Community

Your email asks plenty questions

Of the registers of the voice

Of the chest resonator

Of the arch of the palette

Of course I do remember

Walking towards Rena

On the grass

Outside of our studio

Yes our studio, ours for the week

At the tip-top of my kingdom

Though for you, for many of you

It was a different country entirely

And for me a different life

Well outside my comfort zone

Among actors and theatre directors

Shouting out for the whole world to hear

 

Land & Imagination

Often I am alone

On the two-sided

Two-seater churchyard bench

But not today, no

For today it is a Sunday in June

When sons walk out with their mothers

And farm shops close, so no half-way

Provisions for this cyclist

I have flown across skies

Of this hue before

I have landed

In equally beautiful places

Where the tastes of youth

Attracted the flight

Where the lust of expectation 

Garnered the urgency

 

Country Roads

And in that one moment

Watching

The Larkin documentary

I too was swept off to Beverley

Also to Ampleforth Abbey

In that one moment

I had risen from the sofa

To feel the sunshine

Thinking about being

Among writing friends

Of course, as with love

I would find an element

Of argument and discontent 

Fury and absence

In the Basildon Bond

En route to Rosedale

I witnessed 

A small village funeral

Carried out with some style

Later, on a private drive

With calypso-coloured

Rhododendrons

I surreptitiously drove towards

A restored country house

And in that one moment

I had entered

A new world order

Built from the success

Of wistful, wishful, absent-minded

Sunday afternoon thinking

Bread & Cheese

Still-life is still life isn’t it

Around the eggshell egg the air still moves

Inside the egg equilibrium tries to settle

On the reflective tray the tomatoes wait

If we also waited, if we waited long enough

The reflections change, change and decay

With a backdrop of nothingness

And a foreground, edged-off, much the same

What we see is in pure suspension

One artist did the decent thing

His objects hung (quince et al) on lengths of twine

Or string as we might say in the western world

The western world of the playboy

Who could well have featured in a still-life

That is, still life as a portrait

The playboy (the object) being hungover to dry

By the grip of his dominant father

Who may well have eaten the ploughman’s lunch

Which is the image, homed in on

In today’s exhibition

Ongoing Inkscape

I do not give up going to that place

That place of so so many places

Of many seashores

And many mountains

Of many fertile fields

And many baron deserts

I do not give up asking questions

Questions mostly of myself

Why do I choose to go there

Why do I need to go there

What do I hope to gather by going there

What do I hope to give you by going there

And, if as I hear

You want for nothing

What might that gift of

Nothing consist of

Do you honestly want to know nothing

Of my thoughts

Do you seriously want to know nothing

Of my actions

Is there truly nothing in my imagination

To interest you

Is there then nothing in my firmament

To convince you

Incomplete Escape,

Steel away

To the two-seater, two-sided chair

Steal away

To yesterday’s day’s awakenings

Doors opening, doors closing

Footsteps up and down the stairs

No more than an idea

Soft voices, distant voices, uncomplicated voices

Soft grass, dry grass, non-too difficult verges

Sit awhile

Sit a while longer

Take out your paper and pencil

Write of the imagination

How, nowadays

You can’t quite complete the picture

The sketch then has to be left half-undone

As, if you recall, was your way of doing

In most things which you tackled

Raindrops Light Stops

Raindrops slide down the window pain

Strains on the silence

Between the droplets dropping from the leaves

If the sleepy mind should find shelter

Heater-skelter to and from the quiet

Hanging on to the light of early night

Why and what again to ask why

And why those erstwhile distant memories

Amount to such a significant part of life

It is a long light

This night-light of the north

It brings a stillness still to delight

To an insight, with which

Steadily to go forth

It is a quiet light

This light of late evening

It brings shadow to shade the fight

The will’s right, with which

To continue the grieving

Existential Exterior

The eyes wonder

That is, the back of the eyes wonder

The feet plod

That is, the moccasin shod feet plod

In this way

I have my own out of body experience

Just as yesterday, in the car

Crossing the bridge over the River Trent

The rain falls

Raindrops splash up six inches or so

From the automobile’s shiny black roof

A water and tin symphony, in Lincolnshire

In Yorkshire, Headingley to be precise

The cricket test match is in progress

I sit here, listening

Witnessing my ears ringing, my blood flowing

Soon it will be 4:30

I have backed a one-hundred-to-one outsider

In the Derby; I picked it because of its name

Zabriskie, which reminded me of Pink Floyd

Road Rage

A black Americano

Of the Insomnia blend

On the way to the dentist

To see a dear old friend

Who wrote poems climbing bridges

And poems climbing trees

Now she is a mother

Who lives her life on the breeze

Or so it seems from a distance

To be distant can be a relief

Also to see my daughter

For whom work is her daily thief

The career is what careers you

Takes time when time is all you have

Working to someone others programme

Oh to be at home, soaking in the bath

Interior

Pebbles, in the flower bowl

Grey ones, pink ones

Rounded from stone

Do they talk

From top to bottom 

From inside to out

Do they walk

From left to right

From dark to light

Pebbles, in the flower bowl

Plain ones, speckled ones

Separate, together, alone

Do they drink

Alcohol, or alcohol-free

Ice cold from the fridge

Do they smoke

Regular, or a cannabis mix

As inhaled on Bluestone Ridge

As Well

You might wonder

As well might I, of

The weather in the Tundra

And the Icelandic green sky

You may consider

As well may I, of

The blues of the oceans

And the way lands lie

You could spare a thought

And so could I, for

The whales in the Orkneys

And the fish which die

You should take a moment

And so should I, for

The time and the place

Which pass us close by

 

Sky

A sky blue table
And sky blue chair
A sky blue door
Who might live there

A sky blue sky
And sky blue sea (almost)
A sky blue thought
Hope is here, at the coast

A red blue tanker
Out at sea
A red blue vessel
Anchored deceptively

A red blue ferry
Across the flow
A blue red scurry
For you kind folks to know

 

