Homestead

The world it is turning
But it doesn't quite know me
Yes the world it is turning
But it doesn't yet own me

I am still going
Yet where there is no knowing
The world doesn't know
And I'm not for showing

Round and round
And faster and faster
Who knows where I'm bound
Who knows if I will surpass her

The lady in the window
With joy in her eyes
The lady on the doorstep
Crying my o my

My boys are back with me
To laugh, sat at the table
My boys are back with me
To go overseas no more

So let's
Turn up the music
And let's
Kick off the dance

We are here tonight
And we won't go
No, we won't go
Overseas no more

We are here tonight
And we won't go
No, we won't go
Overseas no more

No, we won't go
Overseas no more
No, we won't go
Overseas no more

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Break In The Rain

He had been too busy
To look at the moon
So it was good for him
That I had taken a photograph
Good for me also
For whilst yes
I had seen the real thing
The camera forced me
Encouraged me
To take a few extra moments
To make sure of what it was
That I was seeing
To then compose, and frame
The whole thing
Take one more deep breath
And press the shutter

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Sentenced

The sentences would not stop appearing, the story kept on reinventing itself; is this the onset of madness, the steps to the depths of delirium.

The sentences gathered themselves, as if in vast fields of flowers, whose tips were welded together, into the light emitting diodes of the many thousand colours.

Three times I forced a closure, three times the sentences appeared again, until at last I rose from my bed; it was one hour past midnight.

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Performing Arts

I was on a tour, of film studios, or space simulation sets, or fairy grottos.

We had been split into two groups, two, quite old, and pretty much useless women, were showing our group around.

We finished the first half and were going across the courtyard to another building when the tour guide asked if all was going ok; we were told the boss might talk to us in the next place.

The entrance to his room was locked and guarded; instead we had a choice of some steep stone steps, or to enter a big empty room, which didn't seem to go anywhere, although we could hear the other group.

I was wearing the outlandish clothing of my teenage years, really big bell-bottom trousers, which totally covered my shoes, and a big trench-coat, which came down to my ankles, also I wore a wizards pointed hat.

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Shaped Words

There were shapes, like rounded rectangles, they contained words. They were placed sequentially, and when one moved the rest moved; their position vis a vis the others couldn't be changed without separating the words, without starting afresh with new words. It was like an editor with little or no control over the work; once the tablets had been laid down then there they stayed. The apparent flexibility was infinitesimally inflexible; the care then had to be in laying the words down, absolutely correctly, in the first place.

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Forced Words

I was trying to dictate words, but the words would not come out, the words would not be spoken, they were stuck inside my head, inside my thought processing mechanisms; it was a real struggle to push the words out, and when eventually they were released they came along half a sentence at a time.

The last three to six words glowed, shone in many different colours; these were neon words, words so very special that hardship had to be endured, and care taken, when taking them from the cerebral cortex, out and onto the parchment.

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Albums

Many images, too many images
Appropriation
Never mind the quality
Feel the width
Measure the file size

Lost in storage
Stored away two or three times
Backup; special effects, cropped
For greater effect
Saved again, then copied

I will choose one
Just one
I will choose a thousand
Just one thousand
To be laid side by side

And what of the ones left
Betwixt camera and computer
From hard drive to memory
Stick, to walking stick; so few
Photographs of my mother

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Sun On Thigh

I felt the warmth of the
Winter sun on my thigh
It felt pretty good I can
Tell you

I was writing a story
About the beginning
Of a love affair
It is part make believe
And part memoir
So there was more
Than the warm sun
To make me feel good

Yet I noticed
As cloud cover came over
That my mood deteriorated
And with it my story
Light turned to dark
In both fact, and in fiction
Yet it will still be there
Forever

But yes, I did feel pretty good
When the winter sun
Shone
And warmed my thigh

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Speed Circles

It was a very logical dream
A very repetitive dream
I think I understood its origins

I would write two or three lines
Then the fourth line I would
Highlight with silver grey marker

I would do this two or three times
Then on the fourth stanza
I would highlight the last
Line with a blue marker

It was as though I was
Telling a story, building
Up towards a big finale
I repeated the dream

Two or three times
Then just before the fourth
Time, the story came to an end

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Discuss

The sun is over my shoulder
I am listening to people
On the radio, they talk about
Barber's Adagio for Strings
Their explanative words are
Interspersed with Samuel's music
The sky ranges from silver
Through blue, to grey, to black
The swirling winds occasionally
Settle into a calm stillness
I am full of cold, and from
Time to time break out
With a raucous cough
The room in which I sit, on
A Harris Tweed settee, is filled
With light, bright-light, and
Soft shade
A performer talks of spreading
Out the cello and violin parts
In order to prevent a beat
To provide a serenity
Much like the light in my room

