Son Of A Preacher Man (Dusty Springfield)

Two churches
With a two-sided seat
A bicycle ride in April
To remember the features
All that birdsong
All that mown grass
Time for sheer contemplation
Thoughts way out over the reaches

Young girls and young boys
On their own out here in the country
No fears of the city
Just you and I then beside the beeches
Yet you are in spirit only
No need though for recriminations
Not for we
For we are plain-speaking creatures

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Albatross (Peter Green’s Fleetwood Mac)

The young and innocent sixteen-year-old
Stood in awe
In front of a full-size papier-mâché replica
Of a Nineteen-Thirties American automobile
Hung as it was from the students union ceiling
The main decoration
For the Molls & Gangsters Christmas ball
With live music
Courtesy of Peter Green’s Fleetwood Mac

Those steps to the balcony
Are now steps in the multi-storey car park
Which go down to the ring road
Across which was the Technical College
Where the young sixteen-year-old
Studied Electrical Engineering
Yet desperately wanted to be in Art College
To make sculptures out of papier-mâché
Or to become a refined user of China Clay

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First Cut Is The Deepest (PP Arnold)

Another Christmas Eve Saturday night break-up
Another time with nowhere at all to go
Or rather
No one now to go out with
No swirling starlights
No girls eyeing up the boys
No boys
Becoming excited between the thighs

Sat alone in the darkness
The indefatigable darkness
Lined as with lining paper
All around the lost souls
No moons and no crescents
No presents of rich perfumes
No missions and no roasting chestnuts
All is a sense of deserting the lover’s last role

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Gin House Blues (Amen Corner)

Your introduction to the blues
Your first foray
Into the addictions of gin
Your first steps
From the bus-stop
Back into the house-party
Disentangled
By her looseness

Turning
You into the one of so few words
You into the one
Of so so little grace
You into the one
Almost entirely without compassion
You into the one
Who for fight or flight read flight

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If I Had A Boat (Lyle Lovett)

I forget
Did you forget too
I forget the film
With a cover version of his song
And don’t they say
That to cover is to compliment
And to make it the film’s leading song
Boy oh boy that is some praise indeed

Which is why I placed the Rothko
On the fifth wall
Which is why I placed the Rothko
On the bedroom wall
Which is why I now place the Rothko
On the lounge wall
Where finally the light
Is exactly what I am looking for

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Madame George (Van Morrison)

Less of a story
More your interior exposure
Yet still about the closure
Of a life taken too soon
A life taken way too soon
Not yet in heaven
Or in the overcast grey skies
Not counting to seven
Nor riding on the fairground rides

Play it again Sam
Think once more of Cypress Avenue
Those notes of sweet perfumes
Tunes that drift on by
Tunes that slowly drift on by
On those days of happenstance
Where fate alone could take its chance
Of those days on which to say goodbye
Wondering why you had to die

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Spiegel im Spiegel (Arvo Pärt)

I love you
I love you
I love you
I love you

I don’t want to say too much more
No...
No...
No, I don’t want to say too much more

And if you don’t come home
I will try to comprehend
And if you do come home
I will try to make amends

I loved you
I loved you
I loved you
I love you

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A Whiter Shade Of Pale (Procul Harum)

Yes, yes, yes you were somewhat special
Yes you did predict it would be number one
Before anyone else took any notice
No need to understand the lyrics or the meaning
For you it is emotion and grace which come first
And that song, yes that song
It hit you right there in your solar plexus
With its layers of grace, of grace and emotion

Since then you have looked into the light
Still without worry of the meaning
You are here and you are with us
No longer the whiter shade of pale
No longer the doubter of doubts
You are here and you are with us
No longer the spiller of tears
Yes, yes, yes you are somewhat special

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Sitting On The Dock Of The Bay (Otis Redding)

Skimming pebbles on the ocean
Sipping cocktails on the boardwalk
Twisting worry beads through the fingers
Keeping death another world away
Reading papers in the sunlight
Buying the NME for the music charts
Who is that soulful singer
Whose words sweetly and succinctly let us sway

That Saturday afternoon
In the closing down sale electric shop
Light Blue Stax and Red Atlantic records
Forty-fives for the less than twenty-fives
I bought them and I played them
I kept them for more than many a day
Light Blue Stax and Red Atlantic records
They set me up as the man who went astray

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Flower Duet (Léo Delibes)

All of those years
At the opera
In the music collection
Even selected for the funeral service
Played
In every room in this house
Yet only yesterday
Translated into English

Such that you could be by the river bank
Such that you could be holding hands
Such that you too
Could be there together
Going on forever
Going on and on and on forever
Hitting the high notes graciously
Not dwelling too too long on the low notes

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Suite Française (Rael Jones)