Gratuitous

It is a bit like

The Spanish inquisition

All of these questions

About family relationships

What are you scared of

What are you hiding

Don’t you understand

The importance of family

So why are you embarrassed

Why can’t you be normal

What’s wrong with you

Go on, tell me why don’t you

Gratification

The rains came

As I sat

Eating my fruit scone

With sumptuous jam, and clotted cream

Raindrops bounced

On the Cornish slate pathway

Leading down the English garden

To a place of mystery just beyond

This was a Tuesday

Now we’re heading for a Thursday

With sunlight shining

At the start of the day

Delayed Gratification

The rains are due

But they are not with us yet

As the helicopter flies overhead

And the Japanese Garden is booked

So now it’s time for a shower

Also to brush my teeth

And take my prescription medication

Before the day can truly begin

Relationships

It’s 10:30 on a Monday

And I’m a long long way from home

We were surfing on the Sunday

But that moment’s well and truly gone

There’s no petrol at the station

Panic buying has done us wrong

We hadn’t reached our allocation

Before the banging of the gong

It’s Amy on the stereo

She sure was taken, way too young

Like Hemingway at the rodeo

The words tripped off her tongue

We all go back to each other

It’s the way our society is run

Stand right by your brother

In the full light of the sun

It’s 10:30 on a Monday

In the full light of the sun

We were surfing on the Sunday

But that moment’s well and truly gone

Famine

What spirit takes you

What spirit am I

What spirit makes you

Act the way you do

In what way do you need me

To be the way I am

With what evils do you feed me

To make me understand

You say that I ignore you

As if you are not there

You say that I don’t listen

And hardly ever care

The spirit is going on vacation

All of your light will be down to you

The spirit is of one nation

Which sure as hell does include you

Feast

The salt lamp

With its non-intrusive glow

Bathes the room

With an aura of love

Forever to be a memory

Of Manchester, with

Its Grayson Perry exhibition

And Canal Street cocktails

Let alone the savoury treacle chips

Holding On

Aeroplane, bird, car

Pencil lead propelled

Blue bird, grey bird

Names withheld

Due to lack of knowledge

Helicopter, pigeon, ambulance

Chimney smoke expelled

Red bird; Robin

Some names return

Due to intransigent memory

Tremulous

Water crashes down

Startling the poet

Whose heart beats heavy

With the expediency of love

Watching On

One robin

Two pigeons

Is it a stand-off

Or dare they square

How much washing

Can one robin do

With how much patience

Will the pigeon coo

Boxed In

Oh bugger

For no reason

Other than

That the moment has gone

Oh sugar

To please them

Now that

The movement moves on

Oh mugger

To tease one

With snatches of song

Oh slugger

To freeze Sonny Liston

Now Ali has wronged

Gambler’s Synonymous

If this isn’t heaven

Then where might it be

If this is the measure

Then how far out to sea

If the sun on my back

Helps the tall grasses grow

If theirs is the future

Then what might I know

If the roar of the engine

Breaks no calm at all

If light turns to shadow

Then how do the dice roll

Urban Urbane

Direct in line

And all around

For three hundred and sixty degrees

Red bricks and white double-glazed windows

Grey slates and silver wood-burner chimneys

Green trees by greener hedges and bushes

Above

A cotton canopy concertinas

As the wind forcefully replaces the breeze

Ever so silent, silent now

