Socially Distanced

The new playlist

Is one-hundred songs

Based on King Crimson’s

I talk to the wind

Bought for a birthday party

Not long after

Losing my virginity

In the most well-known sense

The wind does not hear

The wind cannot hear

The wind cares not a jot

About my virginity

Being more intent

On whipping up storms

Or crashing waves on beaches

Or blowing flags purposefully inside out

All of which

Is pretty much how I felt

When I talked to the wind

When I lost my virginity 

Silent Distance

Without question

I have made a judgement

Without knowledge

I have made the call

Is this arrogance

Or is it affection

Is this with purpose

Or form without content

And what of

Tirade

Or rant

Or unconditional love

Where would you sit

Where should I sit

Where might we sit

Together

No, no, no

Not ever those words again

Without doubt

I have made up my mind

Rhythms; Past, And Present

Wave after wave

Of shade then light

Wave after wave

On the ocean that night?

Memories rise

Memories fall

Wave after wave

With sequins do they call?

Wave after wave

Of doubts after passions

Wave after wave

Wear at the mind’s rations?

Reactions come

And reactions go, slow

Wave after wave

They seek out the flow?

Wave after wave

For artist and poet

Wave after wave

Don’t you just know it?

Purposes arrive

Then purposes depart

Wave after wave

The horse and the cart?

Projected Light

The sunlight falls

Onto the roses

Also though the leaded light window

Then over my shoulder’s stitches

To cast its shadows

Onto the long wall with pictures

All across this expanse

The effects of the breeze

On the trees, the leaves, and the hedges

Becomes apparent to be

As if a troupe of ballet dancers

On the rippled sands beside the sea

From a flurry to a calm

In plain sight

Before the crystals cast their light

How else to catch the wind as it breathes

But through the wavering shadows

Of those fleeting autumn leaves

The bronze statue

On the tall lacquer table

Is unmoved by the plant wobbling

Textures of the darkness, shaken

With the light

As on another morning we slowly waken

Hanging On, Falling Off

The rain, and the darkness, this teatime, reminds me that one year I stopped off in another place of religion.

Ostensibly it was to look at the stained glass windows, beside the cloisters, but the light was not so good.

Besides which the contractors were half-way through their renovation work, so the access was somewhat restricted.

Since that time Patisserie Valerie (where I had those sumptuous, warm, Pastéis de Nata) has been through an administration process.

Alas, the branch in which I sheltered from the rain, wondering how long the High Street could survive, has been closed down.

That evening I stayed in a budget hotel, dining in my room, on supermarket take-away food, for my evening meal.

As if I was trying to live out the sublime to the ridiculous, for no other reason than that I thought I could.

