I recognise the curve of your spine
screwed up over your favourite screen
carpace forming against any possible
onslaught of early bed time
clean teeth or curtailed pastimes
You do it well. My own defence.
Drawn out in-between my past’s
open handed clout about the head
and my unwanted open armed embrace
nearly being what we both need.
After a bit of a break (sorry!) I have returned to the Plumbing Cantos in an effort to finish at least a first draft by the end of the year.
This one feels like it should be accompanied by some sort of glossary. But I guess if you really don’t understand some of the words, there’s always Google.
I did actually do quite a bit of research for this, so if you want to see where my mind went, I’d recommend you view the excellent docu “One Mile Away” and also “Hard Stop” about the events around Mark Duggan’s shooting in North London.
CANTO XVI
I may have said before, I cannot stand
the chaos sometimes people bring to life,
as if they thrive when things get out of hand.
I hear the distant water from the tide
that plunges down the next part further on.
A group of people pass us by. Inside
I’m thinking “Maybe something here is wrong.”
as three of them peel out and head us off,
confirms what I was thinking all along.
I’m trying to think of how to brush them off,
but Patrick says: “When I say “run”, run. RUN!”
“That’s not a very good idea.” I scoff.
They then begin to circle us for fun
before their leader ask me “Postcode, bruh?”
and flicks his shirt as if he has a gun.
“You step to me in Hell? How tho?
I kill a man dead, bruh. Don’t lie to me.”
I look at them through raining fire flows,
when one looks round at something I can’t see.
I notice that his jacket hood is burnt
away, his melting flesh throbs visibly.
The flames have penned them in. I can’t be hurt
by them. “I live up Brixton Hill.” I say
“That’s my endz, G.” He pauses, then reverts
to something softer. “TIME, I’ve been away.
You know Six Seven? Where they at now G?”
I don’t know what he means but take the bait.
“So why are you guys here in Hell?” “Believe
just repping our own endz, you get me blud?
We light up any people on the beef
until they got us lick down from above.
My name is Jacko by the way. That’s WARZ,
and he’s TG from S.E.15, blud.”
That’s odd. “But shouldn’t you two be at war?
You’re South West Two, he’s not, so why is that?”
“I never sat with other mans before
from other postcode, sitting down like that,
you realise our pressure is the same
from different sides, G.” Looking back on that
I couldn’t see why they would play the game
and stay alive, but my life wasn’t theirs
as Jacko (frankly generously!) explained:
“That’s all I knew since I was nine, and bare
mans all the same. They say that no-one chose
this life, it chose me. Swear down. Be aware
that’s how it is.” But while I couldn’t know,
I wondered who created this Set-Up,
and why they weren’t in Hell in place of those
guys right in front of me, who ask me: “Blud:
remember me to mandem”, looks at WARZ,
then turn and shuffle slowly off through mud.
At this point Patrick interrupts my thoughts
again. And asks me for my belt. This belt
is only for my working clothes I bought
specifically because my knees had felt
a little sore, and these ones had the pads
built in the trousers so that when I knelt
on building sites it didn’t hurt. Pat grabs
my belt and drops it down the pit before
I have a chance to speak. My thoughts began
to float away. I want to think some more
about these three we met just now and make
it change the way I am. But life ignores
your best attempts to change and contemplate,
with silly things like paunch from middle age
necessitating belts for trousers – takes
your mind away from following the rage,
or wondering: Are these three tropes or real
ideas for my imaginary stage?
I will say this: Despite what you may feel
I swear by this book in your hand (or phone
or laptop/Kindle/Tablet): This was real.
It happened: circling with screams and moans
a creature swims up through the air
as if it freed itself from hooks below
This Canto ups the pace a bit now, as we squeeze in two Circles of Hell: Circle Number Four, where the Hoarders and the Spendthrifts are punished (ie, those who are really bad with money), and Circle Five, where the Wrathful and the Slothful are punished. If you remember, the last Canto (VI) ended with us meeting Plutus guarding the gate of the Fourth Circle.
Canto VII
The tension takes a hold within my gut
as more confusion hits me once again.
A scream puts my behaviour in a rut.
I’m glad of Patrick showing him disdain.
He tells me not to worry with a wink.
He says to Plutus “Get this in your brain.
This man’s allowed to be here.” Plutus blinks.