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Absenteeism

Warm smile
Warm skin
Happy
Still to be alive

Coughing, coughing
Rising from the deep
Cool thoughts
Cold feet

Optical illusion
Clouds don't move
Branches don't move
I can't sit still

That old shed
With its moss covered roof
That old fence
With its memory of sunflowers

All in all
This mirror catches me
As I hear
The upstairs floorboards creaking

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Writing Home To Whoever

I am alone
As alone as I was listening to John Cage
Alone listening to his silence; I never felt so alone
As when I had to explain his Four minutes thirty-three
I escaped, went to a committee meeting
And afterwards, alone, I went on to the opera
I never was so alone, as when I had to explain that story
More so, when I had to explain why I had enjoyed myself so
So I escaped, went to an international convention
And afterwards, we went to a bar in the Bavarian Forest
Stood on the tables, sang our big hearts out, accompanied
By a very excitable, oompah band
Beethoven never got a look in
I was found; I had another beer

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Running For The Hills

The water was crystal clear, the parliament buildings behind me were of solid stone, clean stone, plain stone; the building getting its presence from its bold stature, a rigid protective structure, in an otherwise deregulated place

The steps, onto the yacht, had thick guide ropes, one felt steady just by wrapping ones hands around them. The champagne, poured out to greet you, was a surprise to a northern working class chap, but a neat touch nonetheless

Your hosts, businessmen hoping to make money out of your wares, sat you at the head of the table, at the head of the twelve seater, cotton and crystal covered table, with place settings of sterling silver

Anders, with his waxed curled up moustache, raised a toast "Here's to Christopher; I give you a toast to Christopher"

Christopher was thus so easily impressed

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Poets On The Peaks

That hat suits
You look good for dancing
Don't you go bother yourself at all
Drilling down
The night's stars always collide

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Inspired By Grace Nichols' Poem: Like A Beacon

A good suit
A pair of good shoes
A good cotton shirt
A tie
With a good, and strong, woven pattern

He needs these

Articles of faith
Articles of possession
Articles of strength
Ties
Of your articled businessman

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Ingrained Years

Yesterday I thought your face
Appeared mildly oriental
I so wanted to tell you
But could not choose the words
After you said your face felt tired
I should have taken a photograph
To better explain myself
Perhaps you will look vaguely similar
On our next weekend together

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Cool

I sit by the window
In your small armchair
It is cooler here

The slight chill
Through the thin glass
Acts as a counterbalance

To the well-stoked wood-burner
Which keeps the body of the room
Good and warm, roasting some might say

I am meditating
All seemed quiet
But the contemplation
Allows for many sounds

Next doors dog
Is repeatedly disturbed
By the passing traffic

He yelps
Then barks again
Just so that I may be aware

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After You Had Gone

You are travelling
I am writing
We are lovers
Caring for the love
That which we are sharing

We have memories
And acquired mementoes
These are sketches
Of times past and future

You are tender
I try with humour
We are together
Caring for the other
That which we are loving

We have good times
And we have better times
These are the daydreams
Of times extrapolated

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Certain Uncertainties

I was at the Open University
On an out of town campus
I was answering an examination question
It was a four-part question

The individual sections did not make any sense
Not on their own at any rate
Only when read together did they combine
Into a coherent body, beckoning a clear response

We had been split into two groups
I went off in search of the other group
I was directed towards a single story
Prefabricated building - The Physics Block

There were signs that people had been there
But there was no one there now
Neither in the classrooms nor the laboratories
I went back, and began answering the question

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Outlines, Procedures, And Timescales

It was just like the old days
I was planning
I was making lots of plans
I was working out all sorts of plans
Yet my day ahead was empty
My day before me was free
To do with as I wished
I had no need to plan
I had nothing to plan
Nothing at all

So I changed tack
I planned to become a better person
I planned to be more caring, more loving
I planned to improve my health
Both now and in the future
I planned to be more outgoing
To be less of a recluse
I planned to be more conscientious
To work harder at my writing
Yet I knew there would be difficulties
There would be many failures

So I planned to meditate
I planned to take up a mantra
To sit quietly
Morning and night
I planned to let my thoughts
Come and go just as they wished
I planned to have a settled period
At the end of every meditation
I planned to share my love of meditation
To begin groups and associations
I planned to be a good meditator
Then I heard the bell chime for breakfast

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Jekyll & Hyde

I had two meditations yesterday
The first was quite disturbing
Lots of colours, lots of thoughts
None of which I could relate to
Nothing that I could grasp