Other Methods

The old photographs

Do not wish to be opened

I Skype my son

Who I usually visit during this trip

He points me in the direction

Of a software update

Unfortunately, on this occasion

His guidance was unsuccessful

I did though post an image

Of him with his girlfriend

Walking beside the river

Appearing to be at one with the world

I then had to Zoom

Yes, our monthly Arts get together

Where I showed a piece of writing

About Munch, by Knausgaard

Life in person is different

To being alive behind a screen

Yet our Arts group did come to life

Through the wonder of wi-fi internet

Changes

The plan was

To drive down today

I had booked

To stay seven nights

Well that will have to wait

Maybe in the New Year

I will make another attempt

Although by then, well, who knows

Instead a virtual visit

A stay at home retreat

With a short spell

Of hospitalisation

I could look up my video

Of autumn leaves

Falling slowly from the trees

To land softly on the ground

I could trawl through my photographs

To find the still water

With reflections

Of a life that I have lived

Doing, And Done

That’s it then

We have been to Pisa, Florence and Siena

We have seen those rolling hills

Of Tuscany, with a nod of beauty to Vienna

Not quite as vibrantly verdant

As the advertiser’s imaginary pages

Not so sure that the slant

Lines up, to the hard on the feet stages

But for sure there is something

In the Italian’s passion for religion’s bones

In Pisa, in Florence, in Siena

Everywhere we touched the Catholic’s stones

We are Rome’s new benefactors

Paying our entrance dues

We’ve replaced the communion communication

With our lifelong sprawling queues

We’ve travelled on the railways

Past graffiti and mundane council flats

We’ve rolled our designer suitcases

Over centuries-old stone flags

We’ve been to restaurants and cafés

Eaten gelato, and drunk Peroni too

We’ve tested the art of the Uffizi

Gormley, on the ramparts; he we already knew

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Isolation

I remember being there

I remember not being there

I transport myself

One way then the other

From the present to the past

With a simple, but effective

Forgetfulness about the future

Ice creams will be

The abiding memory

That, and the scent

Of the flower in the meadow

Whose beauty

I know now to have left behind

Lost in that wondrous moment

I am there again now

As I sip my Americano

As I nibble at my currant teacake

I am sat beside those old buildings

Old structures here as there

But here given a new purpose

Which could also happen there

Reclamation and regeneration

To find a place of calm

To develop a sanctuary

Where a retreat life

Could be followed

With some integrity

With some gusto

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Aero

Boarding time in Pisa

Almost

But even speedy-boarders have to wait

For the delayed aircraft

A drone

Spotted in Manchester

Is blamed for the ten minute

Change to schedule

Already we are in reverse mode

Backing away

Then turning, taxi-ing

To the take-off strip

When landing on water

Take a lifejacket

Pull it over your head

There is a light and a whistle

The pilot and crew hope you have

A great flight

With heavy emphasis on the great

As we take off into the mid-day sky

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Tired Comfort

Is it not possible
To order coffee
And also save the seat

Instead to watch the people
Infused with Italian style
At the end of this retreat

A retreat into art
A retreat into religion
A retreat into a great many gelatos

It is not possible
To leave one’s bags
In the departure hall

Instead to go on walkabout
To cast one’s eyes
While listening for the boarding call

Then to catch the prize
Of a backwards falling table
Never known to admit to defeat

The disdain of it all
Nowhere to set down one’s feet
Between here and Pisa’s final gate

