September Poetry Dump
September 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 September’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 September. 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…
THE LATE NINETIES:
There was that time we all tried to drink
two litres of lime green milk, after eating
a giant burger. We were down by the water,
hungover, and later that night we’d head
to the Kurt & Courtney doco at the
film festival. There’d been some big party
the night before; somebody’s flat warming,
or 21st. Or both. Spiking the yard glass
with a hip flask of bourbon, and sachets
of ketchup from McDonald’s. Sunday,
after, in the sunshine. Our insides almost
frozen by far too much flavoured milk.
It could take a whole week for the self-
loathing to vanish. By which time it was
high time to start all over again. The
solution a huge part of the problem.
AIMING LOW:
I’ve never been a total
straight-and-narrow guy,
but I’ve kept to where I’ve kept,
which is good enough
and also just as well. But the time
I felt that I hit a rock-bottom, which
is a story for another day, I
remember thinking of just the final line
from a Roger McGough poem:
“He aimed low in life and missed”.
I had missed. Or was about to.
My aim needed adjusting.
I needed adjustment. I took
the hint – I pulled myself up – and
got out. And I never told anyone
(until now) that the words of Roger McGough
were ringing in my head.
But they were. And they still are.
And it isn’t because they’re
profound as much as it is that
they are the words that found me.
I found them at a time that mattered.
And they have mattered ever since.
I’ve projected my meaning onto them
as much as they have embedded their meaning
into me. You see, I was sitting there,
in a holding cell, and the other blokes
were blowing smoke and cursing the world
and looking at who it might be good
to start a fight with…and I was looking
at my shoes as if it was somehow
their fault alone, like they had been
the ones that had carried
the weight of me to that eventuality.
And I stifled a laugh as I thought
of Roger McGough being there
for me still. His wisdom weird
and wonderful in equal measures.
I had been aiming far too low.
WHEN YOU WERE SOMEONE (ELSE):
It’s weird the things you can remember
from the versions of yourself now dead,
long gone. Pissing in washing machines,
smashing guitars, leaving town on a huge
bar tab, alone in the police station as you
try to ‘clear your name’ — a few hours
later, trudging home after mugshots…
That time you were stoned and your
mate thought it funny to invite the
door-knocker up to interview you
for a survey; he sat on the drum stool,
leaned back into the wall and a pile of
books fell square on the top of his head.
All these things, banal, immature, and there
are more — so many more. But they never
happened to you. It was (always) someone else.
CONNECTION:
I often think about the time I stayed with a family
for a school sports trip, and the youngest kid was
telling me he spent the whole night up talking to
people on the computer. I could barely understand
it at first, and then I struggled to care, and even,
really to believe it. What on earth would they actually
talk about, I wondered. Flash forward to people
“discussing”
vaccine efficacy, crisis contagion, the rules of
international diplomacy, sometimes in FULL CAPS,
often with typpos withoutpunctuation as they evoke
Hitler, quote Godwin, Schrödinger, and also Joe Rogan.
Philosophers, all of them, talking about everything
and often without saying a thing. And I’m part
of the club now too. We all are. FUCK!
AT THE URINAL:
I was standing there — which is,
of course, how it starts and what
you do. But I wasn’t wearing
any shoes. A bit gross, but I couldn’t
play drums in footwear back then,
and I had this trick where I’d sneak off
during the long-intro songs, get
a beer, take a piss… A guy I knew from
many years earlier called me a disgrace;
said “look at you fool, you were once the
great hockey player and now just look
at your dishevelment…”
He went on a rant about having good
shoes; said his were worth more than
my life. “Not now”, I replied. My steady
stream licking all about his laces.