“This journey’s his. You MUST not take control.”
As Plutus calms right down, I start to think.
There’s bloody loads of people in this hole.
They’re going round in circles pushing weights.
They bump each other as they start to roll
but seem to be in couples, filled with hate.
They wave a piece of paper in their face.
He says “Too dear! A waste of money!”, waits.
But always the response: “It’s NOT a waste!
We’ve got the money, why d’you hoard it up?”
then circle round again with little grace.
This paper that they’ve waved is all screwed up.
I try to steal a look, and I’m surprised.
A Quote I wrote is in their hands, all cupped
up tight, and this is work that they deprived
me of ten years ago when I was skint.
But now I see the problem un-disguised.
They’d never even given me a hint
of these extremities within their world.
They never called me back at all. My stint
of waiting was a memory that curled
around my confidence; a mix of fear,
alarm, frustration, dark emotions pearled
along with one good thought becoming clear
that only letting go a love of things
can start to make these things all disappear.
I’m drawn towards a doorbell ringing out
from nearby paper shops. A queue has formed
of people clutching giro cheques, no doubt.
The Lotto ticket counter being swarmed
by people spending every penny, blown
the lot. Despite the times that they all have been warned
by people meaning well who’ve never phoned
a single hotline helping destitutes.
We traced the riverbank, and heard the groans
from fighting and foul language that pollutes
the Thames, and we forgot our thoughts on luck
and just how dumb it is and how it mutes.
“OI! WHATCHO LOOKIN AT YOU STUPID FUCK”
a bloke has shouted at another guy
who scalps him with a bottle in the ruck,
and lots of people brawling in the mud
are fighting. Each one naked, as before,
and there a lad I knew once, drenched in blood.
I saw him once on Plumbing Module Four.
He’d boast about some fight he’d had last night.
But here he won’t be drinking anymore.
No alcohol to numb them from the sight,
and pain and shame and rage they might have felt
before from kicks and punches, stabs and bites.
“There’s two types punished here.” As Patrick knelt,
he spoke and pointed at the Thames, or Circle Five.
“In here the Wrathful pay their dues. They’re dealt
with on the surface, here you see, alive
with writhing bodies, but below as well
they keep the slothful, even though deprived
of air, you’ll still detect them from the smell
as passive and aggressive words float up.”
And sure enough I listen and can tell.
A larger bubble pops and sounds a muted “fuck”
and “bollocks” or “it worked before, you twat”
and other things that people say when up
in arms, but say it just behind my back
or out of earshot with a smiling face.
We head to Vauxhall bridge to stay on track.
Today’s the day to celebrate. I. Am.
I’m. here. I made it. I’m alive and loved!
I’m 43 today you know. I am!
And that’s enough to party every day.
Today is not a day to celebrate
your ego: have it stroked some other day
And please don’t cry that tempus fugit, or
let tempers fly about the things not done.
Today is not a day to celebrate
your past achievements or the lack of them
You’re more than anger, shame or guilt or fear
of what you did or didn’t build or do.
Todays the day to celebrate just this:
That you are loved and cherished by your friends
and family, and self-respecting. You.
Are. You. Won. Der. Ful. You have to know that.
I thought I’d create a single page for the Plumbing Cantos where you can find links to them all in one place.
I’ve started writing a series of Cantos about my experiences of being a plumber, based on Dante Alighieri’s description of the 9 circles of Hell in his “Inferno” poem. I am drawing heavily on Dante for guidance, but setting it in the modern world. It is peppered with real and imagined experiences, a smattering of plumbing references, allegory and humour. Oh, and Patrick Troughton.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental of course.
Last one for the weekend. This is the 3rd one in an ongoing epic poem series, based on Dante’s Inferno. You can read Canto 1 and Canto 2 first if you’d like to get a sense of where I’m going with it.
This is my favourite so far.
Plumbing Canto 3
The legend written just above the gate
said: “Either this or living on the dole.
Through here you’ll get to see the people’s fate
who made Themselves the only worthy goal.
The closest thing you’ll see to modern sin,
your last remaining chance of staying whole,
Abandon Hope all ye who enter in.”
“Take courage, lad” said Pat “No turning back.
We’ll fortify ourselves with shots of gin.”
