Coincidental I

I saw a photograph

Of a sculpture by Kan Yusada

Leaning against my wall

I have a poster, from YSP

For an exhibition by Kan Yusada

Somewhere I will have my own photographs

I had to refill my pencil

I spilt the leads

Into my desk drawer

In my impatience

To tell you of the coincidence

Or might I say: happenstance

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One Other Place

I was at a religious conference

At a summer school

(I often go to summer schools in my dreams)

I had made friends with a military man

Who felt that he needed to speak out about

The conflict between the military and religion

An older lady joined us

A cheerful yet devout believer

Who told my friend

That God would make it all ok

And not to worry too too much

The two of them went for lunch

My eldest son joined me

And asked how was I going to entertain him

Because his mum was being such a pain

I only had five pounds in my pocket

And knew that would not satisfy his wants

Triggers

I had watched a film the night before

About Dr. Stephen Hawkins

The credits said he was 72

A couple of days ago my son

Had been to his grandfathers funeral

I am typing up my poems from 2005

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Solitaire

It was instability

The very opposite of being in control

There was guilt

An acknowledgment of wrongdoing

It was emotional

Pains in the tummy

Rattles in the headspace

No one else was present

It wasn’t a shared success

But what if it could have been

What if someone

Could have helped

At that point of vulnerability

Imagine if the tears

Could have been encouraged

To flow without restraint

Then, if with that person

An open conversation

A discussion of and from within

Wouldn’t that equanimity 

Be worth having

More than the velvet sacks of silver

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Absent Without Leave

It is the funeral today

But I won’t be there

Though we did share a joke

Playing bingo that Sunday lunchtime

In the Conservative Club

You teased me

About the thousand pound prize

Which I fell for

Hook line and sinker

As also for your daughter

Yet the words ended

As the separation began

I became persona non grata

Which was understandable 

Given my lack of conviction 

It will be a small affair

All others, or most

Having already passed

Their bowls and blazers

To the cloakroom attendant

Your family will be there

At least your child and her children

Who carried your burden

Only to end up

Spilling over with tears

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Thin, But Total Covering

Such is the new light

That the lead penetrates the paper

Even more so as the floorboards creek

All is curve and straight line

All is solid, or submissive

Soft furnishings and decoration

As if the walls could be papered

With the same ten dollar bills

Which brought this room into being

If those abstract paper currencies

Could replace the tables and chairs

The bookshelves and the lamps

To give a focus, a continuation

To create a living space

As opposed to relying on happenstance

To start again with a blank canvas

Knowing now of mistakes to avoid

Yet somehow to hold onto the romance

To have skipped with joy

Then rested, with some satisfaction

At a job well done

Forgetting, or ignoring the difficulties

The obstacles involved with self-creation

Which had to be stumbled through

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Triggered Repeat

One life is in shadow

One life is in plain sight

In this way

Both are hidden

From the outsider's view

There is little or no conversation

Among the chiaroscuro

Small steps may have been taken

Yet it is the in silence

Where the giant strides are made

From hotel bedrooms

To solid stone archways

From museums and galleries

To ice creams

Taken in the square

On the ledge

Watching and waiting

For others to appear

A new letter is written

As if from the third man

All nonsense

And missed conversations 

With the invisible beauty

Hidden by ether and distance

Covered by joy and sadness

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Emigre

Black of night

Before the light of dawn

Silence and stillness

Shares the warm welcome

As you remember

Also rising early

To see the pink-footed geese

To tread on the firm and frosted ground

Those higher plains

Of tied together emotions

Struggling to capture

What needed to be caught

Such that friendship

May be moved up

By a notch or two

To something other

Where love becomes lovers

Where distance pulls up close

Where heartache takes a step

Or a leap, into ecstatic joy

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Combustible

And so I shiver

In the cold chair

The radiator is stone cold

Yet I do have some warmth

From deep inside of me

Which presumably is generated

In the same way that the squirrel

Eats his nuts for energy

Stored throughout the winter

I drink warm tea

Surely that will stave off hypothermia

Yes, I do know that I am being melodramatic

But if don’t then who will

For haven’t you all

Got your own problems to deal with

Why should you care too too much about me

For this early rising poet

Isn’t it his own fault that he is cold

He could have stayed in his bed

In his warm, warm bed

Instead he feels the damp sensation

At the tip of his nostrils

Which whilst confirming that he is alive

Also it says something about the coldness

And isn’t that what the poet should do

Observe and record the nuances

Whilst everyone else, or most others

Are comfortably sleeping

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Additives

The day is more beautiful 

More beautiful for having risen early

The music is more wonderful

More wonderful for being in the here and now

Thank you for the shadows

Thank you for the paintings

Thank you for the sunlight

And all of that which it falls upon

The day is more peaceful

More peaceful with the daydreams

The music is more esoteric

More esoteric for Mind Instrumental playlist

Thank you for Olafur Arnolds 

Also A Good Day For An Airstrike

Thank you for British Sea Power

And Takumi Kaneko’s Unwind

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Polyphonic

It is not something which I have yet heard

Nor that I am too too clear how to deliver

Though I know it to be bound with repetition

And I know it to have interacting layers

Also, for sure, it will have a musical ring

I listen to a morning chant

The word Magnalam resonates with me

Which I learn means auspicious

Also of having good fortune, from the Sanskrit

More though for me the material things

Which I see all around me

The table lamp which casts a circular glow

The wood burner which exudes warmth

The double glazed windows and French doors

Which allow me to see the dawn rising

Also the mug of warm tea from which I drink

And the headphones which deliver music

From a computer, to my ears, then on to my soul

Out of the words come other words

Out of the ramble flows joy

Heading towards fulfilment

Offered up for no reason other:

