Arts Centred

We studied the miniatures

Our immaturity was rife

We discarded security

And hung out for life

She looks at the painting

With pencil in hand

As though without continuity

We would pray with the damned

Let's dance, I don't think so

In these shoes, I don't think so

With those eyes, I don't think so

Are you joking, I don't think so

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Transparent

Have you seen Cinema Paradiso

I could see the projector

Did you ever go away, and then return

I could see the curtains open

Are you clear about good and bad

I could see who bought tickets

And who didn't

Will you ever fall in love again

I could see who she was kissing

Is it true that light always reflects

I could see them roll the credits

Was it just a story after all

I can see, I might watch

As they lock and bolt the doors

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Plateau

We ran as children run, we had been climbing all morning, so to have the freedom of a flat space to run on was invigorating; if we had brought a football we would have had a kick-about.

Instead we kicked stones into the stream whose crystal clear water cut across to the west side before tumbling down, over the edge and out of view.

I picked up some lichen and flowers, placed them in a small circle; if I had been a religious man I might have prayed, instead I closed my eyes and contemplated on the warmth that I felt in my body and soul.

Roger placed his hand softly on my shoulder. He was a good friend, and his idea, to bring me here, was inspired. I had that certainty that it seems only altitude and oxygen can offer.

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Buying A Camera

The salesman said it was a brand new model
The first actual 'almost' SLR
I was in escapist mode

And so I bought it, right there and then
Best thing I did on that holiday
Buying that camera

The landlady
Of the vegetarian B&B asked me did I want bacon
And at that I cannot argue, but

When she said those words I didn't stop to think;
The many years of full-on breakfasts
In working men's B&B's had made me lazy

It didn't happen again
I stayed with her all week
And it didn't happen again, no more 'bacon'

Not a soul on Sennen Cove beach
The waves can hardly lap
The water is blue, the sands are washed

Bare footsteps
Kneeling to take the picture
The first photograph of loss and nothingness

No conversation; three days alone to think
Three nights
Lonely nights alone to drink

Then northerners came into the pub; Lancastrians
Who tried their best to make me laugh
Outside, in the gardens, sculptures by a Yorkshire lass

No wonder I became forgetful as dusk fell
I did though wonder if I might have a heart attack
As I ran back for my wallet

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It Could Have Been From A Dream

I was in a swish Manhattan apartment.

The smooth wooden box, holding the projector, was on a flexible lead, which wasn't quite stiff enough to keep the projector suspended.

Then I noticed oil on the luxurious animal skin carpet, it seemed to have come from the projector box. Someone told me not to worry. I have no idea who as I didn't see them. Anyway they said it was ok, it was a lubricant to help my dancing exercise "just rub it into the carpet and start your dancing".

I thought I might buy one of those open backed trucks, we saw one at that old disused church on Sunday. I think of it is as a last grasp at youth. The projector box was neat, smooth, a sort of soft-orange colour of wood, unvarnished, with rounded corners.

I don't recollect any images being portrayed.

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From One Photograph

I came here to write about the valley of the apricot trees
I came here to sit down and smoke that last cigarette

I might not have been all that you thought
I might not have fallen onto bended knees

I came here to write about what in time turned to nought
I came here to escape the shadow and the silhouette

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World Maps, Personal Relationships

About three lines in I had, in that one moment of clarity, a feeling of intense calm, with a real sense of purpose. Of course déjà vu and nostalgia played their parts; having once felt love I was able to feel love again.

And so I say thanks to this quiet Sunday morning, with birdsong, and sunlight on vases of daffodils. Yes the rest of the world is also waking; folks setting out their own precious moments.

As yesterday when my son Joseph's girlfriend Marija showed photographs of her country; exploring the castles, the lakes, and the beaches of Lithuania. All the while my own son lay on the sofa dozing; was he impervious to the attention, or was he happy at Marija's ease in our company.

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Thought Paths to Translucency

I have no more the desire to not have desire than I have to be desirous of other desires

Always the images find a path, in and out of the cerebral cortex, in and out of the daylight of the sunshine mind

So I become calm, to see the flowers wave in the breeze, to read Buddha Maitreya's words on self and ego

Yet I know that life is not one long stream of lotus blossoms, yes I know that I have to climb the hill before I reach the temple

But the gas man is on his way, and soon the boiler will be working, giving warmth throughout the household

Although it is not particularly cold this morning, it is a surprise that last night's clear sky, with stars and crescent moon

Did not bring a frost, instead the clouds provide a blanket which the sun gradually breaks through

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Melodious Not Melodrama

The light arrives

Slow, sure, and certain

Brighter every moment

Overwhelming sometimes

With glare and reflection

Yet always the gift of energy

Always the gift of life

And shadows, through the trees

And haze, through the mist

And, should you see the music stand

You could believe that the notes

Are there for you alone

Or, because you feel benevolent

You might share this sun, choose

To share this day, to share this

Happy-go-lucky Blue Nile melody

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Waking, Moving, And Writing

I woke, it was dark

I rose

I was somewhere in between

I moved, it was moving

I chose

Nowhere to be seen

I brewed tea, it was warm

My repose

The very thing I mean

I sat, it was quiet

I suppose

That time again to redeem

I thought, that's the sunlight

Prosaic

The light on which I lean

I write, it was morning

Frozen

Thinking of what might have been

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Imagined Image

The photograph looks like the city, yet for certain my grandparents lived in a small village. They moved there after my great grandmother passed away, she was almost ninety; her husband, my great grandfather, had passed away only two months before, he was the village cobbler.