Flames of letters burning
She picks remnants from the ashes
Stylus on the record-player slowly turning
His hands held out
As an invitation to dance
Piano lid suggestively opened
Might I play you something he once said
As he stared out way beyond the distance

We never talk of love in this house
We never ever talk of love
I only met my husband twice
Before we were married
Now I read that he was unfaithful
He fathered a child by another woman
Told to me within these barren letters
From those who I have come to loathe

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Unbutton The Past, It Is The Future

I am driving by the airport now, which makes me think
Of my Friday afternoon flights to Jersey
Today there are two jets on the tarmac
Most probably bound for Amsterdam or Denmark
Or Finland; perhaps places further North, Reykjavik even

I would like to go to any of those places
I would love to have met up with you there
Or even to have taken you with me
But it wasn't to be
I did send you a postcard from Stockholm
Perhaps that is as close as we ever ought to have been

Alternatively
I would like to go to any of those places
I would love to meet up with you there
Or even to take you with me
Become closer to you than you ever might have allowed

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In The Absence Of Any Reply

It's self-defence, to be kept in my cage
As the age of uncertainty lies on the page
It sure feels good, with somewhere to go
A space to meander, with nothing to show

I've worn myself out, I've come to the end
We have no future, on that I can depend
I'm off, I am away, in search of other roles
I shall seek out a quite different stipend

I only asked you for one message
The message that you never did send
Yes I am hurting, truth cannot be denied
But I will gather myself, I will attempt to mend

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Deranged

I gave of my best
Now I am asking for help
That is why I cried
Yes there is a sadness

A deep badness
Resident in my bones
It is a madness

To chase the recapture
Of the throne
To regain the rapture
Of laying in your bed

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Good

It sure feels good to talk with you today
Not that it doesn't always
But today I feel pretty good
Today I feel pretty light
The air is fresh
It isn't really too too cold
Things are good
Yes, things are good with me today

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Back Into A Different Reality

Setting off for work
I see a bus for Bristol pulling into Louth
Bristol and Westward Ho apparently
How long a journey is that I wonder
How far out of your mind
Would you go on such an escapade
And just how many people
From Louth in Lincolnshire
Are wanting to travel to Bristol
Or Westward Ho, this morning

Not that that would interest you
Not that that's got much to do with poetry
Except that it could be considered to be poetry
In the vernacular, or the vehicular style
But in truth
It's just the early morning mental callisthenics
Something to get the brain working again
After Adyashanti's meditation on the divine mind

This weekend we are going to Shrewsbury Folk Festival
Then, well then it's September
My boy might be coming to see me, or he might not
He's a bit difficult to communicate with I often find
A good job that his girlfriend is on the scene I do believe
This morning, for instance
She commented on Goodreads
That she cared for my review of Susan Sontag's book
Against Interpretation

I think she probably reads pretty good stuff
She clearly cares for the boy, enormously I would say
I would say that there is a real strong bond
Between the two of them
So much better to find your soulmate as a young person
To live out your life a little
Before making the big commitment

Not that I regret the way that we went about things
But as Jason Isbell sings: Those were different days

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Roads And The Riding Thereof

I have managed to steer clear of drugs and although alcohol is in my life it is there mainly in moderation, for which I think I owe thanks to my own words.

My words have helped me, also words by many and various people very much still do help me; I get great pleasure from playing with the words, both in the reading and in the writing.

It is The National who I listen to now, singing on the car stereo in the background, they are one of my favourite bands, and here they are singing a song called Afraid of Everyone.

I peruse on how true that is for most of us; we are all a little bit afraid of everyone don't you think, I certainly am, what The National sing sure rings true for me.

So what of the poetry on this Tuesday morning, what are the poems to be about; the roadside, the kerbs, the dividing lines, the clouds in the sky.

About the house for sale signs, the wondering why, or about nearing the motorway, entering the vast expanse of shimmering blue light.

Last night I was reading poetry by a guy who was going to buy himself a brand new Ducati motorbike, you might recall that we once saw one, outside The Rock Inn at Yelverton.

The poet was on a trip to the Italian factory, to witness his custom-built, limited-edition, highly prestigious motorcycle being built.

He wrote a couple of memorable lines, one about an Italian artist who embedded the spirit of silence in his paintings.

I will get out that line, I will recreate that line; the poet's name is Frederick Seidel, his latest book is called Ooga Booga.

I am also reading a book about the writing of poetry, about the poets and their constructions, admirably deconstructed for us by Jane Hirshfield, in her book Nine Gates.

She is a wonderful writer, who explains in intricate detail the cause and effect of many of the things which I have come across through sheer happenstance and chance; that and also through the many pleasure filled experiences of reading imaginative poems and poets.

Jane puts into words what I try to achieve with my own creations; maybe I am reading too much into her work.

Although some days I do honestly believe, that I do have a bit of the poet, somewhere secreted about me.

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