And Magnalam

Light and heat and sound

Magnalam

Mind and body and soul

Magnalam 

Here and now and eternity

Magnalam 

Sitting and hearing and sensing

Magnalam,

Peace and truth and beauty

Magnalam 

Love of love of love

Magnalam 

Your benefit your welfare

Magnalam

My benefit my welfare

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Attitude

From my own observations I can confirm

That a lot of people struggle

With that walking thing

You yourself may be one of them

Almost everyone can walk

In one form or another

And those who can’t, or don’t

We treat with compassion

Or at least I would like to think so

You may believe otherwise

Though I would hope, as one of my readers

You would have sympathy for the less well off

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Modus Operandi

It is my own body which gifts the fear

Rattled and riven with aches and pains

Too too self-absorbed to look outwards 

And then the mind, or brain

Or whatever does the reasoning

Or whatever lacks it

Also caught up in a spiders web of treacle 

Unable to comprehend, or even hear

Another’s divergent point of view

Yet with no desire to convene an argument

The first response is to clam up, to turn mute

And from that impenetrable place

How impossible is the search for a free spirit

How already defeated is the postulated idea

That one could simply wander and dream

The boots are in the trunk of the car

The desire for walking pretty half-hearted

Yet a way does need to be found

Otherwise the straight-jacket

Will not be released, the ability

To turn inwards will always dominate

So start reading the book of life again

And this time

Don’t skip the introduction

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Positioning

The arguments in my mind

Or debates if you prefer

Are brought on by my having the time

Which rising early grants to me

If only I was a little warmer

If only when the alarm went off

I wasn’t so so deeply asleep

With little desire for waking

However my meditation calls me

As does my morning pot of tea

That and the engaging prospect

Of living for a while inside my mind

The painting fell off the wall yesterday

So now I look at a blank space

Which will be filled with artefacts

Or photographs once chosen

I hear my head turn

And wonder how to say

That in that doubt filled moment

I didn’t understand much at all

And yes the train may have stopped

As it did for Anna Karenina

But was the poet on board

Or was he observing from the platform 

In any event that was yesterday

Today the story means a little less

It is on the pathway to being forgotten

Before the climb, before the fall

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Time Extended Time

An urgency to contemplate

Thoughts desperate for the words

It is as if it is still morning, as if

With the seconds dashing by

Are you misunderstood

You are misunderstood

Sometimes by others

But mostly by yourself

Yet the shadows

And the diary dates

Are the wheels

Which keep on turning

How not to be misinterpreted

On a lifetimes line of continuum

What with so many vantage points

From which to take a point of view

Necessary then the argument

Or discussion as some might name it

Yet the hurt lingers

Deeply questioning the purpose

Suffering of one’s own making

Inhibited by one’s own invitation 

Not then at any frontier

For not one can be reached

Instead the refuge

Of second-half goals

Which brought doubt then defeat

In more or less equal measure

An urgency born of anxiety

With time and space and memory

All but being turned out

In the slow scrawl of morning

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London Calling

That artist

Who had porridge, a pot of tea, and cigarettes

For breakfast

On his way to purposeful acid etchings

He walked beside you

You walked beside him

Such a pity it was virtual reality

Even on the Outliers

That cab driver

Driving through pouring rain 

To reach

The museum with a radiator

She walked beside you

You walked beside her

Tied up in the domesticity

