Linking the themes

Three interlinked stanzas picking up themes from a most poetical Sunday - modernism, yellowness, chalk-on-pavements...

Street art

I

Chalking round the sunspot dapples
Like a capella apples,
Eve spread out the tarmacadam
Unbidden on your drive –
“That’ll be a grand, mate” –
“Bite me”,
I don’t want your bitumen,
So bring on your gut-pouched lawyers,
Runaround and sue me,
Affidavits holding hole-hulled lifeboats,
Play the passing notes in full –
John Bullshit,
Rip up the writ
Throw down your cap
Tear off your coat
And draw out in pastel-pinks
The wartime tints of Goya.

II

Hints entrenched in dead-eyes stares,
Though shrapnel’s welcome here,
Throw freely and appreciate
The pigmented figments –
Binocular, binaural, never choral,
One makes it quorate
And so grants legitimacy of status,
Verbal afflatus –
You can’t make us, make me, mako;
Thus spake old fake old
Tsarovich,
A bob-a-job nabob,
‘Ave a cup o’ suzerainty
And a biscuit, ya baskit.

III

We beckon you inside with bourbonhomie,
Ignoring the custard screams of wheel-less wagoneers,
Broken-spoked,
Fragments campfire-smoked –
Outline the carbonate with charcoal,
Illuminate with low-lit rims,
Put up hoods or pull down brims,
Utterly fedorable –
I say, I say, an ice-age eyeshade,
Pretend the light’s about to fade,
Stop your barking
And walk out silent through the day.

Using information, or not

Following on from yesterday's swan-in-a-duck-gang, another bit of brevity about identity and awareness...

On being informed

Hoverfly buzzes crossly in my face,
Mimics a wasp –
It has no idea I am an entomologist
And know it can not sting,
But even if it did,
Would it repeat the exercise,
Just keeping up appearances?

Identity non-crisis

A short offering today... it's usually good to know who you are, but...

Identity non-crisis

Swan runs with the duck-gang,
Swan waddles with the duck-gang,
Swan swims with the duck-gang,
Swan doesn’t fly with the duck-gang;
Swan doesn’t know taxonomy,
Swan doesn’t have a mirror,
Swan’s never read Hans Christian Andersen,
Swan doesn’t care
As long as it gets sandwiches.

Fizzy sometimes-yellow stuff

Last night I went to see the marvellously funny and splendidly chaotic Yellow Show by Rob Auton at the also-wonderful Art House. Previously seen at the Edinburgh Fringe, and touring about here and there, it's well worth a look if you get the chance - really, it was the funniest and, at times, one of the most poignant, things I've seen in quite a while... Anyhow, one bit inspired me to do this...


What’s that fizzing in my glass?

What’s that fizzing in my glass?
No blue-painted Matchbox Volkswagen Scirocco,
And it’s not a maraca, they’re bigger and paired,
Nor, larger by far and all covered in hair,
Chewbacca won’t fit,
Unless it’s just a little bit –
A whisker or two, a fingertip,
Or a tiny piece of Wookiee poo;
A photo of a yuppie sipping at their mocha,
Drifting downwards through the water,
A blob of Knickerbocker
Glory, the memory of Mods ‘n’ Rockers,
A sock left in your old school locker,
A dropped fob-watch, wet ticker-tocker,
Nervous-calming beta-blocker,
A little plastic Airfix Fokker,
The ghostly scones of Betty Crocker,
A fag-end chucked in by a docker,
Maybe a fragment of your foot,
Grown warty at a swimming pool,
But no,
Verrucas never effervesce –
Maybe a vitamin tab’s best,
Or custard.

Small-town stuff

Another bit of relative lightness, with just a hint of something else...