The second one was way more lucid
I travelled to a great many places
I had lots of visions, and thoughts
All of which made a good deal of sense
All of which I understood to have a basis

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Sack Lifting Hook

In my favourite cafe
In the chosen corner

Looking out
On the lady with the porkpie hat
Listening in
On the garden refurbishment small-talk

Everyone so it seems
Is going away somewhere
Everyone, more so it seems
Have memories to treasure

Earlier
The funeral cortège drove through town
Led
By the solitary stick-tapping walker

Perhaps it was for the very man
Or the very woman
Who inspired the conversion
Of this bonded storage warehouse

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Feast And Fast

I was at a daytime social gathering, somewhere in the countryside, there were lots of people there, families with children, although I didn't recognise anyone in particular.

There were two big old sports cars, the sort that used to race at Le Mans or Goodwood; a Lotus perhaps and an AC Cobra like on my Scalextric set.

They decided to go for a drive, each with a fair number of passengers, even some standing on the footboards. We walked behind them, soon they came to a junction in the road, they went separate ways.

We kept on walking until we reached a five lanes end place, with tall shops to all sides, garden machinery and the like; a large display trolley, crammed full with cakes and buns got knocked over; "an accident waiting to happen" someone said.

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Construction Workings

I built up a new life after the old one fell apart
This is how it went, the rebuilding that is
For you know well enough already

How things fall apart
I ran away
I've done it once or twice before

I took a flat
It was vacant because it hadn't worked out
For the owners son and girlfriend

My son joined me, it didn't last long
We were running away for different reasons
We were running in opposite directions

I gave up my job, explained the heartbreak to my boss
He was sympathetic and understanding
He it seems has also been to this place of desperation

I left the flat; where I feel I have to tell you
I had ritual burnings of love letters
I also put my entire CD collection on to computer

I went to university
To study creative writing
I took a residential room in the students dormitories

I wrote, I wrote, I wrote
I was present and involved at each and every lecture
I read, I read, I read; all manner of words infused me

I drank, I smoked, I went to music concerts
I saw a play about Sassoon and Owen
It was performed  in the Imperial War Museum, Salford

I visited art galleries, I laid out on the frozen grass
I joined The Guardian's Soulmates programme
An internet dating site, where I met the lovely Kate

One day I received a letter, slid under my door
It had inside a home-made CD
A collection of Kate's favourite music

It was a wonderful surprise
We started talking on the telephone
And made a date, to see The Roches in Sheffield

Kate joined me for our passing out poetry performance
Afterwards we sat by a stream, under a stone-arched bridge
Kate washed blueberries in the crystal clear water

This was in the afternoon
Before going to a fairly inebriated party
At Michael and Angela's house in the country

All of that was ten years ago; a new life begun in earnest

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Unnaturally Light And Dark

Sheep graze on the sweet grass
Sunlight shafts strike the pastures
Leaves flutter from the taller trees

What sense
To escape the madness
That lives in the dimmed imagination

All, outside the window, wobbles
In time with late October's slow movements
Yet the evergreen darkness of life lives on

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Memorial Park

Up into the high morning
Through the mists of pink champagne
Along the ridgeway of expectations
Beauty is as beauty reigns

Would we have danced
If I too had been younger
Would we have ransacked our minds
To find money for the rides at Kelso

And as she walks
From side to side
Does she remember
The railway sliding by

Up above the early sunrise
Through the rift of wronged exchange
Along the rooftops of pointed presentations
Thoughtful is as thoughtless motive gains

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First Light Fluorescent Fascinations

Earlier today
I read of a mother
Who is a recovering alcoholic

She tells a moving unpredictable story
Of being in a happy family environment
Back with her children and their father

We never went so far, I never had the sense, so far
Yes tipsy, yes drunk on one or two occasions
But never consumed, never consumed by the drink

Nor by the drugs; only really consumed by the life
The life of the love, the love of the life
The bright blue sky that's rising on the horizon

Only consumed, consumed by the love
The love of the being in love
And the being in love with the life

The Icelandic singer said his lyrics were just riffraff
Cut up taffeta, to help him make music
And make music he did

Then, wishing for the lyrics to have some meaning
He handed them over to his father
An Icelandic poet

His father penned some sensitive and enquiring words
Yet they were in Icelandic
Which seriously limited their exposure

The young singer from Iceland hooked up with John Grant
An American, or Canadian, singer-songwriter
Now exiled in the North

He also, so I read somewhere
Had problems with drink and drugs, anyway
He translated the youngsters Icelandic lyrics into English

The resulting album became an international success
For a twenty-three year old boy
From a small village in Iceland

