Gloss, And Glitter

If I had the time, which I haven't
I would start again
With a fountain pen
And the basic rules of grammar

I might pick up a stammer
To give me time to think
To think I could give up
The drink, but how could I

Would it matter
If on this second chance
I learnt to dance, and sing
Play guitar, that sort of thing

Such a beautiful idea
To see, and hear
Christopher read his poetry
Then go on to dance and sing

And maybe join in with conversation
On the platform at the station
Virtuoso like; stating his case
For a remedy, to his unsociable situation

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VCN 2

I had been on a long train journey, to the South-West of England. On the station platform I bumped into a young woman, who I used to know from my creative writing education in Buxton. She was bedraggled and bereft; half-dressed, penniless, and in debt. She wanted to borrow money, and asked if I could take her with me.

We were in a large rectangular room, newly refurbished, in a modern style. One of my sons was there, I'm not sure which one. The house was on Dartmoor, at Shaugh Prior, a village I boarded in for a short while, but that was a good many years ago.

I realised that I hadn't made a booking (I used to have the flat next door apparently). I was pulling up my trousers when the lady of the house came in, the young woman from Buxton was laid half-naked on the floor.

I asked if it was ok to stay for a few days, I had a meeting to attend, and staying over seemed to be the only option down here. That's fine she said, and asked me if I'd posted her booklet; she said she was relying on me, since the old service had ended.

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Read Between The Lines

Willows in the garden
Daffodils in the verges
So soon to change this life
So soon to discard the urges

There then at a distance
There then in your far off county
There then, just as if for instance
There then you were the bounty

I will write about someone quite different
Someone I thought I knew, or know
I will write about, a circumstance
Of love flourishing, as love begins to grow

For a while there I was nowhere
I was listening to The Eels, singing
Their sad song True Original; it was you
You I thought that they were singing of

And I was nowhere
No more than a listener
No more than a stooge
No more than a bereaved looker on

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Pitch

It was dark when we arrived
Then the rain
Began steadily to fall

It was dark when we arrived
As the doubts
Began certainly to call

It was dark when we arrived
It was raining
When we began unloading

It was dark when we arrived
Then the pages
Gradually started unfolding

It was dark when we arrived
Your voice
So gently withholding

It was dark when we arrived
Your words, so high
I could not find the beholding

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Patch

It's got something to do with sugar, or saccharin, or pretence, or falseness, or rising up to be, to be up there above me.

Setting yourself to be, to be up there, above me; righteous, proper, good, reliable, all of those traits which I never could aspire to.

Setting yourself up, on a pedestal, at a distance; keep away you said, keep away you implied, keep away, keep away, keep well away.

And the crooked branches, of the crooked tree, in the crooked mist, beneath the crooked rain.

And then the light, and then the green-shoots, and then the sadness, left someway behind me.

And then the blossom, and then the road sign, and then the time, for someone new to find me.

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