What I did on my half-a-day (Eastleigh)

Posted a manuscript, Special Delivery;
Fairtrade rooibos, loo-roll and chat,
Bought a new (recycled) poem-pad,
Sat in a coffee-shop writing hard verse,
To the taste of Türk kahvesi and panini,
Next door, the museum,
New exhibition - ‘Then and Now’,
Saw how my local patch has changed,
In the last one hundred years,
For the better? I think worse,
Left my thoughts upon a hook-hung luggage-tag as asked;
Framed a wedding ode I wrote,
A gift for friends they’ll like, I hope,
Learned another magic trick,
Denigrated several kippers,
(You know, those purple people-cheaters)
Wowed my wife with an artistic bargain,
And an offering from a mate –
A fine new artisanal bake –
Then hugged her (she is busy),
Charmed goldfinches in the garden
With market-day-bought nyger seed,
Now I’ll watch them and sip tea.

What I writ on my holidays - Part 5

Today, there's nastiness in the news (I know, isn't there always) and worse responses and ranting, so, a little light doggerelly relief...

We’re off to ogle the ducks

We’re off to ogle the ducks,
No, not zeroes of cricket bad luck,
But down by the Severn,
It’s waterfowl heaven
With pondweed, lagoons and flat mud.

Sing ‘ho’ and let’s peer at some teal,
Flocking and paddling and quacking with zeal,
The blues and the greens,
In binocular’d scenes
Have a Farrow-and-Ball-painted feel.

Away now to watch us a wigeon,
Sans punt-guns that once stocked old kitchens,
Sat still in a hide,
Thermos flasks by our sides,
Bird-watchers perusin’ and twitchin’.

Now it’s time that we sought out a grebe,
Submerged in the bulrush and shallow-root reeds,
Like a cork in a cup,
The dabchick bobs up,
Ornithology’s bitchin’ indeed.

How diverse all those Anatidae,
Species both far-flung and natively nigh,
From Baikal teal (rare)
To mallards (we’ve spares)
And the geese still greylagging behind.

The ducks are now thoroughly ogled,
Each aquatically inclined wasser-vogel,
Fine larks and such fun
(A taxonomy pun)
And a flurry of verse anecdotal.

What I writ on my holidays - Part 4

Continuing my stream of bucolic thoughts from here...

Spring in Woodchester Park

Steep wooded slopes hide
Rare box-tree copses,
Ancient yews and ramson swathes,
All bluebell-blanketed;
Here and there, violets, wood-anemone and columbine
Complete the palette,
Woven through with forest trails,
Snaking down to chain-strung ponds,
Valley-sleeved
And still,
But for the raindrop ripples
And gentle wakes of drifting waterfowl -
Shadows of over-arching boughs
Loom large,
Darkly conifer-toothed -
A surprising moment of menace,
But fleeting
As squall gives way to sun -
Derelict boat-house now leaf-dapple lit,
Spider-spun window-shutters,
Walls web-claimed,
Rusted hitching-hooks remain beneath,
A reminder of more rowboat-rowlocked days
Passed in quiet contemplation
Of the bark-brown and greening
Capability of trees.

What I writ on my holidays - Part 3

Continuing from here...

Hetty Pegler’s Tump

In the corner of a farmer’s field,
A green-grassed mound,
Five thousand years above the plough,
Elliptical and ancient –
Enter thou, by twin-horned crawlway,
Slab-tunneled,
Pitch-dark void beyond;
Walls part, vault lifts,
To permit a penitent crouch –
Proceed by touch,
Small chambers open to the sides,
Once bone-alcoves,
Reliquaries for remains
Of the skyclad dead,
Clean, raven-picked
And collected,
To what chants and drums
We can never know –
Mourned, revered or celebrated,
Now empty but for Neolithic echoes
And us.

A poem for the Glitterarti

A short verse for Nina Fraser, face-painter and commissionee of creations...

Full-face a fiver,

Two quid a cheek –

Colour me, fork-lobed lady

With your pram of party-pigments,

Perambulating festivals and fairs,

Today I’d like to be a beetle,

Possibly butterfly-browed,

Or maybe a big fierce polar bear –

Can you work around the hair?

I’m sure you can;

You can paint the crowd.

What I writ on my holidays - Part 2

Following on from here - inspired by the sonnet On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer by Keats which you can find here, including a facsimile of the manuscript.

