On Landing

Is there phlegm when you cough

The doctor asked

Are there bicycles in Amsterdam

I should have said

Is the warm head

Another sign of my illness

Or do the busy places

Always burn so brightly

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Let Vacation Begin

Talk is of snowboards

“Skateboards without wheels”

Offers the grey haired older man

Father of the middle aged son

Who is doing most of the talking

Utah apparently is a good place

I therefore presume that these folks

Are related to the founding fathers

Descendants of those Boston pilgrims

Why else to be in Humberside Airport

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75

The book I have in mind to write is to do with recovery, recovery from the dark lights of life, and recovery from the dark lights of a several times broken heart.

The book will deal much with therapy, with many therapies, with many witch doctors magic methodologies, with many placebos, with the many failed and the few successful cures.

Longing will remain, it is one truth of life; longing may subside but it doesn't disappear, that is my belief, one reinforced through experience.

Firstly I will lay down a few facts, in some sort of chronological order. I will then group these facts into some sort of well thought out sets, placed on co-ordinates, in that x,y,z continuum that is the three dimensions of time, space and heartache.

From this cosmos, with multiple orbits, I will explore some of the perceived wisdom in the literature; you may expect a few quotations, from Jung to Nietzsche, from Dickinson to Plath, and from all spheres in between.

Unlike the poetry, which precedes this work, I will aim to distance myself from the particular, that is except where a detailed explanation of the particular might bring a smile to our eyes.

And who is to read this book? Why lovers of course; those falling into love, those falling out of love, and those beautiful souls found wandering on the precipice somewhere between somehow being in love and somehow being out of love.

Be ready to nudge me if I ramble, I won't intend to but sometimes the streams of the sub-conscious just take over.