The critics always come second, for without the artists, who always come first, they have nothing on which to base their criticism upon. Of course they may make witty remarks, or show off their learning by referencing comparable works; though in truth, for any of this to be authentic, the artist will already have shown his hand towards these influences and witticisms.

We used to go to tea every Sunday; you had to go through the kitchen, a lean to extension, at the back of the house, to get to the downstairs washroom. It was an end terrace, with a small triangular garden to the side. A very nice old lady lived next door, we used to call and say hello.

This was Paris, England, not Paris, France, which is most probably where the photograph was taken. Any criticism of the original photographer must be laid aside, for he has brought back such sweet memories into my life, which otherwise might have been no more than dust.

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Fillings

This page is empty, even with the mist, and the rays of winter sun, which whisper over the freshly ploughed furrows

This page is empty, even with a referral to The Twenty Love Poems of Pablo Neruda

This page is empty, even if I offer you a share of The Naked Lunch with William Burroughs

I looked up; the brilliant bright haze had turned into a dull undistinguished February day

I listened to the breakdown of the breakdown

I contemplated how the trapped may become less trapped; one moment by one moment was all I thought

I thought we were there together

Our memories though are not the same, as Pete eludes to in his song: the words I spoke were not always the words you heard

The playlist is based on John Martyn's One World

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Tree Thoughts

Take what you will

From this mood, or air

At first it is uplifting

Until further contemplation

Reveals an indiscriminate sky

And trees, bare without leaves

Yet wait, are not the hedgerows

Tinged with a purple maroon

As though life itself

Was reaching out to spring

When love may well again

Be found there on every corner

With the scents and the stimulations

Of roses in bloom, and

Skipped steps around the maypole

And did I not see a hint

Of light copper in that clutch

Of fine branches, set bright

Against the fading grey

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Driving The Self-Indulgent Imagination

I drive into the mist

The trees stand as silhouettes

Enticing me into their magical playground

I drive into the blue sky

The jet-trails evaporate

Encouraging me to think of restful vacations

The female singer's voice

Triggers my mind to send impulses

That then wildly stimulate my erogenous zones

It is as though her very rasp of timbre

Is as an expression of thigh on bare thigh

A simulation of those undressing steps to the love-ground

This time it was Tanita Tikaram

With Valentine Heart from her Ancient Heart Album

But it could just have easily been Liza Minnelli

With that album she had recorded by The Pet Shop Boys

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Dining Out

The darker shadow shows off the lighter shadow more distinctly. It suggests to me that the purpose is more to do with those around you, rather than it is to do with ourselves. And so I take the pan fried salmon, with rocket salad, in order to keep my health on the right track.

I am in the hotel where I have stayed before; they don't read John Ashberry here but I have brought a book by Doris Lessing. The barman does not stand well, though he his a youngish man, but obviously both bored and not well versed in etiquette or deportment. However if a brawl should ensue I would choose to be on his side, he might have played for the county at rugby, or been a bouncer for Billy Connolly.

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Truth & Friendship

We told each other stories:

He spoke of the petrified fell walker who was stuck on the precipice. Even though my friend was there with his thirteen year old son he took time to talk and coerce the climber who had frozen on the edge of the shear peak. Back at the hotel the climber told my friend’s wife that her husband had saved his life for certain.

My story had less depth of detail yet it also concerned the power of the mind. I was driving my son, who I was collecting after he had visited his friends at Hull university. From the very point of picking him up I gradually convinced myself that I was going to drive off the Humber Bridge.

I referred to Billy Joe McAllister and the Tallahassee bridge, my friend told me the name of the song and the singer. He also said the mind could be a particularly powerful beast. Let's hope it's not another two years until we meet again, in the Hall Garth hotel sauna. 

