In Between

In Between

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Somewhere in between

The in breath,

And the out breath,

Is silence.

 

Therein,

There lies a tiny death.

The death of desire,

When time stops

 

It is

The fleetest of moments,

A tiny eternity

Of peace.

 

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A Poem With A Very Long Title

This is another poem from my notes from some twenty five years ago.

Walking Out Into The Country At Nightfall In Winter Whilst Heavily Pissed Off With Life In General Probably Caused By Artist’s Block

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(Painting: Evening #1. Pastels on paper)

Grey clouds in salmon

– Reflected worlds!

Woodlands and valleys, rivers glow

Like magma.

My mood, dulled and burred,

Perceives…

Reluctantly. Stubbornly.

Between shakes of the head,

I see Turner setting up his easel

And painting frantically, dementedly…

Bleary eyed – look!

It has gone now!

Cold green and bluey pale,

Washes in and out

And blurs

Grey

Me

Sky.

An Old One…

I happened on a notebook of poems I’d written some twenty to twenty five years ago.

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My style has changed somewhat in the intervening years, and most of them seem rather poor now. One or two of them I still like, though, and I think I’ll put them up here now and again.

This one is just called Rain.

I hurried down the road before the storm

– this must be six or seven years ago –

Still silhouettes for trees within the mist,

Around ahead behind me dull and grey.

 

The air was chilled

And in the hills the thunder growled,

A tiger prowled,

In the high forests of the Weald.

A hundred miles away my cottage refuge,

A forlorn hope now far beyond the deluge.

 

Sharp blue electric yellow split the air,

A crack like washing harried by the wind.

Then came swollen lazy drops of water,

Beachballs of rain exploding all around.

 

Dull chattering

The pattering of rain on tiles

After the miles

I’d run through forests of the Weald.

The sound of distant gunfire possibly,

I closed my eyes to see where I might be.

 

 

Leaves

This is another standalone poem from my linked series, a work in progress, ‘Breeze’.

So much work in progress! One day, I’ll finish one of these projects, but for now I hope you’ll be satisfied with a few extracts. Unfortunately, I just don’t seem to have a great deal of time at the moment…

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It is like a small dog,

The wind is.

Nosing into corners, and

Snuffling around piles of leaves.

Making them leap up in surprise,

And slowly come back down again.

All a-flutter.

 

Suspicious of the wind,

They cannot keep still,

But are continually on the move.

Looking this way and that,

And glancing over their shoulders,

Whispering…

Whispering ‘Did you see that?

‘Did you see it?’

Whispering…

Launch of ‘The Happy Bus’ by Louisa Campbell

Last night I was lucky enough to attend a great evening of performance poetry at The Java Bean cafe in Tunbridge Wells, for the launch of the new pamphlet by Louisa Campbell, a member of my local writing group.

Supported by published poets Ira Lightman and John McCullough, both of whom gave great performances, Louisa’s was easily the standout set for me.

A natural performer, she read a selection of poems from The Happy Bus, Published by Picaroon Poetry, which is a collection she describes as ‘charting the journey through anxiety and depression and on to peace and joy’.

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This is not to suggest that her poetry is all dark, for that is certainly not the case. Each one bristles with hope and determination, and frequently humour – for Louisa does humour very well – and had the audience frequently chortling (we chortle a lot in Tunbridge Wells. We also chunter about stuff, but there was none of that last night).

And, let’s face it, how often do you get to see a poet declaiming a couple of their poems in a wolf onesie?, or getting an audience in Tunbridge Wells to yell out a chorus of ‘Bugger!’?

Below, an extract from the pamphlet:

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To get your copy, click on either of the links below.

Amazon UK

Lulu

 

Just Having Fun With a Little Alliteration…

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Cindy says

Cindy says she’s staying in tonight,

The lipstick lies unopened on the side.

Her dancing dress is hanging in the dark,

And Cindy sits still staring into space.

 

Cindy says she’s staying in tonight,

Mere men are not enough to tempt her out.

And alcohol alone begins to pall,

So Cindy sets the table just for one.

 

Cindy says she’s staying in tonight,

Of patronising princes, she’ll have none.

And dirty dancing makes her far too nervous,

Since Cindy’s slippers slip around like glass.

 

Cindy says she’s staying in tonight,

Shoos Roland Rat’s green taxi from her door.

Her Godmother’s grand schemes come to naught,

As Cindy slings her sling-backs on the floor.

 

Cindy says she’s staying in tonight,

In crumpled clothes and uncombed, unwashed hair.

Dumb DVDs her only entertainment,

And Cindy sheds a tear alone tonight.

 

Cindy says she’s staying in tonight,

Her fickle fling now fancies young Snow White.

Walked out on her a week ago last Wednesday.

Sad Cindy sleeps alone again tonight.

 

Finally, I have got around to updating the ‘My Writing‘ page of this site (link at the top of the page). It was about time!

Refuge

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The first time she ever set eyes on the sea,

She was forty seven.

 

It was a long road there.

She set off with little enough,

And arrived with much less.

 

She had a home, once.

A house,

In a well-to-do area of the city.

Life was good.

 

But fear came,

In the form of bullets, shells and bombs.

Once, gas.

 

Her house is rubble, now.

Memories and possessions buried,

Alongside her husband.

 

Alongside her daughter.

 

Alongside her middle son.

 

Her hands are scarred from the digging.

For weeks,

Her palms were raw and bloody,

from blocks of masonry,

Too large to move.

 

Dust and tears.

The pain came later.

 

It was bad enough to lose her home,

But when you’re caught in the cross-fire,

And the food runs out,

What else can you do?

 

Her eldest son paid for the crossing,

With borrowed money.

 

Somewhere,

He is ‘paying off’ the loan.

A bonded labourer.

A slave.

 

Her youngest son was washed away.

The dinghy was too small,

The passengers too many.

Fear.

You could smell it,

Alongside the despair.

The panic.

There were fewer of them when the sun rose.

 

There is shelter here,

Of a sort.

But when the wind blows she shivers,

Drawing near the oil drum blaze.

 

There is food,

Once a day.

Of a sort.

 

There was a welcome.

She soon learns what sort.

 

Now, she walks down to the sea.

 

She wonders whether she should,

Whether she should just,

Just, slip under,

The waves.

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?’

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.