Standing on a ha-ha at Hidcote

We have taken the Long Walk,
Courted in the yard
And crossed the Wilderness;
Been amazed
By round-topped pillar and box-cut stilt,
Sheltered Italianate, surrounded
By trompe l’oeil classicals and players,
Stopped to reflect on
The Round, The Old, The Walled,
The Red and The White
Circling underfoot,
Poppy-sated, maple-palmed
By rock and pool and stream,
Now a grand oak-pastured vista,
Sheep-studded
And speckle-cloud umbrated –
We watch and wait.

On with the noir

Last month, I wrote a noir-themed poem - here's part 2, more to come...

Colour Me Noir II: The Witness

Diner double-shift just finished -
Too many dishes -
Home for a well-earned (if illicit) gin;
Take a short-cut,
Cut off five precious minutes
(The boss takes more,
Even from the tips, I’m sure).

Faint fume-edged sounds
Echo down to ground
(Or was that ground-down?)
Level,
A party of swells,
Yeah, that’s right -
Bombshell on the balcony,
Coulda been me...
Ahead, grimy light obscures
(Not quite)
A huddled pair o’ guys
In broad-brim hats,
Little more than silhouettes;
Then a scuffle,
Parenthesised by heated harsh exchanges -
Both step back -
Muzzle-crack,
The bigger one (no gun)
Slides down the wall.

Seconds later,
Suitcase dragged from still-twitching,
Near-stiff fingers -
The Small Man stands,
Draws on a cheap crumpled-packet cigarette -
Its dirty orange glow highlights
Worn silver letters on the case -
J.M.H. -
I realise I’ve stopped,
Not quite shadow-safe;
He sees -
Teeth glint in
An it’s-your-rictus grin -
I kick off my heels and run;
This story’s just begun.

What I writ on my holidays - Part 1

Inspiration from a recent holiday (more to come), in particular, this splendid place.

A visit to Ruskin Mill

The old water-wheel no longer turns,
Axle rusted, mill-race moss-grown,
Where the dipper skips, stops stone-top to feed,
And paired grey wagtails bob,
Frenetic yellow flashes
Disappear among the fingered twigs
Of over-hanging beech and ash;
Long-chain ponds, flowstone linked,
Bridge-stitched,
Trees hung with rough-stone mobiles,
Lakes enriched by brushed steel sculpture -
Lily-pads pierce metal sheets,
Oak-carved falcons swoop and keen
By improbably located dolphins
Caught mid-leap, as,
Overhead, a heron, real, grey-feathered
Flaps languidly,
Peering deep to seek
Its scaly ray-finned prey,
Hanging near-motionless,
Safe ‘neath nets,
Along with coot and moorhen nests.

Small spring-shrines a-sparkle,
The urge to throw a sixpence in
(Remember them?) is strong;
Well-water wells up,
Bubbles and trickles,
All ockle-gockle-splish-splosh-splash
And undine-naiadly sacrosanct,
Filling pools lit copper sulphate blue,
Clear, near invisibly pure -
Beyond, see how the cottage-garden grows
(Biodynamic, planetary - planetary, biodynamic)
Sheds turf-roofed and robin-claimed,
Roundhouses - home to crafts,
Pole-lathes turning chair-legs in the rain,
Items of the bodger’s art,
Coppice-bundles lie by new-cut stools,
Potters’ presence told
By chimneyed kiln-smoke -
Fine forest-folk at work, at hearth,
Straying wisely far from normal paths;
Workshop-world,
Galleried and roundel-floored,
Phreatic bronzes evoke eddied currents,
Granitic knots and mazes
Draw the eye,
Bright-felted textile images -
Rams, ewes and lambs,
(This is a wool town)
Nuthatch, magpie, owl,
Bark-mounted creepers of the tree,
Driftwood painted, copper-nailed,
Brass-studded blocks,
Each spalted, hollowed, polished,
Some potent, pregnant,
Others static
‘Neath monochromatic beauties draped unclad
On branch and trunk in wooded scenes,
Limber skin on fissured timber,
(‘Sylvan’ might once have been the term),
Therapeutic art indeed -
The water-wheel no longer turns,
But much else does it seems.