Wow, that last tree was orange, brilliant orange
A real contrast
To those immensely fluorescent greens

O
And there's some darker stuff too
There's always some darker stuff somewhere

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Vales And Valour

All manner of voices
Even my own from time to time
In this my life rejoices
Even with the slow and sadder line

Climbing the hills at Dunchideock
Racing on the waters of Loch Lomond
Picking out your picture, on the face of rock
Listening to the meadow boys gone roaming
Set in Garamond, the words of Blonde on Blonde

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Start The Week

I need a week
To write up the memories
I need to seek

The meaning of his dream
What did he seem
As he told of the flood waters

The sun is breaking through
From the East
I think of you, leaving the South

Coming home, to be together
We had a good weekend, but yes
You would have made it better

Sun on the mid-morning motorway
Sun on the hillside road to Corte-Real
Sun, and our Portuguese love affair

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Weekend Guests

We are intertwined I remind myself
Your mind, my body
My body, your kindness

The hedgerow brambles are yellow
And orange
Dark red, light green

The berries are bright, bright
Crimson
Gorgeous as the seldom seen

I once bought the book Trees and Shrubs
Yet, as with most things
I didn't study it thoroughly

Therefore this morning
I look on the lime green leaves
Flayed out, small, petit, perfect and welcome

Yet I cannot give them a name
Just as certain that I cannot give you a name
Other than your name, my love

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Elsewhere

The grey light is slowly lifting
The dull trees, they were hard to fake
Your absence, as the mist about to break
To break me, to make me of nothing

Trees dotted about the hillside
Crows out on the road, picking at the roadkill
Eddie Reader sings of Macushla (My darling)
You my love are elsewhere, in Rickmanswowrth

Between the windmill and the plough
Between the nighttime and the now
Forsworn and forsaken
What is taken is taken
What is lost is lost
It's magic is moved, somehow at cost

I have no thoughts of mink
Nor of the sweeping swallows
I fear for a life that turns to indistinct
Nowhere to go, no one who follows
I fear, for a vine halfway to the brink
Feel for fallow, feel for deeper hollows

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Solo

I could so easily be nowhere
Just by losing you
I could for certain be at a loss
Without a purpose, or a point of view
For anyone to notice

I hold this fear, guard it
Prevent its visibility
Denying the vulnerability
Appearing strong, confident even
Not tearful, no, not tearful at all

We will meet that day
And I know you fear that too
You express the thought
With clarity, with lucidity
Soft skin, warm skin

Understand I shout
I want more to understand
I want less to understand
Lay by me, hold onto me
Take my loss; give me purpose

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Name Dropping

A night
Stuffed full of
Hughes, and Harrison, and Armitage

The first one being named after my first wife's cousin
The second one being my current partner's married name
The last one being my house name at Penistone Grammar

Names that have formed me
Names that have forged me
Names that have forced me
To tell you my name

Yet you see it isn't my name; no
It is my father's name, also my brothers use it too
But I prefer my mother's maiden name

Her father's name
My grandfather's name
Kaye, Arthur Kaye; yes, that is my preferred lineage

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Missing The Mark

I was with an old employer, there were three or four of us, sat in a room, I was being told how the business functioned, specifically how sales and marketing worked.

It was classroom stuff, textbook theory, then they showed me a poster, which they had been working on; they were clearly excited about it, they were looking forward to launching it at a weekend soirée.

The poster was A3 size, or slightly larger, it had an urban street scene, with housing, and street lighting for background; the foreground was laid out, in grid formation, with the companies industrial products.

Above the grid was a white area, with quite a lot of large font text, which on reading I took to be from a novel, nothing at all to do with the work as far as I could see, although I did not read the text to the end.

I made one or two half-critical remarks, dampeners you might say, but we moved on; thousands were to be printed, everyone and anyone should have one, they were very excited, you will be able to make the weekend won't you Christopher, one of them asked.

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Last Leg

Apprehension, or
Hypertension
Will you be at home

Comprehension, or
Detention
Will you be at home

We have been apart
More than since our start
Will you be at home

Horse before the cart
Head to rule the heart
Will you be at home

Beginning to smile
Down the last mile
Will you be at home

All the while
Without an ounce of guile
Will you be at home

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Instant Hits

It was dark on the dual-carriageway
That
I am alone in my car
I am on my own now
I am on my way home
To watch From Darkness on TV
That, loss is as loss is, kind of dark

It was dark on the country road
That
I can easily count
The eight red lights
On the television transmission mast
Stood tall, in a vertical column
That, clear is as clear is, kind of dark

