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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Raced Days And Wasted Days

The man
He fasts
He fasts as fast as he was racing the longing
He longs to know all there is to know
Of the knowing

He knows there is no belonging
He now knows there is no belonging
For which he ought to fast
Or for which he ought
Still to be for the longing

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Open Wound

Such that now we run a writer's group
Troupe the colour with pastiche and plagiarism
We write then we recite our own words

With the barest minimum of critique
Although, as you know, before I met you
I didn't even write at all

My soul didn't spit out any sort of ache
My rages kept inside me, by the thin
Twists of barbed wire, also the corrugated tin roofs

Even today as I get caught behind a farming machine
I ask what on earth can it mean
All these people needing to work on a Sunday

Don't they know that that's the sure way to ruin
That's the road whereupon
The wheels will always fall off

Don't you dare scoff
For I'm sure it's all part of the reason
For the that of whatever happened between us

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Old Straw Hat

There is a breeze
A strongish breeze at that
The new trousers are creased
Creased fairly well at that

I have lost quite a bit of weight
So that now, now the tummy lies fairly flat
It hasn't been too too difficult
For at the moment that's where I'm at

I'm shedding all manner of things
The pounds, the fedora, the old straw hat
This morning I meditated
As I used to, in my Kingsbridge flat

I don't hesitate to tell you about my life
For it's where I'm going, it's where I'm at
I've been thinking a bit deep
Yes, I know that's not my usual scat

It's not that I want to say something cheap
No that's not what I'm any longer at
It's just that I thought how to be
You know; that:

One person is one person
Two people are two people
And when you weigh it all up
There's not much more to it than that

You could have been anyone
So could I
We could have been anywhere
Until the day we die

Yet we did meet, we connected
One day we even learnt to fly
No wonder I think of you
On this day with the big blue sky

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