Origins are not the only fruit

Here's the first-ish version of a poem that came out of Apples & Snakes/Adam Kammerling's fine Origins poetry workshop as part of Fareham Arts Festival. It'll probably get edited n times before I'm happy with it, or maybe not - who knows - and may even end up as part of the long 'Stingboy' piece I'm (still) writing - but it came from an exercise looking at listing places we've lived, things we've said, music that was formative and so on, with the aim of incorporating them into a poem. Hope you like it.

Untitled

I was born into a house of golliwogs,
spike-eyed toys,
soaps and sitcoms,
of throwaway laughs at 'Pakis', 'Micks' and 'nig-nogs',
of being dangled by one bony wrist,
a skinny meat piñata
hearing the repeated line
“if you won’t respect me,
at least you’ll fear me”,
a self-fulfilling prophecy,
all an inadequate man could offer me
bar processed pap
and welder’s-callus slaps,
driving home the message that
I wouldn’t like that foreign crap,
those raucous songs,
and anything beyond the grey-and-beige
is wrong, looks like trouble,
but doubled-up one school night,
snuck out to taste the flavour
of Iron Maiden,
so much sweeter than copper on the tongue,
a lonely lad’s first gig
well worth the late-back round of Dodgefist.

Fast-forwarding from ruddy rage,
riffling halfway through biro movies,
corner-paged,
I’m in Nai’posha, the Maasai’s cattle waterhole,
named for rough waters, ‘that which ebbs and flows’,
sun-drained then quenched
with rains and silty seasoning,
and it’s my inauguration by means
of shield and spear and knobkerrie,
story-telling,

quaffing nailang'a,

blood-and-milk straight from the gourd,

now I am a tribal brother,
clansman,
witness to the intimate cutting of others.

In the latest scene,
I say “I do”.

I knew that First Aid course was worth it

A little bit of autobiography. It was a strange moment as I thought cars only slipped their handbrakes and rolled out-of-control downhill in vintage comedies...

The St. David’s kerbside incident

I turn at the sound of a crash –
a hatchback has slipped the leash
of its handbrake,
allowed gravity carte blanche
and mounted the pavement,
tumbling somebody’s granny
into a shop doorway
sprawled among a scattering of holiday tat
and ‘Welcome to Wales’ postcards.

Passers-by have gathered round
and begin helping her to her feet –
hurriedly I intervene
to check for concussion,
imagining hip fractures
worsened by well-meaning help.
Though bleeding from superficial wounds,
she is more worried about her lost shoe,
torn tights,
undignified re-arrangement.

As I hold up the requisite number of fingers
and ask quiet questions,
a voice from the small crowd
blocked off from proceedings
by my turned back
proclaims tersely –
‘we know her’.

Although I’m sure that later,
they will provide more comfort
than I,
as a stranger,
could ever hope to achieve,
I’m equally certain that familiarity
does not breed
medical expertise.

As the ambulance arrives,
disgorging paramedics and a stretcher,
I slope off
to rejoin my holiday.

First time into the breach

Last night was interesting - the first time I've read at a poetry competition, and in a huge, splendid mediaeval barn. Though short-listed, I didn't win (the band liked it!), but it was an interesting experience, especially as the audience were very different from what I'm used to i.e. much more 'trad' Shakespeare fans (unsurprising as it was part of the Titchield Shakespeare Festival) - not like the audiences for the more contemporary fare I tend to go for. Saying that, I am partial to a bit o' Bard once in a while and I still like As You Like It, despite being taught it for O-level (not GCSE) English Lit, *ahem* years ago. So, with the competition themes in mind, and inspired by the 'All the world's a stage...' soliloquy, this is what I came up with and it seemed to go down well...

’69 – ‘13

Last year, prime-numbered age held sway,
since then some extra throat-beard grey,
shirt buttons slightly more tum-splayed,
maybe it’s time I was re-weighed.
Oh God, I’m 44.

On average I am past halfway,
it takes less beer ‘til bladdered spray,
and if hungover lose a day,
my liver yells at me ‘no way’.
Oh God, I’m 44.

These days, more trespass than affray,
older than pre-prison Krays,
once Dangermouse, now Colonel K,
or tatty-eared old tom-cat stray,
will my hair fall out with mange?
Oh God, I’m 44.

Docked my first iPod yesterday,
with Paypal not quite so au fait,
watched vinyl’s decline with dismay,
hookers my age carry change,
I fancy Bellatrix Lestrange,
Oh God, I’m 44.

Just twitched a rare Siberian Jay,
rewatched the Darling Buds of May,
but please no cocoa on a tray,
against the dying light I’ll rage,
find my As You Like It stage,
at least men don’t go through ‘The Change’,
Oh God, I’m 44.

‘Cos I still wield a wicked blade,
so far no urge to dress more staid
in crimplene slacks of dun-tan-beige,
I’d fear that mournful colour-change,
rather weekends spent in adult play
than tussling with cheap underlay –
I’ve never felt quite so alive,
I’ll soon be 45.

Here I am performing at the Festival.

A little more bro-etry

I was recently introduced to the concept of 'bro-etry' - poetry that speaks to blokes (they being a subset of 'men'). Here's something on this theme:

More Goldwing than Commando?

Old bikers maybe,
whose black t-shirts,
though sporting only the holes they were born with,
and not oil-soaked (or worse)
announce a liking
for Alien and Heath Ledger’s Joker
mostly unobscured by pony-tails
and heavy-metal beards.

Between sips and pots,
they reminisce about pool leagues past,
tut-tut dismay
at ale-stains on relaid baize
despite signs saying ‘no drinks here please’.

