Will you breathe with me please?
Can you stand still? Just as still
as I slow down life in this place.
Can you taste the air, cold
like the first time ever again?
Can you feel in a way
that is new, some old things?
Will you look? Please. And breathe
in the cold air of Autumn
Can you live as if skinless
where the touch of another
is what lives with you, hurts
for more days than it should?
I suspect that you can’t.
So you war. Making life
much harder than it is.
Read More
Designed and built one Saturday,
when I was very bored,
I made a brand new instrument
It was The Turpsichord.
Church organ-like, and very tall,
with keys and stops and throttles,
it made a sound by blowing air
through different turps-filled bottles.
It made a lovely warbling sound
that drew the sharpest breath
rendered all more poignant by
the player’s possible death.
I gathered friends to hear me play.
They coughed and choked and gagged.
I castigated one of them
who nearly lit a fag.*
And soon recitals were performed
to many gathered throngs
to hear selected medleys of
White Spiritual songs.
Performing indoor concert halls
became a thrill again
until The Turpsichord was banned
by Health & Safety men.
I suffered much for all this art.
I played when I was bladdered.
The drinking took my mind off it
this massive fire hazard.
I planned a last performance then,
a swan-song, if you will.
The weight of suffering for my art
had made me very ill.
It had to be an outdoor gig
with careful preparation
to find a way to get around
the government legislation.
And so I played it one last time
the people came from far.
I poured my soul into the songs
then lit a big cigar.
That’s how you end an arty life –
you go out with a bang.
I left the earth for worms to eat
but with a turps-ish tang.
*For the benefit of our American cousins – “fag” is English slang for cigarette. I do NOT set fire to homosexuals.
Read MoreThe questioning the actions.
The reading subtle signs.
The analysing stupid things
that aren’t between the lines.
The only option possible
is one you have in mind.
The only truthful answer is
the one you’ll never find.
The “Nothing’s wrong!” that never works
and never satisfies.
The way it feels and compliments
a lifetime’s worth of lies.
The friendships that are twisted
are never quite the same.
The playful dance of quiet thoughts
perpetuate the game.
The way forgetfulness forgets
the way it started out.
The non-existent whispering
imagined as a shout.
The tapering of friendliness
that ends in being alone.
The rarer sound of human voice
that follows ringing tones.
The justifying arguments
repeated every day.
The bubbling resentment
that never goes away.
I seem to have fallen back into poetry again, after my last rather intense bout of art show work. One of the advantages of being multi-disciplined is that when you burnout on one artistic form (painting), you can fall back on another (poetry).
This latest poem is one that has tumbled out amongst a whole host of others over the past few days. I tend to write nothing for months and then finally a whole lot of poems will come out at once. I’m currently writing another one that’s very long and story-like, provisionally titled “The Ballad of Facebook”, so it might be a while before I post it.
I appreciate that paranoia is not the most livening of subjects, especially while most of the world is celebrating right now, but I’m aware that I owe you all a post as I’ve fallen silent for a little longer than normal. This poem has just been completed. Ink barely dry and all that.
I’m wondering if anyone else can relate to that feeling of paranoia. Have I described it accurately? Is your experience of it different? I wanted the poem to have a slightly naïve air, as I think paranoia stems from naïveté. (Did I put all my accents in the right place there?) I’m sure there are some cunning linguists out there who will be able to tell me…
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She wasn’t very young. She’d had a life of hauling
things around. Her latest beau’s a fitter
that’s working hard enough to leave her keys
inside her un-attended. Then she went.
Abandoned and gashed along one side
she crashed out right in front of council flats –
a hidden part of Southern London – rare
that someone comes there just to hide.
And then the raping starts as kids break in,
go in and out her sliding door that’s on
the side, and open up the back with ease
before they rip the innards out and spread
the contents everywhere. The carpet tiles
and underlay, the grip-rods, scaff poles, tools
and spray paint cans all arcing through the air
and sometimes used to mark surrounding things.
Her owner came and rescued what he could.
He brought his brother’s bravado – useless when
the kids had gone for tea. The men could not
save her. Insurance men were called. They couldn’t
turn her over. Turn. Turn turn.
Turnturnturnturnturn.
Turn. No. Battery: dead.
They came
straight in, no pause
“Now this I’ve got to see”,
she said and carried bags and
some coats to keep them clean from blood
and then the sound of someone being
kicked. A sound like sandbags. thud. thud thud. thud
as fifteen people set about him, trainers rain
the thuds along with “FOK”, “You FOKing FOK”, “You do
that for?” And probably he knows or doesn’t think he
don’t deserve it as he collapses on the floor
he needs to be supported by his mates but
instead they pick him up and take him with
and off they go and drain away. It’s
dark and quiet – peaceful now there
is nothing left to show for
this entertainment. Close
the blinds and up the
fear for all
concerned.
I came across a good poem by e e cummings today.
I’m reading a compilation of his selected poems, and to be honest it’s been heavy going. I like the idea of reading something that is mutilayered, but in his case, it’s possible to have too many options.
As you may have surmised, I wasn’t looking forward to whiling away my journey in his company, but earlier today I read a poem that was so good, it made me feel bad for cussing him on Twitter this morning. I thought I’d share it with you:
hate blows a bubble of despair into
hugeness world system universe and bang
-fear buries a tomorrow under woe
and up comes yesterday most green and young
pleasure and pain are merely surfaces
(one itself showing,itself hiding one)
life’s only true value neither is
love makes the little thickness of the coin
comes here a man would have from madame death
neverless now and without winter spring?
she’ll spin that spirit her own fingers with
and give him nothing(if he should not sing)
how much more than enough for both of us
darling. And if i sing you are my voice,
I got my first copy of my first ever poem to be printed today. Cool! As you can see, it’s been put into the book opposite a reproduction of the icon I did for the moot community, which is good all round, and pretty exciting.