And in we went; the air was blue and black
with languages and angry voices, next
to plumbers’ vans of every type all stacked
along the River Effra’s banks, with text
of every type, and stickers everywhere
in every livery that you can get
with plumbers’ numbers, Gas-Safe stickers, large
emblazoned names in clashing colours loud
as dodgy typefaced scattered business cards.
The sun was coming up behind a cloud
revealing everything and more besides
and in amongst the massive plumbers’ crowd
were posh and chavvy standing side by side.
Some spiky crew-cuts, male & female, all
the races represented thin and wide.
And every single person, big or small
was absolutely naked. Every one.
There’s every type of tatt and piercing, all
were glinting in the light, the rising sun
had brought out midges, biting everywhere
and bruised and open wounds began to run.
“Excuse me love” I said “Don’t mean to stare.
But why’ve you got no clothes on? What’s the point?”
“You dirty little bastard” she declared.
“I’m after 15 mill compression joints.
The Plumbers’ Merchant on the other side.
We’re going over there” she says, and points.
A boat approaches. Squinting and inside.
the Mayor of London brings the ferry there
and moors and waits to give them all a ride.
“Well HE can’t come aboard” the Mayor declares
“It’s fine” says Patrick “He’s a special case.”
At this the naked plumbers shout and stare
The Mayor of London hits them round the face.
He’s found an oar and grabbed it, swung it round
and beat them on the boat, and took his place.
“Get on” hissed Patrick “Do not make a sound.”
I’ll tell you things about these people here.
What goes around does truly come around.
And if you’re plumbing well, then have no fear
Don’t pay for advertising like they do
‘Cos if your work is good, then people hear.
It’s word-of-mouth that brings the work to you.”
By then, the smell, the wind, the heavy sun
had got to me; and Troughton’s words rang true.
I’ve had an idea for a series of poems that I’m going to write called “The Plumbing Cantos”. They will be based on Dante‘s description of the 9 Circles of Hell in his “Inferno” poem which forms part of the Divine Comedy.
The Plumbing Cantos will form my first attempt at an epic poem, and will take a lot of inspiration from my experiences of plumbing in the real world, while at the same time attempting to be universal and allegorical at the same time. They may remain as they are or be re-written on the fly. I may take comments as a sort of informal “Reading Group”, and I reserve the right to take them on board or ignore them completely. Don’t take it personally. 🙂
Here we go:
Plumbing Canto 1
I came upon a mid-life point in stealth
Like many other people: Forty-Three,
Not living, working hard at something else.
I’d lost myself in darkness. Hard to be.
Un-certain how I got there. Hard to say.
I’d felt there was a better life for me.
A kind of sleep-walk brought me day-by-day
that kind of living death we all despise.
I stopped to wonder how it got this way.
A tower block! And then I raised my eyes
To see my home; the window’s light a hint
Of warmth and comfort made my spirits rise.
A woman dressed in onesie, leopard print
had stood and blocked the entry phone to me.
She sucked her teeth and flicked her purple tint,
her hair across her face but not for me.
Her children, feral, kicking footballs near
My legs, some windows, cars and OAPs.
“Oh will you shut the fuck up! Keys aren’t here.
Serenity, you’re doing my head in. God!”
My chance to enter in did not appear.
Instead I turned around and left and trod
the broken glass-strewn path the way I came
towards the dark and cursed the little sods
And so I tried another way in vain –
the route was cordoned off by thin blue line
“We’ve had to make arrests” Police explained.
It’s not the kind of night I had in mind,
with feeling overwhelmed and under-slept.
A leash-less, snarling Staffy dog behind
began to bark and chased me till I wept.
I sat on fencing, gathering my strength.
I couldn’t work out where to go and yet
A man appeared. We talked of things at length.
“Have pity on me, sir.” I rubbed my eyes
“I don’t know who you are. I somehow sense
that you can help me.” Looking up he sighs.
“I have to say you’ve seen my acting kids
on TV shows, dear boy.” To my surprise
he says “the biggest role I ever did
was Doctor Who from ’67 on.
Now can we talk about the things YOU did?”
“You’re Patrick Troughton? No, you must be wrong.
He passed away in Georgia, USA.
I just need help. This Canto’s got too long.”
I’m meant to go, tonight, along the way
to quote for plumbing work at half past eight.
I’m also meant to invoice by today.
I’ve lots to do before it gets too late.
I’m feeling overwhelmed, this job’s too much.