Of getting to somewhere

How many artefacts

You say too many to count

Yet too few

To grant you solace

Don’t go there do I hear you say

To the field, or stream

Or bluebell woods

Where time will have taken its toll

The book is on order

Wait patiently for now

And remember

The rush is always inconclusive

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Observations From A Room

A past

Which only you know in its entirety

Such a random collection

Of experiences, such as

Wiping the apprentice's steel-clad bench

At the end of a made-up working day

Meanwhile, you photograph the dawn

A blue-black sky with traces of burnt red

As seen through the bare skeletal tree

You remember the farm with three brothers

Across the main road

With highway repairmen and cycling upsets

It wasn’t meant to be a list

Neither for that matter an invitation

To anything other than your own interior

Where walls and windows are your doors

Wrapped all around you

To give presence to your present

That broken hand-made vase

From an art market in Greenwich

Too delicate for my clumsiness to maintain

The warm radiator has warmed the chair

Which has taken many years to understand

Or to come to terms with

To use the light of the table lamps

And sunrises

One glows as one dies

Under a sky

Cleared of angst and anger

If ever there was such a thing

Let it rest now

Brought to an end, by nothing more

Than the bottom of a page

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Ritual Behaviours

Also, this morning

The tide landing on the shore

Before the hotel guests have risen

To stroll down the promenade

In search of the Western Morning News

The printing presses

Having been plugged in and primed

Somewhat in the dead of night

Their servants, or masters

The journalists

Having put their work to bed earlier

The church stands empty

Empty and silent

Waiting for the prayers

Of absent congregations

Who nevertheless, occasionally need

These pillars of faith

With their prayer bowls

Of pebbles, flowers and sea water

With their dank, damp graveyard

Collections of yesteryear

And all those many other years

From so so many generations before

Soon we will board the ferry

And cross the river

To land on the seafront

Of a town also just awakening

Yet not for some, especially those who wonder

What is the purpose

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Before Dawn Arrives

There is a darkness

To the five AM rising

A silence, which some might say

Is due to it still being the middle of the night

There is a freedom

To the earlier start

An ease, which is hard to pin down

Other than life feels easier

No need, none whatsoever

To run hither and thither

Instead to calmly fry the beans

And tip them slowly onto the buttered toast

No change here, from solitude

Or with bookish contemporaries

For to be alone is to be alive

Knowing just how good it is to exist

Yet it is not moorland

Out the windows behind me

Neither a rolling sea

To pound my coastline 

I am in the urban landscape

Singing about the urban spaceman

I am in the comfort of my homestead

Thinking of what on earth to say next

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A Picture Paints

The room is warm

Even at this early hour

I could easily drift off

To who knows where

But I don’t

Instead I take out a pencil

To scribe these few words

On the cusp of daydreams

The prints are from Egoiste magazine

Bought in an outdoor market

In the old town of Bilbao 

Where we also tasted tapas

Indeed in some of the bars

We watched the ham being sliced

Due to one enterprising soul realising

That this would make for fine entertainment 

Another photograph is of the sea

The promenade at Whitby to be precise

At the time of the World Music festival

Where Buena Vista Social Club played

The room is warm

And you might argue

That it is filled with memories

From further away yet closer to home

On the long wall images from Skye, Shetland

And from birthdays; also, on the far wall

My own pastels; so so many hours of pleasure