It has been published in a book called “The Becoming of G-d” by my mate Ian Mobsby. He went off to the States yesterday to embark on a speaking tour to publicise the book.
He’ll be at The Episcopal Book Store, 815 Second Avenue, New York, NY 10017 later today from 4.30pm to 7pm, (if you’re reading this from anywhere near there do drop in, he’d love to see you) and then on to other parts of New York, followed by Montreal, Canada, Jamestown NY, Chicago IL, Denver CO, Vancouver in Canada before ending up in Seattle WA on the 1st of July.
If you want to catch up with him, check his full itinerary here, and be sure to say Hi from me.
technorati tags:radcliffe, perichoresis, poem, ian mobsby, poet, poetry, pome, the becoming of g-d, becoming of g-d, the becoming of god, becoming of god, icon
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I am important. To me
you don’t seem bothered. At all.
You don’t put time in – with me
it’s all work and business like.
I’d love to rescue a piece
of something useful from this –
the history shared by us then
has made us men, and shattered us.
I’m not important. To you
I’m part of brokenness. Trying
to live a better way. But
just tell me how you’re doing.
technorati tags:radcliffe, poem, poetry, pome, esau, brothers, artbizness
Read MoreI wrote this sonnet ages ago. I needed to find it again last night, so naturally I came here to look for it (hey, I don’t store these things!) and couldn’t find it.
I realised that I hadn’t actually posted it. Horror of horrors.
After frantic digging through old notebooks, I finally re-discovered it. So here it is:
The park I take my kid to every day
has always got a scar or two from nights
before when older kids graffiti spray
between the scooter runs and knifing fights
and bites were taken out of children’s swings
by fighting dogs to sharpen up their teeth.
The morning’s fallen leaves and other things
disguise detritus lurking underneath.
My little girl knows nothing of this world.
She loves the slide, the sandpit, climbing frames,
the roundabout from which she’s often hurled –
just innocent equipment for her games.
And over there beside the broken fence
she’ll carve a better space through innocence.
technorati tags:radcliffe, poems, poem, poetry, agnes riley gardens, pome, agnes riley, sonnet, artbizness,
Read MoreThey called you Robbie.
That wasn’t what I called you back at school.
You had a different tag back then, with friends
and you and I were eight. You played the fool
at my expense in front of all the kids.
I want to hurt you
and now I have the chance. You’ve no idea
how often I returned to your assaults
that time. The sound, the looks, the memory’s clear
from frequent re-rehearsals ever since.
And now we’re older
I stop. Your face has sadness. Looking coolly
you don’t see me. I see your life is written
on your shoulders. A life of being a bully
with humour made you suffer more than I have.
technorati tags:radcliffe, poem, poetry, pome, artbizness, robbie
Read MoreI’ve just submitted my first poem for publishing. It’s going to go in to a theological book, by a friend of mine called Ian Mobsby – the book is called “The Becoming of G-d” and will be published soon.
I’ve read a lot of the book, and it focuses on recovering a better understanding of the Trinity. It gave me the idea for writing a large chunk of the poem in dactyls, which have a kind of ONE-two-three rhythm, which I could then break up with iambs, as the idea of interjection by writing takes hold.
A dactyl consists of three syllables, with the first one being slightly stressed. Some example of where this crops up naturally in the English language are words like “Happiness”, or “Perfectly” you would naturally say “PERfectly” rather than “perFECTly”. Trying to construct an entire poem out of dactyls is a bit of a task, but I think it has some merit. Here it is:
On Friday nights we went to clubs
until we noticed something that
night when the three of them came and took
over the regular dancing. So
Did the Creator throw shapes on the
dance floor whilst dancing a salsa that
turned all the heads of the punters there?
Vogueing away while the other two
scattered. They took up their places but
somehow remaining together there
How the Companion perfected that
fight in a way that was calming them.
Making them friends from thereon until
Now. The Revealer is reveling
showing us all just a little too
much how its done by his lead for us
Dancing together while beckoning onlookers
come on and join us, and have a good
time. Doesn’t matter it’s happening.
Keeping the rhythm up copying
maybe looked easy as no-one would
dare to reject their advances then
in pairs we couldn’t make it work
and groups of us tried sussing out
as individuals put together
were fitting triplets into four time.
We stopped the dancing, getting going
on paper noting down what happened
as dancing disappeared while writing
and scrapping round some bits of paper.
technorati tags:radcliffe, ian mobsby, the becoming of g-d, poetry, artbizness, poem, pome, dactyls, perichoresis, dactyl
Read More
My body’s wracked with never-ending pain
I try to swallow through a swollen throat
another cup of honey, lemon – hot,
my bed is soaked and heavy with my sweat.
I shuffle sadly to the nearest doctor
with all the sadden pathos of an opera
to plead my case for need of medication
and hope I do not need an operation.
I’ve watched through every DVD I have
and then again with commentries. I blow
my nose again and clear away more snot
that exits from my nostrils day-glo green
the likes of which is normally not seen.
My scrunched up tissue tower nears the ceiling
and no-one understands the way I’m feeling.
I crawl back into bed to sleep again
I don’t believe I’ll ever feel the same
my body’s wracked with never-ending pain.