I want to be at home on my estate.”
“Well ‘Leopard-printed Onesie Girl’, as such
Won’t let you pass; you’re in a kind of Hell.”
He paused a while, my shoulder felt his touch.
“I think, dear boy, to get you feeling well,
I need to guide you on a journey through
the circles that describe your Plumbing Hell.
Perhaps in facing things, you’ll be renewed.
There’s happy, well-intentioned people there,
Or possibly you’ll realise you’re screwed.”
A chance. This opportunity is rare.
An unknown path, a chance I’ll take, of course.
To be a better man or live Despair.
Almighty God of Thundering Bass from above,
The water torture of drip-feeding, shaking and pain.
I tried to pray thee once “Would you turn it down, please?”
You poured your scorn and fury on my unworthy head.
And just because I dared to approach this Great God
the gates were shut and bells removed, stopping ingress.
I supplicated other Gods, like Noise Pollution.
who couldn’t use the powers given, and impotent to act
They couldn’t even name the Gods above, but calling
it “bass” like “ass”, not “bass” as in “ace”, and so still
the Bass Gods who pounded away, punished my sins
that served to anger more, and compounded the hurt.
I tried to understand why the scorn had been poured
with oaths and cursing. Nights that I needed some sleep
or illness overtook me. But answers did not appear.
I called the God of Housing, the Only Remaining.
A Call and Answer Prayer that ran backwards and then forth
had yielded some results: It appeared that the threat
of homeless life gave pause. And the Pause was employed,
but not for long. The Bass Gods returned victorious.
I caved. Abortive, tries to retaliate. Nothing.
Accepting omnipresent capriciousness. Sad.
A growing cancer lingering in the background
prohibits growth in every way possible.
He did a great poem called “Paper People”, which you can see on YouTube with him performing it either in Palestine or at the Bikeshed Theatre Live review, where the sound is a little clearer. But it got me to thinking. What happens when you drop out of the Paper Society?
I thought there would be a good poem in writing a response to his poem. So I wrote it this morning. I’ve called mine “Paper Bag”
Here’s my response
Paper Bag
I dropped out of your paper society.
The paper people didn’t want to see
me anymore. I fell down papered cracks
to live in Cardboard City. Out of sight.
Your paper currency is no good here
We only take card. My descent is lent
some extra weight, I contemplate my bent
and battered box, it’s GSM too low.
See, once the papered over cracks are there
you cannot see them. Madness stops me now
from joining in your madness, mental health
has taken out my means of joining in.
I found this in a bin. The one I slept in.
I fashioned it into a house of sorts
Its printed surface sports a wendy house
a child is looking out the window smiling.
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.
When I called, she told me that you’d gone out.
but I thought that all of you were best friends.
I mean mine, and not your own exclusive club.
I was left to think that it was our hub.
I could see from then that it was my mistake
That in fact you weren’t having a fun time
at the times when I was on the centre stage.
It was this that began a lifetime’s rage.
So I cycled over to confirm that
where I knew you’d be, having a fun time,
(And I caught the lot of you from out of sight)
I was not a part of your divine light.
It was then that one of you just looked up
And she caught me looking as I darted off
But I paused to stop, as a kind of nausea hit
with the sadness, shock, and my world split.
Then the return journey from the crime scene
seemed a lot slower from the new baggage.
For a week you let our friendship stall
until 7 days’ worth of guilt made you call
“Maybe now, perhaps, you’d like to come
to the pub and drink with a number of us.”
Did I say that I would? I should have been stronger
And I should have confronted you all head on.
But instead (and all the more sad)
Things dissolved and nothing was said
and I knew that for us all to stay alive
I would have to find a completely new tribe.
They say you shouldn’t judge another person
until you’ve walked a mile in their shoes.
But how are you supposed to feel about
a person wearing YOUR shoes?
– who walks a thousand miles and more but does it
with much more grace and makes it look so easy?
They don’t display the same sloping shoulders
despite the same decaying, creasing footwear,
pronating, though, they still can find the power
to run, and not to trip and fall while others
decide they will not laugh, but help you stand
and others still look on and sympathise.
Yes, who can do that? What are they like these
extraordinary people who don’t appear
to have the same restrictions, cut the same way,
but still they leave me wondering how.
And – trying to find my motivation
I put my hands behind my back and stare
down at my shoes.
