Wednesday 30 November 2022

song of songs

song of  songs


that song 


it always takes me back

sixteen with grazed knuckles

smiling innocuously at the tides

of the heart’s walking

looking for directions in

the vacuoles of the stumbles


many songs 


at the heart’s breaking 

the long teenage days flowing so fast

breaking on the rocks of the tide’s misadventures

boys with crusts as tough over the molten as

the eruptions of acne between the bristles

boiling over time after time


the song


at our hearts’ meeting

two open locks locked together

no keys to that eternal locking 

so many doors opening in a closed world

binary stars collapsing 

into a golden whole

Monday 28 November 2022

the night before christmas eve

 the night before christmas eve 


that one dark candle chapel night

of carols in the snow

mince pie eyes that glow

gathering around the village

doored in smiles up to the jersey arms

even to the bonymaen inn rough-necked in red

the spirit of christmas spilling across the bar

turning of collars down the wind’s return

in the closeness of mingling breaths

woolen hats fingered warm and moving

through the insisting snow you know how it is

when the tiredness is happiness

good nights meant to last forever

as they were last year when the snow was heavier 

the candle snuffed this one night draws to its close

goodnight crunches goodnight

what?

 what was that previous poem about

you know


the one you didn’t write

Sunday 27 November 2022

oh princess

 oh princess


oh princess

give all your money away

come and live in a council flat


swim in the sea with me

and say fuck ‘em

that’s that


frow the baubles and the beads

away              be 

my beautiful alley cat


you know how

every poem is a euphemism 

so for god’s sake say it


say it don’t fake it

fuck it don’t fake it

don’t slate it


come and live in a council flat with me

then you’ll see


but of course you won’t 

you’ll perpetuate all that shit

on me





Thursday 24 November 2022

heads & gates

 heads & gates


in the company 

of the hierarchy 

of the furnace men 

sweat red metalled 

muscled veined sweat

above a leather apron 

oiled with that sweat

tap the furnaces

flows the metal

the slag 

the heads 

the gates

clamped and hosed

dust smoking dust

WHAM!


the bottom has ignited

drying ovens rumble

billie cans of sherbet salt

the moulders’ slake

the gantry’s thumbs-up

hooks-up the eyed ladles 

shield the devil red

wire loops flail time

the last mould is cast

drop the cupola 

WHAM!


WhoooOOOooo

Saturday 19 November 2022

poem with explanatory notes

 

the ruination of a memory

 

 

not a painting but a memory

of a painting that was but now is not

 

a place but a memory

of a place that was but now is not

 

a childhood that is a memory

but now that memory is of what is not

 

for it has fallen down or was it pushed down

that memory of what could have not

 

have gone so wrong as to have not

lasted as a memory that brought the lot

 

tumbling down i remember thinking

this memory is not what tumbled

 

but just the memory of that tumbling

of a childhood tumbling down what is

 

nothing but a memory now of what was there

but now is gone except in memory

 

for not one brick ~ you hear

 

but all the walls of ruination

resemble a ruination that was not

 

a memory

 

but a simple fact

 

now please remember that

 

~~~

 

annotated

 

the ruination of a memory

 

 

not a painting but a memory

of a painting that was but now is not

 

Actually a photograph and a YouTube video of the dereliction of the lower Swansea valley ~ but a painting seemed more poetic. The poet could identify every ruined wall as a part of his childhood playground in the worst industrial dereliction in Europe

 

a place but a memory

of a place that was but now is not

 

Enjambment and the use of couplets throughout the poem exemplify the vesiculation of the fact / memory apposition

a childhood that is a memory

but now that memory is of what was not

 

A past childhood, and a past time, but it raises the question: has memory altered what the writer perceived as fact. Indeed the painting itself, although a contemporary depiction, is an artist perception

 

for it has fallen down or was it pushed down

that memory of what could have not

 

This couplet starts by bringing back the ruins of the lower Swansea valley that were eventually demolished, but which the poet had a physical hand in pushing down. The second line asks was the poet’s memory so wrong, in that he halts that demolition by preserving a memory of a physical scene that in itself has longevity. This is continued in the next couplet, and the sliding of memory between couplets starts to demonstrate the slipperiness of examining memory

 

have gone so wrong as to have not

lasted as a memory that brought the lot

 

tumbling down i remember thinking

this memory is not what tumbled

 

but just the memory of that tumbling

of a childhood tumbling down what is

 

nothing but a memory now of what was there

but now is gone except in memory

 

Now we have four couplets rapidly examining by enjambment the theme that runs through the poem. It seems to be that we have to rush to stop the elver of memory slipping through our fingers. It also brings in the pathos of all lost childhoods

 

for not one brick ~ you hear

 

This line is not so much a pivot in the poem but a buffer. It abruptly brings in the reader, who up to now has been a spectator to the debate. ‘You hear’ suggests that the reader will soon be asked to answer a big question based on an understanding of the poem.

 

but all the walls of ruination

resemble a ruination that was not

 

a memory

 

but a simple fact

 

These lines remind the reader that what the memory was recalling, corrupted or not, was a physical place at a particular point in time

 

now please remember that

 

This final line throws the whole question at the reader who is left holding the baby. Can the reader rely on his or her memory ~ even of this poem

 

More general notes:

 

The poem is not simply a clever convolution of words but does ‘make sense’ when read carefully. Apart from its description of a time that is gone, it examines and exemplifies the tortured ambivalence between memory and fact. The slippery methodology of examining a personal memory when looking at a visual depiction of that place in that time. Indeed, can memories be altered by the holder of that memory, other than by recognising its inherent subjectivity.

Wednesday 16 November 2022

a glance

 a glance



a face in a café window

the slow wave of recognition of

affection from a time inscribed in lines

recalled in that passing glance

then the smile

and it’s gone

in the briskness of a wave

lowered like the flag

at the last post’s turning

Tuesday 1 November 2022

the lives we lies

 the lives we lies 


god i was a weirdo

when i think of the things i cannot tell

for you might harbour similar thoughts

and that might not sit so well

with my weirdo superlatives 

i guess this is the lives we lies

blanket eyes

 blanket eyes


but

are we not all buzzards now

soaring over the poets

sitting around the poems

waiting for the blood to congeal

picking at the words

looking for a morsel like mother

used to feed us

in this desiccated world

the ink has dried

the tears in every eye

purblind to yesterday