The louder one asks me what I’m writing;
it turns out he likes poetry
(even if he pretends it’s only
‘the-boy-stood-on-the-burning-deck’ variety)
and talks of folk-rock,
obscure bands and great nights out
in punky local venues –
it makes sense Blondie was his jukebox choice,
but INXS doesn’t fit
and as for Nickelback,
less said the better.

Recording them in biro scribbles,
I watch another frame fly by –
I thought they must be good
as, denims crisply laundered,
they brought their own brass-threaded
ash-grained cues in cases,
and at a quid a game,
it must be expensive
once you’re good at pool.

Perspectives

Scenes from a double-decker

Old lady with a black-dyed bouffant bald patch.
Roadside moorhen nest (punky chicks).
Ragwort growing from an upstairs window frame,
halfway to the sparrows living in the eaves.

Other top-floor travellers at eye-level
(if not eye-contact).
The little aerial atop a bus-stop
collecting estimated times of arrival.
The ubiquity of single shoes.

Some ummm… interesting views of cleavages.
The onrushing slap of twigs and leaves,
the approach of the next biro-jarring bump.
How the supermarket’s wall of greenery lies.
Men (only men) collecting train numbers,
shuffling like the walrus lumbers,
choo-choo-g’joob.

The texture of slate tiles and leadwork.
How people sometimes seem to know I’m looking
but not that, or what, I’m writing.
Teenagers smoking behind a hedge –
private privet.

The contents of that bin,
that drain,
that pram,
that garden.

Railway ballast, Hippo-bagged, Buddleia-hidden.
Scars on the head of a swaggering fool,
walks the monkey-walk,
talks the monkey-talk?

Sprigs of a green mohican
sprout like grass through cycle-helmet slits.
Cracked grave-slabs by a cricket pitch
next to where the ponies mooch
and crane-necked tradesmen
muse upon the old church roof.

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.

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.

Poet to poet

Inspired by something a fellow (and far more experienced) poet said a while back. Since performed afew times. Audio version here.

The old XY story

How dare you call me beautiful?
We’re male, how can that be?
Though I’ve no interest in fast cars,
My beard is plain to see.
I lift and carry, open jars,
Keep monsters from the door,
And proudly sport my duelling-scars,
A warrior to the core.

How dare you call me beautiful?
Sharp-and-witty’s fine,
But make my masculine side slip
And I must draw the line -
Chest thrust out, stiff upper lip,
Coup de grace my friend,
Play the game, keep a tight ship,
Ne’er borrow, never lend.

How dare you call me beautiful?
Have you not seen my face?
Nose clearly more than once been bust,
Of youth so little trace,
Though you insist and so I must
Mirror me once more,
Oil the joints, wire-brush the rust,
Pick fragments off the floor.

You dare to call me beautiful,
Acceptance is my guise,
No more blemishes to cite,
Nor secret-varnished lies,
I may concede that you are right,
However great the leap,
And so adieu, turn in, good night,
I need my ugly sleep.

NaPoWriMo day 28

NaPoWriMo day 28 - a colour-poem – time to get the thesaurus out, plus a little bit of science…

400 nanometres (non-spectral)

Old Tyrian murex-dye
Stains the vestments of imperial nobility,
Royalty and piety,
They are born to it, so,
Peasant, no – you may not wear this
Colour of a wounded heart,
(We may permit it as a bruise)
Of Easter, Lent and Mardi Gras,
Look upon it, kneel and pray,
Or dance the carnival away,
See it in fruit and veg and bloom,
Like Cab Sav’s much sought-after grape,
In the vin rouge tasting room,
Plum and shine-skinned aubergine,
In the garden, mulberry,
The lilac and the lavender,
Orchids, mallows, fuchsia too,
Spring-petalled violet, delicate,
So many tints in nature’s palette,
Thistle, flower of the Scots,
And phlox, Jimi Hendrix’ fave,
Black-lit on stage,
At any psychedelic rave;
Mauve, from Perkin’s aniline,
Victorian synthetic
Found by serendipity,
Pizzazz, invented as a crayon,
Magenta (Hot and Sky and Haze)
Named for a battle, olden days ,
Steel Pink and bright quinacridone,
So many variations by Pantone,
Purple, purple everywhere,
Start wearing it for me.

NaPoWriMo day 19

NaPoWriMo day 19 - a poem in the style of a personal ad (of sorts) - trying to keep a little of that essence-of-spring going...

Sexchange & Mart

1969 model, original fixtures and fittings,
Several lady owners, most careful, one not,
Some light cosmetic damage
From encounters with others on the road,
Engine fine, chassis sound,
Good on hills and rough terrain,
Gearstick needs occasional polish,
Front airbag grows slightly with increasing vintage,
One headlight cracked, front bumper dented,
(Wear-and-tear when not owned but rented)
A few minor creaks, but not to worry,
Can still give newer versions a run for their money,
Fuel-efficient, MOT’d
For at least a decade more or three,
Just requires a little TLC,
Maintaining the upholstery,
From time to time,
And parking somewhere warm and dry,
Interested? Just looking?
Fancy a test-drive?
Please enquire for a booking.

NaPoWriMo day 15

It's day 15 of NaPoWriMo - half way through already. Today's prompt is to create a ‘pantun’ – a traditional Malay form consisting of rhymed (a-b-a-b) quatrains, 8-12 syllables per line, the two couplets within each quatrain linked imaginatively rather than formally.

‘Moving Voices’ just over the horizon,

Grab the mic’ and open up my words,

Could be Pandora’s n^th great-grandson,

Box of worms emptied for the early birds.