Five

The real writing, the screaming, then began
The writing did begin again
Yet first to tell of a significant oversight

The black dog took me at my word
I left my job, I sought other pleasures
I left my wife, my two beautiful children

For twelve months I lived in Devon
For twelve more months of heaven
I lived on the Channel Island of Jersey

I want to tell you this because this is where
The poetry of poetry came into existence
It is from where it still on occasion hails from

Fuelled by high-octane selfish obsession
Energised by compulsive desires; my needs
Confirmed in those peak-experience moments

The poems are endless, even now
Years after our time together crumbled
Crumbled, burned; in a harshly distasteful way

I could not reach her
I cannot reach her
I should not reach her
Yet once I had breached her

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Four

The poetry stuttered and stumbled
As did the relationship
Working away from home did not help
Yet I did find a four leaf clover

Dartmoor could have been a place to settle
But we did not settle as it happens
My seven-day work week was relentless
Poems on cabin steps, poems at the intake

Cards, letters, notes from my travels
Distanced further still from those at home
Train stations, trolley bus stops
Time to write, time to suck lollipops

My own office in the country
With a landlord who murdered his wife
I too talked of sadness, of forgiveness
Love itself mostly was returned

Yet the silence slowly took me
Immersed myself in Internet poetry
I lost sight of the light of love
I lost sight of the meaning of love

Until, after the end
I was gifted a poem
Which spoke eloquently
Of love, of dust, of cobwebs

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Three

I have come into the Bow room
Because someone is sat by the window
At the top of the turn of the stairs

This is, as you might expect, a quiet place
Four quite substantial Georgian windows
Two doors, on the opposite wall

One of the doors is blocked off
By the teacher's raised sitting platform
The other is both entrance and fire escape

I have this luxury of silence
Yet downstairs, in the lounge
A group of people work on a jigsaw puzzle

That, as you might expect, is not my thing
People milling about, noisily socialising
Even wanting to know where everyone is from

Better to be up here with the dry logs
In the old, for decoration only, fireplace
Silver Birch always was my favourite, wasn’t it

I am staying in Fir Three
Which is neither tall or spread out
Nor is it at all en-suite

Which is exactly what I would recommend
Though you might have to cross the road
To book in at Kilnwick Percy Resort!

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Two

I elected to complete my OU degree
With a module in Cognitive Psychology
Don’t you dare ask me why

It was my first move away
From Technology and Mathematics
Something I simply had to try

She introduced herself
On the steps, outside a class
On Dichotic Listening

Can we sit beside you please
You seem to know what you are doing
Were her introductory words

I had taken a poetry book with me
The 1987 Eric Gregory Anthology
Don’t you care to ask me why

It was for my own protection
Among those more cultured types
Something I never did, or ever would deny

I coped, I managed, I did ok
Yet I changed
Poetry became me

Often after I simply had to cry
Yes, often afterwards
I simply had to cry

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One

I was with the black dog
Metaphorically speaking
I wanted to extend the house

There was no room out front
No room either at the back
Sure as hell no room at the sides

I was in the small back bedroom
Are all back bedrooms small
I looked out of the window

I wrote those first words
On a business contact index card
It was all I had to hand

The poem detail is all gone
Sadness, darkness, angst
For no good reason whatsoever

I write this only as a record
It was a beginning, of sorts
It is the only thing I’ve stuck at

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