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Final Walk

Drawn from the words

How absurd still to reach out for you

Driving by kerbs aching to impeach the truth

You, my one love, so long in the making

You, my one heart, so strong in the braking

Ten years of loss to blame

On that the day of saddest of blue

Glad-rags packed away, off to bleach the blackest hue

The hurt is deep, although more so the longing

The ache goes on, increasing also the non-belonging

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One Track Mind

I won't forget

The wooden floor

The single door

The orange-rust bed settee

Her turquoise cardigan

The intensity of it all

That all of this should come

From listening to just one song

By that fine man Pat Metheny

All of this

After reading Ben Lerner's 

Leaving Atocha Station

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End of One Thing

When there is no more to articulate

The bright smiles have turned to pain

With nothing left there to pontificate

Sunshine is replaced by falling rain

New words then needed to eradicate

Clean phrases to help erase the stain

No time for doubt or to self-medicate

Fresh thoughts help improve the game

All of this brought on by the sight of the bright and shiny bob-cut brunette who smiled and waved

When the singer sings to emancipate

And turns the way of the brave

With no fear that she may ruminate

The crowd will once more surely wave

Release the lines with light to elucidate

Frame the images as true nature gave

No clowns are there left to imitate

The truth of love is all you need to crave

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Into

I am on the promenade in June

I am alone, but that does not matter

There is a beach cafe, not too far away

I am warm, in the meditative midday sun

Already I have been writing quite some time, yet this mood hit me in an instant, while reading John Fante's Ask The Dust

I have no desire to move

I am settled into the surroundings

There is light traffic, but that's no bother

I am happy watching passers by pass by

What was I thinking, not to have washed out my mouth; the residue of lust, all mindful and horny

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Angel Break

There are lights

There are windows

There is wind

And there is rain

Four wood posts

Four tartan cushions

An homemade bedstead

As big as a field

Four fields to the pub

Or a rattle-on-down

The old cart track

In moonlight and mist

Three somehow couples

Here on Xmas vacation

Set the controls

For the heart of the sun

Oranges for breakfast

And who was Thin Lizzy's

Guitarist before Gary Moore

And where is the CD 

Blues & Ballads

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One Question - No Answer

Could I be alone

Alone to be

What would I be alone

Alone to be

They say he stood alone

Alone to be

It's me that's good alone

Alone to be

I had friends and I had family

I lived by moon and by sea

I had happiness and I had recovery

I lived by reaching out for me

Should I be alone

Alone to be

What would I be alone

Alone to be

They say he stood alone

Alone to be

What good to be alone

Alone to be

I had light and I had the dark

I lived by words to breathe

I had energy and I had appetite

I lived a life approaching free

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Observations From Within

There are lights
There are windows
There is wind gathering
There will be rain, we suppose

And we moved closer together
And you turned over to find me
And that is when we started to kiss

There is a fire and a cooker
With friends to prepare breakfast
Or we could stay in bed till late
Rising to eat cake, or so I propose

And there are six
And we are two of they
And we didn't want to miss

There is a wood-burner
Whose chimney draws the draught
There is a Christmas Tree
A ukulele for the songs you chose

And there are decorative ribbons
And photographs of sheep
And love of faraway, reachable bliss

There are games on the table
There is mood music on the iPod stereo
These are thoughts from Angel Barn
This is the life not yet to close

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To Question

Could I live to be alone
Alone with all the guilt
Could I give to be alone
Give away all that I have built

Could I shift to be alone
Lone as sifting through the silt
Could I drift to be alone
Drifting to the day I wilt

The sun alone is slowly rising
The breeze begins to flee
Darkness is near on prising
Again we share the light to see

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You, Away (Cowdust)

A simpler way

Similar of the day

And of the night time

Meditation sways

Calm of purpose to play

With children to lights out time

Picture peaceful Mandalay

Or restless, chaotic, Bombay

Rich colours intertwined

Away for two days to stay

Here alone in our bed I may

Write of the lovers sign

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Basin

There was no one here

Yet quite suddenly

It is busy

There was nothing to fear

Even the past

Of dizzy Miss Lizzie

These are hill people

Hills and valleys

Grass to stream

Dry stone walls

Surround

Sheep farmers dream

Barns and bairns

At work and play

Tor views that redeem

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Absence Of Free Will

It is not that I am torn

It is more that my mind

Seems to go

Just wherever it damned well chooses

I have been in love before

I am in love again now

Images & memories

Which my mind frequently abuses

If on occasions forlorn

If caught on barbs that bind

I am resigned to follow her

Just wherever she damned well pleases

If to think of the spotlit dance floor

To shuffle so lightly how

With footsteps and body sways

She poses, she teases

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Escape

Without words

A mind filled to overflowing

With maps and images

Famous painters

And women's breasts

Still mountain mists

From the east of Saigon

Enter

Into the night time

Wait for quiet to fall

Darkness to take her shadows

Memories of dusk clamber

For your erstwhile attention

Detention is worth the call

From the rest of the world

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Thin Air

The words hold themselves

I have no way of propulsion

You, where my thoughts go

Might be scared that they lie

Unable to hold or elucidate

I can only wish of their lost ether

Readers, in the lonely rooms

Call out; this is another lovers cry

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Aznavour

She

Woman of man's life

Where would we be without 

Her otherwise attractions

He

Man of woman's life

Who would otherwise

Share less undue distractions

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