years ago,

on her way to work – and she had been counting down the weeks to retirement as well. How they’d always joked that he was going to go first what

with his terrible family history and cholesterol through the bloody roof mate – even with a wonderful diet. (He’d had fish’n’chips twice his entire adult life!)

Roy wasn’t sure about this tribute band, couldn’t quite tell if it was the one he'd seen most often, and if they were really doing a good job. He only rated

the saxophone player a measly two out of ten. And though that seemed harsh, you’d decided it was Roy’s night, and that he deserved far more than

just that, but certainly he could make whatever calls he wanted – including continuing to talk during the start of the second half.  He was also a big fan

of Tangerine Dream, as you’d correctly guessed. He was also doing a world tour next year and hoping to catch them while he was traveling, all on

his way to get to the America’s Cup. But that was moot, since he’d been in hospital five times already this year, including just last week when  he blacked out making

a milky coffee. Next thing he woke up, the instant freeze-dried  all over the floor, his son ringing and ringing. But now he had a fancy watch and it phoned

the hospital if he fell; texted all his contacts too. So you decided Roy was okay, and that he would be alright. And if he fell in the second half, The Show

Must Go On. He’d agree with that. And you could keep watching. And keep thinking about Roy long after the show ended. And all the next week.

---

*************************************