I wait for the grey clouds

Watch the peace slowly pass by

Holding On, Letting Go

These are the greens

Also the mauves and yellows

Of autumn on the cusp of summer

This is the relief

Of the red flamed dimensions

With the passions of spring

Those are the supports

Fixings for the canopy

Which blows through to winter

They are the ropes

And hooks and leverages

That are here for the season

The Easy Way Is Up

This is the day

One week

Of birthday celebrations

Later

Circling

The inner and outer

For the hotel

With the same name

This is the reflection

Of city

And seaside town

Each to their own

But first to say

Esplanade Gardens

And England’s first

Funicular railway

Those Victorians

Sure had

A sense of style

Which we celebrate on this day

Creating Past Creations

Saturday morning

Health spa

Then golf club for breakfast

No sea view

Or walkers on the promenade

Instead cars, cars of every kind

A cup of top quality coffee

Good, strong, and black

With an authentic Rombouts biscuit

Next time I might ask

For two shots of espresso

Just to push the boat out so to speak

What with booze cruise boats

Being one topic of conversation

With the southern chap, back in the spa

Free Lunch

There once was a man

Let’s call him John shall we

He always chose to stay

In budget class accommodation

There was also another man

Let’s call him Christopher for now

Quiet, refined, or luxury class

Was his choice for accommodation

What mattered to John

When making his choices was

Did they have internet

And did they do early breakfast, of any kind

Christopher also had his demands

Did they have a spa, with a sauna

Could he get an a la carte evening meal

How late did they serve full English breakfast

John was on a higher pay scale

Yet he had never reviewed, or tested

The expenses allowance for staying away

Something which Christopher had done

For the whole of his working life

A Blank Nostalgia

The Koshi bells tinkle

The lawns are continuously mown

This is the August Bank Holiday

At some place called home

The long-handled brush

Fishes out the algae

From the overgrown pond

As Red Admiral butterflies drift by

Next doors apple tree is burgeoning

With this years bumper crop

As is Peter’s pear tree

As well as his ‘reach for the sky’ white roses

The giant bee lands momentarily

But immediately leaves the bush

To fly off across the garden

The poet’s art

Is conjuring up images

Of those places he can’t go to anymore

We Are, All The Same

In this street

Of semi-detached houses

Where the makeover

Is the makeover for everyone

In this summer breeze

Of late August Bank Holiday

Where the warm sunshine

Is the warm sunshine for everyone

Across the main road

Into the small, neat café

where a child is named

Named to become everyone

Tight grey jeans

Hips rocking, side to side

An old footballer walks

Walks for everyone

Balance

That this day I should wake

To feel like doing nothing at all

More to the point

That I should feel altogether capable

Of doing absolutely nothing at all

And here we are, at lunchtime

Still with the confidence, and desire

To do nothing, nothing whatsoever

Meanwhile their scoreboard

Ticks along nicely

Mine, in sublime contrast

Remains perfectly still

And so it goes, on, and on

A full afternoon of doing nothing at all

But, can I make it past tea

Does eating afternoon tea, or dinner, count

As doing nothing at all

Then what of the evening

Watching Nordic Murders

On ALL4 with Walter Presents

I would say, most definitely doing nothing

Indeed going perfectly nowhere at all