All I need from you is something
like concern, and being gentle,
empathy, the loving touch of
hugs, or questions like: How are you?
My God, that must be terrible!
To show me that you care or just
believe in me would bring me some
Confidence
Life is hard, and so are you
Making life much harder still
sad, I’ll look for all that stuff
somewhere else. I’ll find the fuel
Love brings. Someone else believes
somewhere I’m a good person
who’ll reach fifth gear sometime soon.
Time goes on. I watch the seconds, minutes
and hours tick away like passing cars.
I haven’t noticed. Except the odd
peculiar detail. And then they go.
Within a moment unremarkable.
The stacking up of urgent tasks. Ringing
phones. Impatient e-mails won’t bring me round
because I’m hit by high demands and
damage done has given way to lower
thresholds and expectations than before.
Simple tasks are incomplete. My eyes are
red and heavy. Short breaths. Heavy limbs. Days
long; as if I’ve over-reached. Stung by life
half a search for serum. An antidote
to cancel out this strange unwelcome poison.
The 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…
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
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’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.
I 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.
I’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.
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.
I didn’t say the thing you thought
I said. You misinterpreted
my words with “should”s and “ought”s.
No WAIT. We’ve gone to something else
instead of what it was. I’m still
a little angry. What she tells
me isn’t that. You’ve made me ill
with this. I’m going to thump you in
a minute. Just a minute. Let
me say what I’ve been trying to
say from the start. It was something
vital. Something helpful for us.
This is my take on an old hymn – I’ve re-arranged the words to make a poem of lament. To me, this is a little more real than the usual triumphalist bullshit.
The thought has come to me before
at times I want, at times of stress
like now. I look at flowers grow
too beautiful for words, I think
about their death. And mine. Amongst
a thousand others. Hidden here
this garden quietly grows between
the city’s noises, roads and buildings,
as if some grass could halve the pain
we know we have to carry knowing
that death will bring us to a stop.
I sweat blood.
The thought has come to me before –
my life has been a gamble, not
on rolling dice like these two here.
I’ve understood experience
as something bringing change to this
short life. I might be wrong. I think
of everyone I’ve known. The women
are here. My friends have gone away.
Their lives are finite, too. And how
remembered will we be? Too late.
There’s nothing I can do about
it now. My breathing is erratic.
I’ve finished.
It’s pretty easy here. I’m sitting still.
The engine chugs. I regulate my breath
whilst watching passing fathers. There’s his son.
They’re on their way to school. The bus moves on.
A new electric car draws up. We move.
It’s left behind. It’s stopped at lights that changed.
That building site’s a mess. It hasn’t changed
there’s always something happening, but still
the same. It never alters. Will they move
the cones? We’ll hit them soon. Too close! My breath
stops. Beamer driver has to try it on.
It’s grey. The forecast says there won’t be sun.
I try to focus. Jesus Christ. God’s son
is meant to help me persevere. I’ve changed
the way I think. I want to switch it on –
the peace they say you get from God. I still
myself and somehow can’t. If prayer is breath
I’m blocked. By what? A small unknown won’t move.
That cyclist doesn’t want to live. Just move!
These people think they’re it. They think the sun
shines out their arse. She needs to draw a breath.
She’s talked so long without a pause, she’s changed.
She’s gone a purple-red. Good God! She’s still
not breathed! So loud! Wait. Did I turn mine on?
because… Well, if the meeting isn’t on,
this journey’s wasted. What the…? Did he move
my bag? He looks a nutter. Just keep still.
I can’t quite see his face because the sun
is in my eyes behind his head. It’s changed!
The sun came out! It’s lighting up my breath.
I wake most mornings feeling short of breath.
The thought of work no longer turns me on –
the daily route to work that hasn’t changed,
the place I live because I never move –
it’s everyday, but just because the sun
will rise, and stop my body lying still.
And will the breath of God return and move
me on? And resurrect me like the sun
today? I wait each day un-changed and still.
Sestinas are difficult – the idea is that you have to re-use the last word in each sentence in each verse – but in a different, set order (in this case “breath”, “on”, “changed”, “move”, “sun” and “still”) and then you have to use them all in the last short verse of 3 lines (again, in a certain order). I’m making it sound more complicated than it is, but it’s easy to follow when you know what the pattern is. But a bugger to write.
