Wednesday, 8 July 2020

and ran - i did

and ran - i did

first i collected the tadpoles
from the well across the fields
then i tickled sticklebacks
from the little pluck dicing stones
roach came next enticed with dough
under a float upon the pluck
then running the flashing brook trout
with worms where the water weeds flow
meandering slow past llansamlet church
where grandpa is buried low

then of course the coarse fish pike and perch
in the tennant canal reeded blind
by the docks where the sea fish flow
hooking pouting and whiting and flatties
on the west pier where the night rats know
that the moon stones will be awash at full tide
when the dock lights shiver - you know
and a fist of rag worm wrapped in sand and cloth 
holds every boy‘s long hope upon the bay

aye

i’ve caught them all in my time
when as a child i caught time itself
running with the hares and kestrels
flying across the shivery-shakes 
and heather’s dusty flowers
     and lizards 
          and frogs 
               and toads
and bank voles in the mounds of grass
and water voles with streaming their Vs
down from heol las

never ever did i think 
that this 
one day 
would be just a dream 

for

i seem to have run out of bait my son
although i am running closer to my soil
where the sun is warm under grasses tall
and the breeze - well it’s just that breeze
that dried blood on bloody knees 
sleeping under the long sky
as deep as a big fishes lair


over the weir time has rock dashed
and the sun is setting in red sails fair
across an ocean with no destination
i am sailing there - with there there now
for yes   oh yes
i am sailing there and there

Monday, 6 July 2020

bloody help

bloody help

our blood
is not our blood
or our ancestor’s
blood
or our scion’s
blood
or
for that matter
blood at all
it is of the soil
of the toil
of time’s
bloody time

Friday, 3 July 2020

The Chelsea hotel

The Chelsea hotel

the length of time’s tear‬
in the bite of a double shot‬
‪downed now‬
‪in staggering words‬
‪down sleep’s slurred lines‬
‪laid to rest‬
‪bible bright ‬
‪in that singular goodnight‬

Wednesday, 1 July 2020

have you ever wanted to be

have you ever wanted to be

have you ever wanted to be that man
the one with the stick
you know - the one with the metal pole
who listens to your stopcock 
out in the road
with his ear to the shiny wooden cup
at the end of his decision

or the man with his hands on the handles
of the surging tube that goes up and down 
up and splurging down in the storm drain
that keeps the kids enthralled

or the man with the shiny wooden pole
with the pig’s tail hook that darns
the the coupling links between the trucks
with such deft luck that barely at moment 
between the buffers shine bouncing the 
chains tight in a juddering offwego 

or the man in the moon
who is so superfluously superior
that he doesn’t even exist
i’d like to be a bit on the dark side
of an espresso light

ah well 
here they come with the medication trolley
better sign off now 
or they’ll think i’m off my trolley
again

strange morning

strange morning

outside
mum pecks the bum of a baby dunnock
dunno why 
but the cat goes bonkers
and they fly

Monday, 29 June 2020

plop hilarity contest

plop hilarity contest

peristalsis 
is no fool
as you sit there 
it makes your stool

Sunday, 28 June 2020

the cat nip of summer

the cat nip of summer

the cat goes out
sleeps
the cat comes in
sleeps
the cat goes out
sleeps
the cat comes in
eats
sleeps 
the cat goes out
and 
so it goes
these daily dozy 
dozy daily dos 
of summer

Saturday, 27 June 2020

you tell me no

you
tell me that we are not doomed‬
‪with words that are littered‬ out
of cars that fill extracted gardens
and the faecal hemispheres 
of brains in denial of the 
anthropocene     such
a nice word that unfortunately 
will not fit any tombstone 
made from recycled denial
black plastic hate preserving
perfectly the scattering of
eulogies for rational thought
that the herds trample now
you 
tell me no
it’s all
OK
isn’t it

Monday, 22 June 2020

will the queen 
                                 still be queen 
                                                                  in heaven?
no?
    
    then why is she queen now then?

uh?

unlock?