I USED TO DRINK A LOT AND ONCE IT PROBABLY SAVED MY LIFE:
One morning we woke up and we had
been burgled. Someone broke in and
entered — taking devices and wallets;
two people actually, the police would
confirm later. And they got a big
boot print off our windowsill, which
would lead to arrests. I didn’t feel
like the man of the house, a mild
whisky hangover meaning I missed
it all. From a borrowed computer, I
told social media, and helped the
police with their inquiries. They told me
this sophisticated team carried weapons
and would use them if needed. I guess
the best news about not ever trying to
be a hero means there’s a few extra
chances to get to be the man of
the house; if not the man of the hour.
ON WEEKENDS IN 1989:
We watched horror films for the fun of
the scare, we didn’t dare admit that it
had terrified us; just needed to not go
to the loo. That was the secret to it all.
Otherwise it was a long, slow walk back
down the hall; transported to a real-life
arcade game. Which door would someone
be hiding behind? When was the jump scare
coming? We never knew. We all kick-started
a lot of hearts. We’d all laugh long and
loud in the end. We were such good friends.
Each sleepover on a lounge floor like
some bonus Christmas; maybe three or
four a year, if lucky. Though each one
carried a sober version of a Boxing Day
hangover, like a goodie-bag to take home.
MY AFFORDABLE ADHD DIAGNOSIS:
filled in the form in a burst of energy,
nailed it and got the results it wanted
to give. [Just agree to a monthly fee
to get the best management]. By then,
I was bored and started hyperfixating
on the music of Todd Rundgren, and
the poetry of Langston Hughes; figured
if I left all further online tests right
where they belonged I’d be able
to listen to Todd, read Langston,
and have a bit more time
for all that second guessing…
ON LISA STANSFIELD BEING A TERRIBLE MOTHER:
She looked everywhere — apparently.
Then crafted her PTSD into one hell
of a hooky song. All I’m saying is, did
anyone check on her? What was the
duty of care? She was very candid.
Did we truly respect that? It doesn’t
feel like it. We just dined out on her
vulnerability. Then pushed the chairs
back; had a dance. I’ve convinced
myself: A whole new way of hearing
the song. My eyes fill with tears as
she moves us to dance. My heart
heavy with her loss, and that frantic,
desperate travel schedule she kept.
EGG AND WINE:
I was expelled from high school on the very
last day. Threw an egg at the vice principal
on a dare. He looked almost equally tired
and disappointed. He said, “go on, just fuck
off now”. And I said, “Okay”. So he tried to
add, “Good luck getting into hostels and
universities, when they come asking for
testimonials I’ll tell them you were kicked out”.
To which I replied, “righty-o mate, those
have all been sent already”.
But a couple of weeks later I walked into his
office, and handed him a bottle of wine. As
a thank you, of sorts. A gesture. And he said
thanks. And we shook hands. And he said,
“What was that blip? Why did you do it, what
was the point? I struggled and said sorry
one more time, and did my best to even
sound like I really did mean it. He said,
“Well, this is going to taste pretty good
tonight”, pointing to the wine.
I DON’T LIKE THE BAND RUSH BUT I ALMOST WISH I DID:
The song ‘Tom Sawyer’ is pretty cool,
though only in 40 second bursts.
One right at the start, then another,
nearly two minutes in. They seemed
nice in all their interviews, and
so many great musicians love them —
but, really? C’mon! That cartoon
voice, silly tunes, and a drummer
doing his maths homework right there
at the kit. He carried the ‘one’ everywhere,
subtracting it from the groove. A nice
addition would have been to offer
some semblance of feeling. Instead,
it’s just robust nonsense. I wish I
could like them…but I’m human.
I have a heart, and need my music
to have one as well. For a band called
Rush, I just don’t feel the blood. I don’t
hear any anger, any energy. They’re
patting heads, and rubbing tummies.
NO SUCH THING AS “NO SUCH THNG AS A FREE LUNCH”:
We were in Surfer’s Paradise in 1987 and
a man on a street corner invited us for
a free lunch — said there’d be a talk but
we would also get a bottle of wine. Dad
said fine. Told us to play along with the
timeshare presentation to get a free feed.
