Oh I Do Like To Be Beside The Seaside!

A standalone excerpt from a work in process – a series of linked poems with the overarching title Breeze.

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You see, I never do things by halves. Unfinished novels, short stories and poems, too.

I’m sure a psychologist would have a field day.

On the late season sea-front we press our hats to our heads,

And shout to make ourselves heard.

The rain stings faces, and dribbles miserably down necks

It hoses noisily up and down abandoned streets,

As we struggle to stay on our feet between the chip shop and the variety theatre.

 

‘Shall we go for a drink?’

‘What? I can’t hear you!’

‘I said…’

 

Cables beat maniacally, ringingly,

Against rusting and white paint chipped flagpoles.

 

Piles of deckchairs like collapsed marionettes shift uneasily

On the shingle among the lolly sticks and sweet wrappers,

The bladdery seaweed and the old egg sacs,

Beneath the rounded overhang of the promenade;

Their fabric thrumming and whirring

And flapping.

 

The weather forecast said a thirty percent chance of rain.

 

An empty drinks can follows us noisily across the road.

 

‘That’s better.’

‘Gosh, that wind’s strong today!’

‘It’s almost like winter.’

‘What’ll you have?’

‘Better make it a strong one!’

‘Yeah. Make that two.’

 

Leaning on the bar, waiting for the drinks.

Staring gloomily out of the window.

 

Darting gulls,

Silver light,

Drinking silently,

Glancing at each other.

 

‘Tell you what. Why don’t we just go home?’

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The Praising Purple Prose Poem

My humble, grovelling apologies for my lamentable lack of activity recently. Busy, busy, busy…and so little time. And at my age, too. Shouldn’t be allowed. So I’ll just pop up one of my dubious poems (that’s dubious as in merit, rather than taste) as a peace offering, and I’ll try and catch up with a few of the blogs I follow…tomorrow.

I’m a bit tired now…

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The Praising Purple Prose Poem

Purple prose that nobody wants,

Can find a home

In my poem.

 

These offcuts and discarded words,

Too rich for others to use,

Are just what I need for my poem.

 

Here on the dusty floor,

This is Just what I was looking for,

For my poem.

 

I’m collecting it up,

If you’re throwing it out,

And I’m slotting it into

My poem.

 

Give it to me,

I can put it just there

Between those two lines,

Of my poem.

 

Too rich for their taste?

Well, it won’t go to waste,

In my poem.

 

Since that flowery tone,

Is just like my own,

In my poem.

 

Alliterative, flowery, rollicking lines,

The sort that Dylan Thomas would write;

 

I’ll give them a home,

In my poem.

Be gentle with me, dear reader.

A Poem – Moon

Moon

With the click of the door closing,

The laughter and the clink of glasses

Has faded,

Evaporated,

and left…

…nothing.

 

I face the shadowed lawn,

In tidal grey and scattered silver.

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Pulling my collar up, and,

Pushing my hands down,

Deep into my pockets,

I crunch down the driveway

As if crushing ice cubes beneath my feet,

Until I reach the street, long emptied and dark,

And now shuttered.

 

And stop.

 

Around me,

A sharp silence swirls

Like my misty breath;

A press of ghosts at an invisible bar.

 

Then looking up,

Through frosted glasses,

I see a perfect slice of lemon moon

In a cold, gin-clear sky.

And I laugh.

 

I will be away all next week, but I’ll reply to any comments before then and, of course, when I return.

Despair – a poem.

She counts the tomato flowers:

One, two, three, four,

On the stunted plant.

 

Forever waiting.

Hoping….still hoping.

 

Old plastic sheeting and palm fronds.

Dry ground and hot sun.

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Stunted children,

One, two, three, four.

With spindle legs,

And hard, round stomachs,

Lie beneath the palm fronds.

 

Silently.

 

Flies,

Around dry mouths,

And dull eyes.

 

A few onions,

Some spinach.

Dry soil.

 

He was a farmer.

Drought.

Poor harvests.

And debt.

 

All he grew was hunger.

***

This year, he takes another loan to buy seeds

But this year will be different.

He will keep one tenth of the crop

For the seeds

 

Next year,

There will be no more debt.

 

No more hunger.

 

There is a harvest.

Jubilation.

 

Next year,

Sterile seeds.

 

Although he has paid back some money,

The debt has trebled.

***

That land was his,

Over there,

On the other side of the village.

 

That land covered in waste,

Hope buried under rubbish.

The future smothered with despair.

 

The land that belongs to someone who lives

In the nearby town.

Someone who has never seen it.

 

The next day,

She pulls up one onion.

Picks some spinach.

Boils some water for her children.

One, two three…

 

Her fatherless children.

***

In India every year, large numbers of farmers take their own lives when they become trapped in a cycle of poverty, high-interest debt, and bad harvests. And to compound their problems, certain huge multi-national companies are developing seeds that produce only sterile plants, meaning that the farmer cannot use harvested seed to grow new crops, and has no choice but to buy seed again the following year, sinking further into that hopeless spiral.

The government seems unwilling or unable to do anything to break this cycle.

Monthly Writing Update

AAARGH! Boink…boink…boink…thud!