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Lift Up For The County

Today is departure day

To the station

To the airport

To the car

To home

But first the check-out

Then the breakfast

Then, so I am told

We will walk

Carrying our cases to the station

Past the gallery

Where we saw Giorgio Morandi

Or at least his works

For his quiet life

Is well and truly over

That I

A country boy from Yorkshire

Should talk of such

On the very day that a one time near neighbour

Is crowned Poet Laureate

Although the truth is

That he has acquired

A great deal of sophistication

Since writing of those moon-raker

Nights and days

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Lavish Night Ahead

Mass is done for the day

The dancers

Dance their welcome kisses

The soundcheck voice

Sings The Great Pretender

Mass

In the small chapel

For no more than a dozen

In this city of a million souls

Shame on you, the non-believers

Non-believers such as I

Non-believers such as you

Who keep this religion alive

By paying with hard cash for our curiosity

By paying with hard cash for our intrigue

For the faith in the self

Is not ever without doubt

However close the silence

The Kula Shaker is always Govinda

While the mouse-mat, it always squeals

Caught once more

By the soprano

Caught once more

By those angels of the gods

Who continue to sing their welcome

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Bit Of A Do

There is Jesus on a cross

As though an advertisement

For LNER

Or, as it used to be known INRI

Either way

It was Bartolomeo Di Fruosino

Who got the hospital’s commission

Sometime around 1411

This church is not my church

This church is way too sombre

Take me to the bullfights

To drink with you my hombre

Tonight is the night

Of the beautiful people

The great and the good

Are coming to town

It is the feeding

Of the five-thousand

Under chandeliers

And candlelight

Soon the carriages will arrive

For now the final, make-over, make-up

Is being applied, the final quiff

Is being so so carefully quiffed

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David’s Place

The lady from Kilkenny

The sisters from Argyle

Supporting casts for David

In a 19th century kind of style

Made in the plaster of Paris

Mannerist artists meanwhile

Whose works are way less revered

Are turned out by the city mile

From the Annunciation by Allori Alessandro

For those who knew of him by his smile

He gave his light to the Earl of Derby

To capture Vesuvius with his guile

There is a cross, a cross, a cross

Crosses for all those Jesus people who redial

There are blacks, reds, golds and marble

With granite and slate for the stronger willed denial

If you remember Byzantium

Haloes, and daggers, for those erstwhile

Followers of the Benedictines

As K suggested, I do write the most enduring bile

The first real touch of colour

A coronation, where angels and saints step in file

It is an unfinished work

Either that, or he came across the consort’s child

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Leaving…

Now I am in Piazza della Repubblica

Where you search for a leather purse

All of the art of the aficionados

Is left behind for the day

Yet here, in the sun of sublime summers

You return with your purchase

The cleaning is not yet complete

Unlike the caricatures

It takes longer than three minutes

But still they have made a start

The grease and grime of many years

Is washed onto the cobbled floor

Thin jeans on thinner legs

Size six becomes the average

At least for the younger people

We older folk are not quite so slim

Having to contend with the gelato

And three, or more, meals a day

The sun beats down

So we take the shade, next day

I shall continue to observe reception

For tomorrow, we too

Will be on our way, and I for one

Would like to know the protocol for departure

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Next…

With such hunger for modern art

I race past the Raphael

Almost miss the Caravaggio

Then stumble up to the Rembrandt

He also once was a young man

That was back in the day

Before he made his name

As the go-to man, for self-portraits

Mr Gormley also portrays himself

Cast in wondrous resins

Which make his body shape

Pinch perfect

I wait beside the fountain

Displaced in this city of statues

Where I imagine

The writer’s also laid a claim

But for today it is busts

Busts, busts, then more busts

Which after a while remind me

That I am also bust

Bust by the repetition

Bust by the Rome of it all

Bust with our own encryption

The rise came, before the fall

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Step Out For A Reason

There are those with elegance

There are those without

I sit somewhere between

A sort of superficial imposter

It is not the young

Who have the real style

What with rusted, juiced-lemon headgear

And builders foam, deep soled trainers

Father and son masquerade

Showing off their mountain jackets

Complete with Matterhorn emblems

They don’t do it for me either

Neither do the knobbly knees

Above the turquoise slip-on shoes

Which, however much I like the colour

Do not suit those bare ankles

But the red camera

Oh yes, the lady with the red camera

Who clearly says: I don’t give two fucks

About what you think of me

And of course

In that instant, even without trying

She has stolen the show

She has won (and walked away with) the first prize

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Coupling

By now

The organised stride

Sets quite a pace

Already

Enough of Roman art

To last a lifetime

Let me out of here

I need a coffee

I need the gentlemen’s conveniences

I need some outdoor air

And I do believe the crowd

Also think this, in absolute unison

Only a few

Stroll and gaze

Most it seems

Would prefer

To graze, yes to graze

The whole day through

Instead

I follow my own obsession

Observe the brazen man

With a ring through his nose

And a camera over his shoulder

He sits beside me, but he is no witness

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Name Dropping

I too am becoming obese

The fat drips

From my pen

On to the paper

As the Japanese tourists

Waltz on by

Only by ordering at the table

May one sit down for coffee

This, so it seems, is what

Civilisation has come to

At the end of the second decade

Of the twenty-first century

Let us be, let it be

Let me be

With or without an Americano

Let us see, let it see

Let me see

With or without the Hilfiger varifocals

I too did see Leonardo

Or is it Da Vinci

As he is known

To those who read his code

I didn’t, I don’t. I won’t

Read the book, or watch the film

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Corner Stones

I waited a few minutes

To see the Anthony Gormley

Which he wisely entitled

Another Time W

And it may have to be another time

When I share his view of the city

Where I too will stand erect

To take in the longer view

The She Wolf was more immersive

Even without limbs

There was a beauty, also a danger

To the representation

Archimedes of Syracuse

Looks down and across at me

The young woman with a fine rear

Walks by, as if she has lost her lover

I too once roamed aimless

In need of no instruction

Not yet having found

The peaceful vision of the cast man

Tomorrow there is another place

Also most probably another time

But hopefully

With not quite so so many people

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Lantern of the Winds

The wedding dinner is begun

But the wind, or rather the winds

Will not allow

The candle’s light to prosper

Instead, as dusk falls (on society)