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74

Is it that I have become indecisive

When mostly the only decision that I choose

To make is to write a few more words

On this next question I have truly stumbled

Should I retire, from the day job

To live the life of a writer

Let's be very clear then

I very much enjoy writing, to say immensely

Would not be stretching the point

Yet I have nothing published

And neither have I courted publishers, or agents

Save for that background noise of self-publication

I have hardly ever performed my work

Other than with a few local writing groups

And for my own internet recordings

I do care for my poetry

Some of it has stood the test of time

But it has never really got off the ground

I could carry on as a part-time writer

I have done so for eight years, or twenty five

What would another two mean; more of the same

Or I could jump, start some explorations

There would be risks, failures and successes

There would be change, I always wanted to change

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73

The last page was the halfway point

And now, apart from that last short ditty

We could almost say it is a new beginning

And how many more times have I begun again

How well the strain of originality is kept at bay, both

Along the illuminated way, and within the sunken shadows

The madness isn't though now present quite so often

Time, that great healer, softened many of the blows

Although, will it ever truly be over, will I ever know

If it is that the fields and the trees

In the morning frost are feeling the chill

The sky and the breeze thus redeeming me still

The thrill of the chase

And the basket case I became

No blame, no reframe, no endless shame

Always the same or all ways to change

Simply to write; sit with words to rearrange

Place this before that, in love's lost exchange

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72

There is a lot of tosh

Though I liked it back then

There is a lot of rhyme

O golly, o gosh

I will doff my cap, no slack

As and when

The love of lust stands in line

The lust of love hands it back

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71

Calf leather boots

Across the Humber Bridge

Smoking sweet cheroots

Up on Bluestone Ridge

A coffee and a chocolate bar

O Monday how you tempt my bid

Riding in this motor car

As a writer, lifting off the lid

In middle, or late age England

A long way from Inter-Milan

In designer outlet gear they stand

Looking neat; I have it in the can

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70

Uncertain

As to where time alone might take me

I did not stay alone so very long

From behind the curtain

As if the love of my life forgave me

I show myself to stand square, and be fairly strong

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69

There is sun on the snow back at my B&B

There is sun through the weeping willow back at my B&B

There is peace in the trees, trees without leaves, back at my B&B

I vowed to steer away

And steer away

Is exactly what I've done

I did not go in search of longing

I did not go in search of loss

I did not go in search of yearning

I did not go in search of cost

Instead I found friendly faces

Who turned around

And asked may I help you

As they complemented me on my bracelet 

There are good memories of this day, back at my B&B

There are ladders, and drains to mend, back at my B&B

There are owners, also known as friends, back at my B&B

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68

Retail therapy doesn't do it for me today

I find a flaw in the construction of the oak bureau

And so it is moved from the must have to the might have

But only if it's a bargain

And at close on seven hundred it isn't

Unlike last seasons Christmas lights, which it seems

Must have been substantially overstocked

They are discounted, significantly, extremely

Although in February, even though it is my birthday

I have little need for shimmering imitation chandeliers

I did see tables for the stables, but, yes I know another but

But I am quite unable to act unilaterally in this regard

And so I move on to the coffee shop, which nowadays

Unlike the days of my youth, is filled with young mothers

And all manner of pushchairs and carrying contraptions

It is, I have to say, almost the equivalent of those food pubs

Who have two for one pensioner days, just to prove

Or so I think, that pensions are keeping pace with inflation

Starbucks was no place for a struggling writer

Not that I am a writer, but if I was it would be a struggle

Not a penny, actually just one penny change from five pounds 

For a small Americano and an even smaller bar of granola, yes

I know that granola is a diet sin, and that I have to pay for my sins

But to pay through the nose, that smells more than a bit shifty

I drove back through Eastwood

Not specifically to see the schoolgirls smoking

Or to be surprised, by the young boys in anoraks

Entering the valentines card shop

It was the satellite navigation that redirected me

Apparently there was an accident on the direct route

I saw a white van, stopped by the police for speeding

Or maybe for something more sinister; I drove on by

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67

My hands have a white sheen

As though the mornings frost

Wants

For a prolonged reception

Or that the China clay

From all those years ago

Wants

To have one more chance

To polish me off

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66

I knew the sky was beautiful, big and blue

I just didn't know how to take the photograph

I knew I fancied to live my whole life with you

I just didn't know you thought I was having a laugh

I might eat potatoes

I won't eat hay

I might drive forever

Till the end of the day

I saw the sadness in her eyes

Her soles hardly left the pavement

She shuffled along in her bland clothing

Could I help her

Would my words help her

Might it help to talk

Does it always help to talk

I listened to Helen Dunmore

Reading her poem Wild Strawberries

In that one instant the thought

Of the almost violent beauty

And the ever vigilant pain

At the very extremities of love

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65

The coffee goes cold, at home I would put it in the microwave for forty seconds, take a sip then let it go cold again; I would repeat this process several times or more, I am a stickler for repetition.

My thoughts turn to those writing colleagues who I met at college; of how they brought something into my life that I had lost whilst getting caught up on the treadmill of work and family life. They may appear to some as fleeting relationships, for what is a year or two, in a life of four score year or more.

I suspect that a sense of community was some thing to do with it, and the relief of no longer being the leader; I wasn't the boss, I wasn't the father, I wasn't the provider, I wasn't even one expected to offer love and understanding; but I think I joined in, I hope I joined in; I think I made friends, I hope I made friends.

To be a part of something brings a richness, carries a vitality into my life. Right now I am taken to that talented young footballer who asked me how we could beat our opponents from several leagues above us. Richard I said, we will bring passion, and fire, and spirit. They will be overwhelmed by our enthusiasm, our ferociousness; and you Richard, you will show them the sort of flair that most of them can only dream of. We won that cup game, but not the next; this episode in my youth helped form my now long held belief that each new challenge needs a new leader.

I change my glasses, I am considering going out into the sunlight; I would be happy to sit here all day writing, yet I know full well that there is a slight restlessness within me. I guess everyone suffers a bit from the inability to sit still, unable to be calm and quiet with a settled mind. I am lucky, I suffer from it much less than most.

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64

I will order another coffee, in a few minutes, but for now I am indulging myself with the peaceful quiet. Even within myself I am almost peaceful, almost quiet; yet still alive to beauty, to the beauty of people and their places, I have just watched a video of my grandson Thomas singing happy birthday to me, from his holiday cottage in Wales.

Earlier I had the luxury of five snoozes, each with its own set of dreams, each with its own trail back to my youth, each with its own knowledge, good knowledge, that another snooze could so easily follow.

I am at Carsington Water in the Peak District, it is very cold and very beautiful. I walked around, took photographs; through the stones on stone island, took photographs; of the birds, in the water and in the sky.

A second cup of coffee, but no second cake, those days are over. Sunlight falls onto my table, and reflects brightly from the aluminium chairs and tables outside on the patio. The sun forges a thick, bright and solid stripe, straight down the water towards me; I am reminded of the song Do You Realise by The Flaming Lips.

I thought that today I might write something deep and meaningful, for I am reading Paul Auster's The Invention of Solitude at the moment. It is a memoir; the first part being about his father and their relationship. He claims to have had little rapport with his dad, and I think that mine and my father's relationship, apart from a few sparkling moments, was much the same. I couldn't tell you much about my father's psyche or what he thought his raison d'être was.

Suddenly, a slight darkness comes to mind and I declare that today I will not try to remember anything that I don't want to remember. I will try to stay on the path of the ethereal light.