Sorry…that’s me going a bit stir crazy and bouncing off of the walls at the moment. Two weeks ago I had an operation on my foot, which I am supposed to ‘rest and elevate’ for most of the time. I can get out and about a bit, but it is very slow going, with the aid of crutches, at an average speed of something in between ‘Get on with it!’ and ‘Oh for goodness sake, is that the best you can do?’ and which means, in effect, that I’m pretty well confined to barracks.

At least that gives me plenty of writing time. Perfectly true, but normally I would take a day off from writing every now and again, and go out somewhere – perhaps for a walk. Because that’s not really practical at the moment, I think I’m spending too much time writing and feeling a bit stale, so yesterday I ended up reading and watching a DVD.

I’ll be glad to be back on my feet properly again, but that won’t be for well over another month.

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Elephant tea caddy – what’s not to like?

Anyway, enough of your whinging, I hear you cry. What on earth are you writing at the moment?

Well, as usual I’m flitting between books, and I’m almost 40,000 words into the Indian story, which has the plot and sub-plots now fully worked out, and some 25,000 words into book one of The Assassins’ Garden – the one set in Medieval Persia and Mughal India. The plot of this one needs a bit more thought, but I’m making it up as I go along, so we’ll see what happens.

I wrote a few poems in the last month, one of which I put up on a blog post.

Oh, and here’s a haiku for today. The last week or so has been unusually hot and sunny, but the forecast is that it will break sometime this morning.

Heavy summer air,

Feeling so hot and humid,

Threatening a storm.

And here it comes now!

Today? Perhaps I’ll write one or two book reviews, once I’ve finished watching the rain hammering down outside the window.

Or just read…

A Poem – ‘Glamour’

Every time I post a poem I insist I don’t write many; that’s it’s not really my forte. And yet, I still write them, despite my doubts.

Although I consider myself a fiction writer, and a writer of short and long stories to be a little more precise, I love poetry. I love its conciseness, its ability to paint pictures and tell stories without telling stories. I feel it is closer to painting than other forms of creative writing.

So here is another offering, called ‘Glamour’.

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Sun-bed ravaged skin dry flaking and decaying,

Masked by layers of painted make-up.

She sets the wig straight with faltering hands,

Since the bloody thing has slid over her eyes again

For the umpteenth time!

Now takes a deep breath,

Then

Checks herself in the mirror across the room,

Turning her head painfully this way a little,

And then that…

‘Shit, I guess that’ll have to do.’

Both hands shaking, she lights a last, final, cigarette,

And,

Her lips pursed and cracking,

She expels the smoke with a wheezing sigh,

And coughs,

One eye still on her reflection.

Then leans back awkwardly against the pillows,

And turns slowly towards the nurse.

‘Do I look good?’ She rasps.

‘Yeah.’

The nurse nods.

‘You look good.’

Vikings

I began writing a short story about Vikings last year, which took a totally unexpected turning and ended up as a different story that I had not foreseen at all.

But what was left over, also unexpectedly, became this poem.

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forest dawn detail

 

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It is going to be a busy couple of weeks, now, so I probably won’t be able to post or reply to comments as much as I’d like, but I’ll check in whenever I can.

All the best to you all!

One or Two Haiku

I have another of those ridiculously busy weeks, this week, and will hardly be online until the weekend. So my apologies for missing lots of your posts, and I’ll also post my own one a little earlier than I would have otherwise.

As I have mentioned before, I don’t write a lot of poetry, mainly because it never seems to work out as well as I would like. But, in defiance of that, here are a few haiku from my notebooks, ones that seem a little better than most.

Be gentle with me, kind reader.

chestnut-leaves

September sunshine.

Lazily picking apples;

A hint of autumn.

 

Yellow chestnut leaves

Rattling wildly in the wind –

– Autumn’s prayer flags

 

A sycamore leaf,

Caught midair in this cobweb

Is frozen in time.

 

haws

Lime tree’s final leaf

Hangs yellow in the lamp glow

Waiting for the wind.

 

Fat, white snowberries

Clustered upon bare branches;

Pale moons in the dusk.

4th February 2017

I was reading through my travel journal for 2005, yesterday.

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The Bodhi Tree at the Mahabodhi Temple, Bodhgaya

On 16th March I arrived at Bodhgaya, for my second visit to this lovely small town. Because I was going to be away from England for my eldest daughter’s birthday, she had asked me to write and send her a poem. I wrote this in the evening after visiting the Mahabodhi Temple, and after meeting with Indian friends I had not seen for a year, and thought it entirely suitable to dedicate to her and to send her.

There is a crazy wisdom here;

I am at the heart of all things Buddhist.

Good friends make life bearable.

Gentle people give me hope.

An unexpected friend gives me unlooked-for joy.

I am here,

This is the eye of the hurricane.

The still point in the centre of the universe.

My hope for the world,

My hope for you.

Unquenchable love.

I don’t write a great deal of poetry, because I don’t feel it is really my forte, but in the light of current events around the world, it seems worth posting here. I revised it a little before I sent it, but this was the original draft.

Sending everyone hopes and thoughts of friendship, peace and tolerance.