You go to one - l’ll go to three‬

‪In this poker game it’s all bluff countering counter-bluff‬

‪I’ll raise you ... mmm ... R=3‬

‪I’ll see you ...... there‬

Friday, 19 June 2020

the cowing dog

the cowing dog

the cow
the barbed wire
and the feral dog 
something snaps
and it’s gone
clattering 
down the back-lane
of a memory

Thursday, 18 June 2020

all these haiku‬


all these haiku‬
i keep stepping on them‬
‪tripping over them‬
‪i throw them out but‬
they are homing haiku‬
‪flapping around my head‬
‪and in my bed‬
‪and in my tea‬
‪you see‬
‪how much rhyme is missing‬
‪from the haiku‬
‪that also trips me up‬
‪and suffocates me ‬
‪i sneeze‬
‪haiku haiku‬
‪all fall down‬

Monday, 15 June 2020

Llansteffan and The Worm in June


Llansteffan and The Worm in June

Llansteffan pulling west
into the summer haze,
backed against the castle,
upon the Towy sands.

There, see the ‘Worm’ drawn
closer than the eye has seen
most days, for it is far away
than seems this day drawn 
in the heat of June
in the morning.

And a Worm it is!
in profile a more gentle dragon
than it is in the wild winter. When
to set foot is to drive forward 
into the Atlantic Ocean. To 
forge rock on the anvil of the rip
waters barnacled in blood.

But here a photographer’s eye
has pulled imagination, and the day,
and his machine, to lay it before us
as it is rarely seen, though much rumoured. 
Oscillating between Llansteffan and Gower 
folk are aware of the wonder, and the grace 
of a summer such as this day in June.

Here - gaze upon it now,
lock it into your hearts;
for summers are as short as the winters are long,
and your memory of now and again seems
as temporal as the haze across this sound.

Thursday, 4 June 2020

before cleaning 
i move the sleepy spider 
no flies on me 

Saturday, 30 May 2020

i’ll put them just here

i’ll put them just here 

the riveters in the wagon works,
a tough bunch.
spitting, swearing, ‘who you looking at?’
sort of bunch of fives. 
the fettlers in the bottom shop,
grit blasted smiles and billie cans,
and jack hammer humour,  son.
the moulders tamped of sand in
clamped metal boxes, their heads and gates,
and their hoses for breakouts and their bots
for the holes and rodded into the cupola spout
jammed shut. or poked open to
flow into the mould of their day shift.
the slam! the wham! of the exploding gas
beneath the cast beds, ignited by a 
spark from the furnace. the same sparks
that burred in ears and down socks, or 
were doused by the floor’s sandy dirt.

these are the men / boys of my youth. 
the ones i decided were across the river’s mile,
and not my cup of tea - which was Glengettie actually.

so i ran with the hare, and soared with the lark,
hill-high and be-blued above the heather.
those alone moments with a rod or a gun
and the neighbour’s dog. bonzo.
i remember bonzo, i do. he was a fun dog,
a company across the fields sort of dog. 
a marsh harrier of rats in the rubbish tips 
long-walked upon the marsh.

these marble memories rattle now, around and 
around they rattle my brain - as that song said.
where shall i lay them, and when is the time?
here upon a few lines of ink think? or shall i 
take them to the graveside of childhood and
knock the door and run away? but, hey,
they are homing dreams, like the pigeons in baskets
at release of somewhere, somewhere.

look, i’ll put them just here. OK?
look after them for me; 
i won’t be long.

toot toot - - a - - toot toot -‬ ‪yeah

toot toot - - a - - toot toot -‬ ‪yeah

they got cars in the gardens ‬
‪i’ll get some of them seeds‬
‪and a sack of concrete‬
‪it’ll grow great like‬
‪toot toot - - a - - toot toot‬ - yeah

Friday, 29 May 2020

I am climbing up the poets

I am climbing up the poets

I am climbing up the poets,
hammering my piton words
into the gasps of their stuttering,
sparking my crampons against
the overhangs of their mountainous 
talent, fighting without the oxygen
of their intellect, I struggle upwards,
the view over each mind a vista of
surmise and surprise at how rarefied
the gin clear air of enigmatic thought
is at such altitude. Throwing off the
guide ropes of the leaders, without
point I scramble up the scree of
shifting words, sifting the orientation
of the gravity of my situation of the 
understanding that what is beyond
and above the viewpoints of those
below, I will attain the nirvana of a banana,
and they say ‘how profound’ he is
for I am on solid ground now,
the clouds are my armchairs,
blue my horizoned eyes.
Casting down the safety ropes
I slip the crampons and abseil out,
and out, down and down, upon the drug 
of ages. Plummeting through history I
arrive in poet’s corner to be interred 
immemorial by those who forgot the summit
and buried themselves in my words, and
in the autumn of their desire, they
never flew away except upon my words;
bar one, or maybe two, who started the climb
to a summit higher than time itself. 