It was dark on the house drive-way
That
There is no one at home
The doors are closed
The windows are bolted
Unwarranted access kept at bay
That, longing is as longing is, kind of dark

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Friday

In your absence
I go to the supermarket
Jop fancies 'Full English' for breakfast

I bump into Roz
She is looking for aubergines
You would have talked to her for longer

I forget the sausages
But, and you might be surprised
I bought strawberries and cream

If I should further describe this space
Would I talk of the smiles
As seen in the cathedral

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Foot-Path

She likes a cause

You, you don't get too het up

This time it's making the town

A car free zone

All this because

She had to step into the road

To let a motobility scooter

Scoot by

Her first post, on Street Life

It was the hit of the week

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Flambe

I was with my two brothers, we were in a 'all you can eat for ten dollars' American diner.

We were sat downstairs, but the food and drinks were served over three floors, so we had a lot of stairs to climb up, and down.

On the top floor there was a long open wall, with clear views to the sky beyond.

There were three jet-black clouds, like bulbous distorted giant balloons, filled with cephalopod excrement, as though the Rorschach ink blots had all at once come to life.

My younger brother said he couldn't drink, not in his condition.

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Apart

To walk and breathe
To believe in love
Same as it ever was

In the time it takes to leave
To the grief of morning
Before the world began

Down the drove road
Over the railway crossing
A family gathered

To hope for relief
However brief and fleeting
In the silence, in the meeting

Forgive, forget, retrieve
Once more to receive their love
Before the end of time


For Nathan & Sian

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Timing

Would I catch the train
I was gathering things off the floor outside my hotel room
They were mixed up, with an older ladies possessions
It was 9:05, the train departed at 9:25

I had been to the station earlier
But I realised I had left my luggage behind
I was wandering about the station
Trying to find the Northbound platform

Back at the hotel it seemed as though my room had moved
Although earlier in the week
I had to ask for directions to room 516; it was a big hotel
The Grand, or similar; at the seaside, maybe Brighton

I don't know what I had been doing there
I don't really know of anyone else featuring in the dream
That is other than the old lady
Whose clothes, were completely mixed up with mine

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Vacate

Do you know how good it feels
To have this day off from work
To sit at the breakfast table without a care

To look out
Onto the still and settled
Trees of Autumn

Faintly wetted
By the drops of morning dew
Gathered from the light mist

Last night you spoke of rising early
To capture the cloud covered valleys
With protruding treetops

Those words chosen, and spoken
On our way to see our friends Kinfolk play
Their music, at the White Hart in Tetford

We drove past the Youth Hostel at Woody's Top
That was the venue for a writers retreat, a few years ago
It is hazy now, the good memories are almost a dream

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Two Packs For Two Pounds

The last one was a Turkish delight
This one is a caramel, such is the chance life
With sale goods, and pre-packed lucky dips

You might have been disappointed
With marzipan, or fruit and nut
But I was ok

Although I must be honest
And tell you that I prefer milk chocolate
But they are in the other pack

And, as of late, in this part of my life
I have been promoting delayed gratification
With a fervour bordering on religion

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St Ives 2005

Months away from the azure
From the lure of the sea
Months away from the spray
The perfume of you to me

Stepping in to shallow waters
To belly board on our knees
In a June of an English summer
The time for doubts to cease

Days there were very lonely
And the nights entirely free
Yet I look back now with love
For it was I, becoming me

Stepping in to the stylish café
Driftwood on shoreline breeze
To the tune of one and another
A life not set, yet o so to increase

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MAPA

He failed
As I’ve failed
To write out the past

He tried
As I’ve tried
Not to use her name

He talked
As I’ve talked
Of the endless longing

He went
As I went
In search of himself

He returned
As I’ve returned
As if as the same man

We both have companions
True love by our sides
Yet still our ego’s battle on

He was
As I was
Unceremoniously dumped

He sort of remembered
As I sort of remember
A steamy passionate affair

He revisited
As I revisited
All those places of lust

He often listened
As I often listen
To the inner voices

He tore
As I tore
With raw anguish

We both have companions
True love by our sides
Yet still our ego’s battle on

He crashed
As I’ve crashed
Towards oblivion

He regained
As I’ve regained
Some of the senses

He laughed
As I’ve laughed
At himself

His search
As my search
Carries on

His doubts
As my doubts
Remain ever doubtful

We both have companions
True love by our sides
Yet still our ego’s battle on

She too, invisible but always apparent
Absent yet with the strongest presence
Driving but never driven, steering
Yet never to reappear

We both had lost lovers
Dystopia’s to re-enact
For which our ego’s battle on

———————————————————————
Inspired by
MAPA
directed by LEÓN SIMINIANI

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