His geography-teacher friend was paying
extra attention during the interactive quiz,
so she won another bottle of wine. When
it came to the sign-on-the-line finale my
dad stood and told the room we had all
been impressed with what we had heard…
And now we had plenty to think about.
He is either thinking about it still, or
he stopped thinking about it as soon as
we started running down those stairs,
in that makeshift conference room.
On the Gold Coast of Australia, in 1987.
’COMFORTABLY NUMB’ PLAYS WHILE I STARE OUT THE WINDOW AT THE WING OF A PLANE:
7am, and a clear blue sky — and you
are on my mind again, Richard.
So many have asked what you’d
make of the poems I’m writing.
I’ve said, so often now, you’d be chuffed,
stoked; just not bothered at all. I’m almost
starting to believe myself, my face almost
touching the frame of the window
of the plane. David Gilmour’s
guitar solo hitting like the sun
LINDSEY BUCKINGHAM’S STRANGE GENIUS:
The way ‘Big Love’ curls
under synth lines, and an
electric guitar solo moves
like a creeping vine. A decade
after it had been a hit,
he reworked it for solo,
acoustic guitar. And my
friend, a player, said there
was no way that one man
was making all of that sound.
When I found the first video
footage, I felt like a god.
PAUL KELLY STARTS A FIRE:
one time I wasn’t allowed to review a
Paul Kelly gig, because someone else
called it first, but got so pissed, there
were things he missed. He called me
the next day in the hope i had taken
notes; of course I had. They were all
in my head, where they’ve all always
been, was nice to shake a few free.
No co-write for me, but I just remember
that song, We’ve Started A Fire, how that’s
the best single description for what
happens when Paul Kelly writes a tune.
HOW MILES DAVIS PLAYED IT COOL:
love the story that Coltrane
didn’t know how to stop his
solos, so caught up was he,
in full service to his god, his
devotion in every note and
the phrasing (his sax an
extension of his body), he
asked Miles who stared
through his soul and
without speaking made
him think deeply about
himself; then finally when
he spoke, like so many of
his solos he only had the
one main note: “Take the
damn horn out ya mouf!”
A FAILURE TO READ THE ROOM:
I had a dream, I bombed so bad,
in planned performance art. A punk
attempt at a poetry reading that was
a living hell for both me and the crowd.
So committed to the bit I could not
pull out, nor step away, and nothing
lucid here — no idea I was dreaming.
Have you ever had an indulgent
nightmare? The problem all your
own. You do not wake up screaming.
Instead it sits inside your head and
feels like actual pain, perhaps for
days. You have so much you can’t
explain; the sting of how it could be real
takes hold and will not budge. My new
book comes out in about seven weeks…
COUNTING DOWN THE SHOT CLOCK:
It’s tough to show you care, you like trying,
you are hopeful and heart-filled and eager.
I told my publisher I won’t enter
competitions, nor apply for funding — or
even aim for being included at festivals.
That way I can never be disappointed.
My mum has yet to reply to the message
I sent, explaining I have a new book.
I might shoot straight, and hope my aim
is true, but there’s always the odd airball still.
Those are the poems for September. All new. Some of them going through a few changes after appearing on the site here. One of them will be included in my new, upcoming book. On that, I also wrote about the cover selection for the new volume:
And though I didn’t go out to any open mics, and made no recordings of new or old poems this month, I did find time to reminisce about what got me back into reading poetry in public:
The True Story of How I Got Back Into Reading Poetry in Public…
True story. Promise.
Anyway, October will be a busy month with book edits and preparations, the final selection has been made, the order is confirmed, the editing process is well underway, the cover is starting to be designed, and we are rushing through to get it out and about, with details of a book launch still to come. But I’ll probably add a few new poems to the site as I go. I’ve started a few music-related ones, as you’ll see there, and I have a few more on my mind. Feels like the start of a new book project already…
Anyway, that’s the September Poem Dump.