the new normal

the new normal 

it can’t - it can
it can - it can’t
it must - oh no it mustn’t 
how can we - how can we not
we cannot - yes you can
are you dead sure - sure dead - right
we’ll never adjust - you already have

now it is how it is

Sunday, 24 May 2020

call me rough life

call me rough life


call me rough life
why do you not call me to play the fool
the arrogant roughneck drinking fool
that wrote for her - you know - 
those lurid nights of windowed cities
and bars and wet streets and brawls in
in stairwells of brevity kisses
and traffic hisses away down town
and frowns and downs and downs
to wet knee wet with tears raining down with
your mascara and bruised love if
love it be for me and my fallandering
why don’t you rough me up and
leave me with enough smoke-stained angst
to write the brutal lines that all the great 
do-no-good poets clawed 
upon the page’s confessions of regret 
and fabled acerbic pounding of
relationships gone on far far too long past
their ability to even breathe an emotion

why this easy ambiance this ease of life
that pours not cider vinegar but maple syrup
that has not one word to cut the days of
blank pages and no looks that could kill
in red ink the slammed book of poems
dedicated in hatred to all whose meritocracy 
i defied to entertain just my egotistical nonchalance  
now that i bare write nothing nothing at all for
having not died in that life i lay down nothing 

is it too late these aged years to ride
the bronco stallion of desire unbridled
and fly at last to the wild side of life
rattling penniless unrepentant galavanting
nailing dirty words smearing fetid words
bleeding grimy words spitting oathy words
leaving no stone of life unturned before
the days run down

is it too late
am i run to time run done
it is over mun 
it is isn’t it 
and was it not i 
who left it
all undone

Saturday, 23 May 2020

swimming in the sea that is the wind

swimming in the sea that is the wind

swimming in the sea that is the wind
blacking beneath the metronome,
this jig upon the corner’s flatulence, of
picking at leaves soon to be the leftovers 
of the storm’s disrespect. 

when a thousand suns dance upon the daisies
that is the summer wind. winding down now
the unwinding of the runner beans. well i mean,
you know, how is this, that these days are? well you know?
well enough how what can is cannot and what is cannot be.

so now we venture afield, winding in the choices of
lanes running the decisions that the wind fled.
that the ruination of thoughts survived in eyes
lemon sunned with the rime of salt. yes you fall now
with me upon this, but tomorrow it will be different.
a different wind will or will not be - we.

Thursday, 21 May 2020

‘how he wrote the flow of our pouring’


‘how he wrote the flow of our pouring’

see that?
see how it came from nowhere?

it frightens me - sometimes.
how the words seem to come from a spirit
just behind the edge of hindsight,
beyond the dusk at the back of my mind.

is there a hole in space-time leading to where
the poets rail that their words must be heard,
must be still the font of all of their times;
and am i chosen as this conduit?
a vent in the dam of the damned words!

it frightens me,
                         and yet
i repeat them 
               because i have to.
do i not? do i not?

but it still frightens me to ask

‘how did i write the flow of his outpouring’ 

Monday, 18 May 2020

you herd right


you herd right 

BBC sport - there’s no sport

repeats

the herd instinct

you heard 

corvid - an anagram for god 

a tricky one - think about it

BBC sport - there’s no sport

you heard that lemmings jump

to conclusions 

Sunday, 17 May 2020

parall hell

parall hell  

every mind 
a parallel universe 
many minds
a multiverse
death a closed door
birth a matinee 
with no encore 
bubbles balloon then coalesce 
i guess 
this makes for more not less
now there’s an idea 
and another idea
but i have no idea
do you? 
and you and you
and me?

every mind 
a parallel universe 
many minds
a multiverse ... 

Saturday, 16 May 2020

the trout stream


the trout stream

walk the sleepers
one by one
by one by one

one by one
by one by one

hooks and worms
and rod and reel 

the evening’s boy
is troutward bound 
along the saddletank line
beneath the main

past the creaking sheds
that sped his feet beneath
the dead works walls and
all the way the ruins closed
and closer until it
breathed the reedmace’s
sunny way along the pipe
that carried the mysterious what
that held the balanced tread
of trespass through the gasometer works
and there he was 
it was the
worm in the flow and
trout in mind’s eye so
he’ll walk the sundown
as he always did
in the turning of the day’s
weariness as the gnats
danced the setting way
he flowed moonward 
for another day
another day
is won