Foreword Part 2

I was a little bit spooked this morning; on the day when I had determined not to continue with this work. I saw a short video by Thich Nhat Hanh, which answers a question: How do we deal with regrets at the end of our life?

He spoke of beginning anew, about doing something about what we did in the past, how to neutralise the wrong things of the past and turn them into something beautiful.

The wrong things of our past are still with us, as a wound, and if we don’t do anything the wounds will remain.

But with deep looking we can say sorry, we can be determined not to do it again.

Your voice will be heard, those hearing will smile, and the wounds begin to heal very quickly.

In the present moment you have peace, and all complex of guilt is gone; the practice of beginning anew is very effective. Then you have a new life in front of you.

The idea for this book was that I would explore the mistakes made in 2004. 

But without reliable background information I knew it would be difficult. I can’t for instance be certain that this was the year when we went to relationship counselling.

Although I do now know that to go to counselling one needs to be able to listen; one needs to be open to what situations, and what suggestions, if any, arise.

It is no good to go to counselling, then to sit in a corner sulking, because you are not getting your own way.

If you do behave in that way why would anyone in the future agree to go to counselling with you anyway.

I do remember that the counselling room was calm; all creams, beiges, whites; a round table, with a bowl of pebbles, yes, everything about the room was non-confrontational.

But I was confrontational, I wanted to win the battle, because for some crazy reason I did see it has a battle; may the victor take the spoils; I was wrong

I have some photographs, dated 3rd January 2004, if that date is to be believed, for in the same folder there are others dated 2000.

Anyway, they are at Yorkshire Sculpture Park, Anthony Gormley’s statues, mounted on top of trees.

There is one photo of my ex, well wrapped up in scarf and jacket; it is a distant shot but it does suggest it is winter. There are no photographs of our son, which is a bit odd, because he did like to pose.

Fourteen years on from 2004 I have just finished proof reading my friends transcripts of her notes whilst travelling around India; she was in search of, well, in search of herself I would say.

She went to India after the breakup of a long-term relationship, which she frequently, though always briefly, mentions in her notes.

Will I do the same, is that a universal action of the collective unconscious.

There are only three poems in my folder January to March 2004, I don’t know if more have been lost, in the movements across many computers over the years.

I will look back into the physical archives, or at least the ones I have access to. I will also try to trace BBC’s Get Writing website, which I regularly contributed to.

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Foreword Part 1

I did not care for the house, I thought it too small, inside and out; no, no it was not a place which I wanted to move to.

Neither did I care for the fact that my partner had cooked up a deal with her father to buy the house, then to let her rent it at a reduced rate, with an option, eventually, to buy it.

So when the family moved in I did not; instead I took my own place, a cold cold one bedroom winter-let, out across the river, on the Bere Peninsula.

The foreword could end there, if I could trust you to understand the failings of the human psyche, which leads on to failed relationships.

But I will go on, not that I don’t trust you, not that I wouldn’t care to read your suggested interpretations.

I will go on, so that you have a few more facts from my perspective to play with, a few more sides for you to take, a few more gaps for you to wander through.

The lawyer in London asked me to drink champagne as I was writing my record, in support of his clients arbitration proceedings.

I didn’t drink champagne, but I did get paid extremely well for a couple of weeks writing, followed by two appearances in London, as an expert witness.

Four years earlier, in 1992, I had returned from the Channel Isles of Jersey, to find a home, to earn a living, to provide for my new family.

We had rented houses, each for two years, prior to the one above which I did not move in to; they were larger houses, which I had chosen; my working seven days a week paid the rent.

I also didn’t move to the new house because I thought that my partner had been unfaithful.

My old boss from 1989 had offered her his hand in marriage; she did turn him down, but didn’t tell of what had led up to such a circumstance arising.

Fast forward a couple of years, I am in a rather warmer winter let, having spent two summers, and another cold winter, in a terraced row of student doctors out in the country.

I rang my ex, for as we were now living apart I think it not right still to call her my partner; I rang to see if she fancied going for a meal.

Are you asking me out on a date, she said excitedly; if you are then the answer is yes.

Well one thing led to another, and there I was, living in the house, which I hadn’t wanted to live in, which wasn’t big enough, inside, or out.

Several years of home improvements followed; new floors, new ceilings, new roofs, new walls, new windows, new bathroom, new conservatory, new fitted bedrooms, new kitchen, new study, new garden path, new arbour, new rill.

In the Christmas of 2002 my partner, bought me a Kodak digital camera, another thoughtful present to encourage me to develop my creativity.

Little did I know at the time that the camera was to be my witness of the year 2004, which is what this book of poetry is to be about.

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The rent collector calls

Artisan bohemian

Leaves of grass

Beds of roses

Parisian San Franciscan

Steamers pass

Nowhere closes

The mist rises

The sun sets

The stars glow

The moons up high

Coffee, cabaret

Cigarette

The mist rises

The fantasy bets

Caravan

Or charabanc 

Pride and prejudice

Shoe soles worn

Gentleman gargantuan

Trampled leaf

Beds of thorn

The fret lifts

The rent collector calls

The wallets slow

Pretend not in

Cold coffee, camomile

Slow release nicorette

The lights dim

Reality

Retreats, stalls and then forecloses

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For now I am sated

Some affinity with defiance

Some avoidance of reliance

No, what I mean to say is

Just because someone else

Says it is definitely so

Doesn’t mean everything

Maybe they were first to say

But that’s about all

Absolutely about all

Some relief

That belief to have stated

Mischief or not

For now I am sated

Yes, for a while 

I’ve held this view

I don’t expect 

It is original

Or even new

Ok sometimes 

I can be

Synchronised

Still doesn’t mean 

I recognise

Or philosophise

No, simply to hold on

To my point of view

That on its own is enough

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Awaken muscles once asleep

In the half dark space

Visions of silk, satin and lace

Empowered by love or loins fed lust

Imagine corsets and deeper dust

Stroke your ankles, kiss your thigh

Imagine a further high of trust

Caress your neck nape, kiss your lips

Empower your burnt off sulphur musk

In the half light

In a sacred space for two as must

Imagine skin and oil and velvet just

Kiss me on my pleasure, I am resigned

Tongues first tips, then full entwined

My hands onto your shoulders flee

Legs twist around our inner be

Squeeze the cheeks, seek and seep

Awaken muscles once asleep

Penetration, ejaculation

Tides turn to neap

With memories of oceans so so deep

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