From so so very long ago

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Be Transported

Always though it is flight
An idea to escape
Until endearment shows its face
With a close-in kiss

So, don’t always take the first stop
Let the resident resonant echoes settle
Find another form of calm
Instead of an attempt at obliteration

Take a trip out to the shops
Drive the car with the sunroof open
Listen to the energies of life
Feel the cold air blow in mid-winter

Think on, of making a miniature sculpture
On the walls of the reservoir compound
You do still have the negative
Didn’t you see it only last week

Now it is packed away
Among another thousand or more memories
All waiting for you to show them the light
For them to live out their life a little longer

Take time to take time
Listen to the words of Mooji
As he talks of self and self
In his fine Caribbean accent

Think on, of the market in Kingston Jamaica
Where you felt anything but safe
And could not wait
To get back to your out of town hotel

Where the rains fell like sheets of glass
But also where sunshine
Returned to the morning, in time
For fried breakfast, under the outdoor canopy

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Base

Is it a room I desire
Or to be perfectly honest
A number of rooms

A space where I can impose
Or be imposed upon
Perhaps elaborate decoration
With fine embossed wallpaper
Or a more minimal approach
With a few tokens
Maybe memorabilia
Such as pebbles from the beach

I do need warmth
Also light, or the lack of light
Either way to have the option

The space is there to assist me
To help me to find peace
To be calm, at one
With my chosen surroundings
If it is a small space
Then to respect its boundaries
If it is a large space
Then to celebrate the freedom it gives me

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Reaching Conclusions

I go along with the first point of view
Or voice if you prefer I say it that way
I understand, and empathise, even celebrate
The logic, the consequence
And the emotions of the argument

I am not so keen on the second point of view
Yet I do hear this also as a voice if so you wish
That the two voices are with me is hard to deny
Though this brings or creates
A greater fear, one of its own making

Perhaps I agreed too readily
With the first hypothesis
Also maybe I had an automatic rejection
Of the opposing viewpoint
Caring for my own care

I first thought
To forget all about the conflicting voices
However this gave little satisfaction
So now I let the genie free
First to myself

Then to my conscious and to my sub-conscious
Also I will still seek to talk with others

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Catch A Falling Thought

It isn’t so much the writing
No, it is more the thinking
The thinking of the thoughts
Which will turn into the writing

First off; how to create my thoughts
Then how to hold onto them
In anything like an authentic way
To catch the meanings and the feelings

Sitting quietly, comfortably
Listening to brainwave sounds
Through high-quality stereo headphones
Is one sure way for thoughts to arise

Actually for thoughts to propagate relentlessly
The very attempt to quieten your mind
Is the perfect way to build
A van der Graf generator of thoughts

But how to capture them
How to hear them to fulfilment
How to recall them, or store them
When and where to write them down

For in the darkness, or stillness
Of your meditation sitting
Your do not disturb sign
May prohibit your writing

All left then is to use a mantra
Chant out these inner thoughts
To your otherwise silenced self
Until your thoughts firmly become fixtures

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Pointer

The good feeling feels good
Coming as it does
At the end of a completed
Home-Made PhD project

Not only the completion
But also the process
Being able to accept and adopt change
Showing off my flexibility of mind

Now happy to believe
That assistance came, indirectly
By reading The Heartfulness Way
And taking that advice to my morning meditation

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