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62 & 63

The cafe, all to myself

It is how I hoped it would be

Except there is no verandah

Overlooking the rippling water

The coffee is neat and the cake is ok

It isn't brilliant, but it could be

--------------------------------------

Long shadows

Ice cold, zero degrees

The waves lap

I shoot a short video

Later I might listen

To British Sea Power

Remember

Being sat by your side

On our sofa-settee

Watching their video

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61

Big blue sky

Golden, Tate & Lyle, sunlight

The farmer, with his muck-spreader

Has been here before me

To the top of the hill

Long shadows, dry stone walls

A caravan in a cold cold field

Down the hill

Round the corner

To see that long stretch of water

To the maker of puddings and cakes

Stones and walls and geometric columns

Strolls past fire pits with frozen fingers

On snow and ice, beside expectant geese

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60

One day, by the water, by the woods

Trying hard not to think

Of being beside the sea, on the beach

To drink in the nothing of nothingness

Silent in these silent times

Of no one here to share the day, or night

It is a chosen celebration, a rehearsal of sorts

Force beyond the force

Which settles, without thought, for the status quo

So with pen and pencil, and a closed

Or ever so slightly open mind

Let the weather join in and the love be with you

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58

Three vestiges of sleep

To steep, half-dreaming, half-waking

Shaking round the youth I keep

Half-forgetting, half-forsaking

All alone and all together

Oft misused best yes forever

Now's the time, now or never

To trace the steps, reboot the leather

Time is time and time is ticking

Reset the alarm, rework the knitting

Were we standing or were we sitting

At the party in the midst of middling

Another neat volume, of plain pages

Another fresh mind, one that still rages

All the while he seeks out the sages

Living out the teenage ages

That we might reach who knows where

To find ourselves without a care

Live a life to stop and stare

Will he doubt or will he dare

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57

In the library I was in the park

In the park I was on the beach

On the beach I was in the bookshop

In the bookshop I was having dinner

Having dinner I was making love

Making love I was settling the bill

Settling the bill I was thinking of yesterday

Yesterday I was thinking of tomorrow

Tomorrow I will be fighting the fire once more

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56

I have a desire to go

Someplace to be

Maybe to bathe in nostalgia

Or glow for the first time

In the immediacy of flirtation

I have many places in mind

But what of those

Of which I don't yet know

How should the search begin

What sparkle should my eye wear

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55

What I have

Is what I never had

What I now hold close

Is that where I didn't

Ever reach a closeness

Closer then than ever

Even without the knowing

Thus to hold tight onto

All that you gave, all

That I couldn't take away

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54

I once held the key

Carried it wherever I travelled

Loose, in denim jeans pocket

Close to the desires

Which desired to be unlocked

Earlier I had knocked, on 

A few doors, so many doors

Pouring out stories, and gifting

Gifts with the ease, to tease

That which becomes sacrament

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53

Neither in the making

Or the breaking apart

No point in raising stakes

For already it is a broken heart

Straight lines and primary colours

As if by Mondrian from the very start

No more might Piet be her brother

Beside the surging River Dart

Impeccable if not indeed precise

Serving Martini, Vermouth chilled with ice

Nothing if not respectable; a career

That careered without a single vice

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52

So far is far away, so far is by my side

So near is nearer now, so near, here for the ride

Into the canyon

Out of the stream

Into the desert

Out of the dream

So long is longer gone, so long, gone again

So time is timely now, so time, to dance in Maine

Into the starlight

Out to the moon

Into the heavens

Out there in June

So distant is distance, so distant, to define

So yearn as if yearning, so yearn one last line

Into the meadow

Out to the falls

Into the moorland

Out to the calls

So future are futures, so future, by the by

So hope for the hopeful, so hope sees the sky

Into the arms

Out of the alone

Into the embrace

Out of the stone

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51

I ought to have risen early

What with the end of Arturo Bandini

And the poem by WB Yeats on my mind

As it is I meet the sunlight

And the raindrops, and the wonder

That life might play so many games

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50

I have no more idea of why than I do of why not

All I can say is that the choice was limited

And the opportunities for foraging were scarce

Yet, at that time of life, I was a business winner

I had studied mathematics and statistics

I was au fait with the odds, the chances of success

David against Goliath was a role I often played

Sense and sensibility having not yet been offered

But, just as the sunlight falls, on the painted twigs

I saw a shaft, an opening, a pathway, a reflection

Of colour and beauty, of vibrancy and joy

And that's it, I had no more idea of why than that

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49

I am at one, here in the present

Stoking up the fire with logs

From under cover out in the frost

I was the lucky one, then as now

Finding a shoulder to rest my arm on

Whispering sweet nothings; nothing no more

In search of symmetry

I recognise that the wood storage boxes

Need their own force of realignment

And where did that fine light go

Did it sink back into the heavens

So I suppose; suppose nothing no more

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