It is the electricity which takes over

The incandescent, iridescent bulbs

Providing a warmer, more shimmering glow

Yet still we queue

To see the beginning of time

Or at least to see

Renaissance man’s artistic impression

Black and white

Are still the colours of the day

And for most of the menfolk

Beards were the passion of the day

Much as today

Where Steve Job’s mobile-phone-camera

Is the one essential accessory

Which man nor woman cannot live without

So let us commemorate

The birth of Apple (Computers)

How well it has prospered

Even without the Medici

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Black and White

The American woman has a rudeness

The best of which is that she doesn’t even know

Or care; take today, in the Uffizi

With her camera set to video

She stood right in front

Dead centre, of the Botticelli

Thereby embedding herself

Into everyone else’s photograph

But, as I say, she was so totally unaware

Such that she knows nothing, of her own celebrity

Meanwhile, I sit to write

To make a note of this supreme arrogance

Which, so I understand from television

Is propagated by their leader

Then, lest I forget

To make a note (pun intended)

Of the music exhibition

In the Academie of Sienna

Where, with way less visitors

There is ample space

For care and attention

Even time

To listen to the piano being played

As the lover sings an aria for his lover

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Passing By, Almost Forgotten

Slow train from Siena

Slow train to Firenze

Do not go beyond

The yellow line

Ten times more emotional

Than a picture or a painting

How sweet the sounds

That saved a soul like me

Cypress lined roads turn and twist

To the villa on the hill

Also simple apartments, beside the railway

Behind the allotment gardens

Castelfiorentino, where fake windows

Are painted on the building walls

Where the poppies grow, alongside

The diesel covered, extruded steel rails

A place where the washing hangs

Beneath the open windows

Where the old factory rooftops

Are covered in grass

These are the slow times

Of the twenty-first century

Where a new kind of man is required

To kick off the next renaissance

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Day Trip Traveller

Leaving Poggibonsi

Hare Krishna

Krishna Krishna

Leaving Poggibonsi

Hare Rama

Hare Rama

Hare Hare

Tickets scanned

Diesel online

Acceleration

Rama Rama

Hare Hare

The church is on the hill

The fool is on the hill

Hare Krishna

Krishna Krishna

The fool is by the till

Rama Rama

Factories and farmyards

Victories and vineyards

Hare Rama

Rama Rama

Entering Certaldo

Hare Krishna

Hare Krishna

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Daydreamer

Shee Vo Humm

On the earphones

Meditation music

On the rails from Firenze

Foot tapping

Eyes closed

A tired return

On the rails to Firenze

Shee Vo Humm

On the way

From paradise

And the stairway to heaven

Meadow grass and music

Mansion and meadow grass

Beekeeping, and vine-growing

Vine-growing, and beekeeping

Wichita do we ah

Wichita do we ho hey

Keep the foot tapping

Keep the eyes closing

Past the water pipe

To fill the steam engine

Opposite the water pipe

Which fills the steam engine

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Methodologies

I can shoot a photograph

I can write a note

I can make a gesture

I can do all of these

Simply to build a memory

I could talk of warm sun

I could talk of a cold breeze

I could talk of thunderstorms

I could talk of snow on mountains

All of these to add to the memory

Yes, to be in awe

Of the black and white marble

Of the religious fresco

Of the walkway in the sky

Of the seat, on the outdoor shelf

How long is the queue

Already three parties

Have pardoned themselves

Yet the three of you

Return without venturing

Instead to find a bar

To carry out

A triangulation exercise

To find the height

Of the minaret

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People Past Purpose

How silent the camera

How silver

The quiffed and curly hair

How careful the restoration

How tidy

Row after row of the fold-away chair

Fingers point

And brows are furrowed

With this popular tourist affair

The older woman

Talks of her girlfriend

I whisper, you know, sublimely self-aware

Eyes in sunken sockets

Yes, you guessed it

They said to stop and stare

So, to prevent raucous laughter

You put your finger to your lip

As if you were musing, with Tony Blair

No wonder he turned Catholic

After that new labour crawl

We said we will, we will, do or dare

The American eschews her gravy

Then talks through the silence

For she has neither style, nor care

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