Its great fun, because it can force you to make disjointed sentences that make the poem sound like the ramblings of someone slightly un-hinged, or in this case, the disjointed things that you might think about on the bus.
You think you know, but do not know me well
I found another place, another hell
It’s mine, and mine alone, you cannot touch it
The secret place where only I can dwell.
My thoughts were pure, no mediation needed.
Concerned that all my thoughts would go unheeded
I ran away and hid in public places.
How ignorant. You’re proud that you succeeded.
Acceptance only happens when you’re solo –
you’ve got the time to play it back in slo-mo
and realise you made the better choices
than those accusing you of greater lows.
A confidence appeared from God knows where
a loneliness that’s hard enough to bear
and friends appear, concerned, and bring temptations
as power shifts from things no longer there.
This is my first attempt at a “rubai” form of poetry. The form grabbed me, as its origins came from the need to pass around subversive information without being detected. I think there may be more verses, and it needs a little work.
Their skins are taut, their eyes are bright – they’re royals.
I bet the most expensive balms of man
are slathered on each night, preventing boils
from ruining the smoothness of one’s tan
whilst one’s on horseback flouting hunting bans.
For this and other crimes, you’d best take note –
Republicans are desperate to vote.
But I’m not avin time for people like
that. D’you get me? Scuse me bein rude but
your bike’s there. How’d I get dis up the step?
I don’t think you got no sense. Thank you.
In a previous post here, I was attempting to write a poem about the poet RS Thomas.
It didn’t quite work, but after much wrangling, I think I’ve finally nailed it. It centres around the character of Iago Prytherch (I’m not quite sure how you pronounce Iago Prytherch, but I tend to pronounce it Ee-arr-go Prith-erk), who he mentioned repeatedly in his poems – I’m very pleased with the result. Here it is:
RS Thomas give it up, man!
Prytherch does not give a damn –
Did not really give a monkey’s
For your poets or their flunkies
exorcising guilty feelings
in a way that’s quite revealing.
Thing is, it’s quite boring, Thomas –
having this inflicted on us:
Rural worthiness and God
in a way that’s very odd –
My God’s in a place more urban –
More a universal version.
This is another work in progress. I can’t seem to finish poems at the moment, but I think that this one might just stand up as 2 verses, as is. Any feedback would be welcome.
To RS Thomas
GIVE IT UP, MAN!
Iago Prytherch
doesn’t give a monkey’s.
He did not care
for poets or their flunkies.
He had a choice
as you did too
though we kid ourselves
that choices are something new.
I have started writing this poem based aound a re-interpretation of Psalm 22. Be warned – it’s not very uplifting.
Dull in the Morning
My God, my God
why did you forsake me?
why didn’t you save me?
why did you run from this?
Inside
I’m screaming
all day
no answer
all night
silence.
It’s alright
for you.
You’re the King.
Everyone loves you.
My father trusted
and you delivered alright
trusted and disappointed.
But then –
I’m a worm
not a woman.
Scorned by men
hated by everyone
mocking me
insulting me
shaking their heads.
You brought me out of the womb
then you made me trust you
from the breast onwards.
From birth
no choice
womb onwards
you have been my god.
But you disappear
at the first sign of trouble.
Bull
all around me
the strong smell of bullshit
suffocates me.
Roaring, tearing
their prey
opening their mouths
wide on me
poured out water
bones out of joint
my heart like wax
burning inside me
my strength dries up
my tongue sticks
to the roof of my mouth
laid
in the dust
death
dogs surround me
a band of evil men
circling me
piercing me
I can see all my bones
people staring
gloating
they divide my clothes between them.
A plate full of dhansak
a plate full of pulao
a plate full of gobi..
For a mealtime
at least
a man who would be king
eats like one –
shovelling it down
like a Cnut
trying to hold back
the inevitable tide
like Cleopatra
poisoned by Cobra
he can feel his veins
pulsing
more pulao
a piece of chicken
naan
like Ghengis Khan
he attacks waiters
their poor service
naming each one:
“Abdul”
or “Oi”.
A stuffed paratha
is presented
a peace offering.
Head bowed,
bent knee,
like Sherpa Tensing
offering to carry a burden
to cover the shadow of disappointment;
hot, lemon scented towels
wipe away the tears
please come again
10% service charge added.