Out of the oven

A poem triggered by a friend's prompt to start with the line 'He had his head in the bread' - so, here is the result, squeezing a metaphor for all it's worth - and a nod to the old Madness song 'Cardiac Arrest'...

Out of the oven

He had his head in the bread,
The 80s were kind to him, he thought –
Bish-bosh, more loaves of lucre,
Du pain, du vin,
Gold-plated-signet-ringed white-van man,
Now besuited, fake orange-tanned,
But it would soon forsake him,
An empty tin vessel,
Risen, bubbled, burst,
Half-baked and sourdoughed,
Yeastlessly listess and collapsed in the street,
Stone-ground down,
Too stale for even Paul Hollywood’s
Apricot-tinged brand of cheer-batta
To rejuvenate.

Strangers’ faces peer concernedly,
He’s kneaded awake –
“Can you hear us, mate?”
Time to face the whole grain of truth;
He’d been a good bake –
Hadn’t he?
A proven asset?
No - oh, F*caccia!

But surely buttermilk wouldn’t melt in his mouth –
His crusty little heart would for sure,
Coughed up,
Indigestible,
If he’d just leave the bread behind,
Switch off the Maggie-mix,
And dump the dough –

A true artisan would fix him.

Growing more than stones

Inspired by our local community farm, part of the Transition network...

Farm ‘em, boyo (a transitional tale)

You think you know veg?
Walk a mile in my choux-fleurs,
Haul water-carriers,
Thirty kilos apiece,
Hop to it, Aquarian -
Pour, refill, repeat.

Rain in sight?
A blight upon the blight,
Tweeze out the leek-moths,
Scare the pigeons with a hawk-kite,
Build
Poly-tunnels, fences, gates and stiles,
Sheds, raised beds,
Heat-sinks, staging, fruit-caging,
Shift the porcine rotavators,
(Actually, I must say piglets are fun)
Shovel some dung,
DIY and PYO,
Plant and tend
A native fruit-and-nut grove,
Fix tools to make and mend.

So, plough straight the furrow,
By coulter and ard –
You’ll soon see how easy it is to grow
Stones;
But food’s a bit harder,
If you want your larder full and varied,
By fork, hoe and barrow –
Did I mention the digging,
The orchard or vineyard?

Midsummer cometh

A few lines about the passage of time/seasons, the human condition, an' all that...

Nary two moons

Blimey, nay bugger,
Six weeks ‘til midsummer,
How did that happen?
What did I miss?
Just last week it seems,
Mornings frost-laden,
Now there are bees
And fine nymphs on the wing.

Where did the time go,
Midwinter through spring?
I’m sure that it wasn’t
Spent (I mean ‘squandered’)
On absinthe and floozies,
Wine that was drunk
And women who’d sing.

Instead it’s that well-worn
Old tempus-aged fugit –
Think back to the endless-hot summers of youth;
The more time we have,
The longer it stretches,
A human-conditional absolute truth,
But I’m not lamenting,
Romantically venting,
Just checking my diary
To see what I’ve done,
Thus far, about half
Of the way through my scene,
Why, where and when,
And what I have been.

The invasion starts here

Inspired by Julie Alice Chappell’s exhibition ‘The Butterfly Collector’ in The ArtHouse café/gallery.

The invasion starts here

Cyber-insects - resistor-headed, circuit-winged,
Haltere-balanced gyroscopic mini-beasts,
Sit mechanically still under clear glass domes,
Or poised in wall-racked test-tubes,
Static, awaiting technological ecdysis,
To swarm, cloud, cluster, nest,
Scuttling transistor-legged,
As picofarad-pointed faces,
Watch us, soft mosaic images
Through compound LEDs,
Electronic fluttering, flight-motor whirr,
Limbs stridulate and chirr,
Live-wire antennal twitches transmit,
Up to the gravid mother-ship -
There’s a bug in my machine.

['Gravid' included as a nod to the fine poets of the Vogon empire...]