Comprehensive Revelation


They’ve worked out I’m a cyclist, but not a pedaled clown.
I don’t take ‘roids to speed me up, I use yellows to slow me down
and I need stabilizers still, or I can’t get ‘round corners
without gaining either enemies or self-destructive fawners.
I sashay a land of sinkholes, of glorious gushing geysers;
of embarrassment and excellence in equally enormous sizes.

Every other diag-nonsense has appeared to be just that
but this one fits as snugly as sub-cutaneous fat.
Visceral rage throttles rational thought.
No focus. Too many ideas cavorting.
Spitting out flows to fight my fate.
Racing up and down with no baseline break.

I know it’s medicatable, I know that there is therapy
but redefining thought processes doesn’t seem to work for me.
All this linguistic trickery is far too far innate to me
for all their forms of CBT to make a difference you can see.

I’ll give it another go, you know?
God knows, since the closure of the floatation tank
I’m irrationally rankle-able at an elevated pace.
I’ll go back to star jumps, routines and early starts
to fight off the fidgets, the doldrums and broken hearts.

The mechanics of coping shook their heads in despair
when they saw my brakes in such disrepair
but what state would you be turning up to work in
if your life felt like bungee jumping in a whirlwind?

Nihilistic hedonist, life and soul;

or following the wind up bird into the endless hole.

Kate

When discussing women who can change the world
I would be remiss not to mention this girl.
She is witty, bold and beautiful. She loves debates.
You can keep your Catherine, it’s Kate that’s great.

Optimistic to the point of rebelliousness,
she brings out the best in the worst of us.
She is naughty and notorious, not B.I.G at all;
a pocket-sized and perfectly formed know-it-all.
She puts effort in the details, so you’d better pay attention
or you’ll miss the little touches that betray strength of affection.

We went for a quick coffee the first time we met
which stretched into hours, days, months and a set
of brand new wrinkles for my happy-creased face
which deepen every time we talk, ‘cause she’s ace.

Some people have suggested she has bats in her belfry
But I reckon she should be on Made in Chelsea.
Is that it, Kate? Is your secret out?
Is that what moving away’s all about?
Are you trading in Alex, Chris, Ed, Beth and Jo
for Binky, afternoon tea and prosecco?

All joking aside, I know we all wish you the best
and support your decision ‘bout what to do with the rest
of your life. You’ve adventures ahead
and you can always come back, when all’s said
and done. This island has open arms.
We’ve all fallen under the spell of your charms;
of your perfect diction, your painful puns,
and your clues for quizzes that leave people stumped.

You stand five foot eight (in your seven inch heels)
but we’re eye to eye on the issues that are real.
Shine your light in dark places, start the conversation.
Don’t accept pauses, repetition, deviation.
In the game of life you’ll find that no one has a clue
so you just have to do what’s right for you.

As a mark of respect from the Empire of Whimsy
I hereby grant right of indefinite entry.
(I’m hoping she’ll reciprocate, I must confess.
Her micronation’s spelled: [are you ready?]
N E T H E R L A N D S)

One last thing, Kate, you’d better keep a blog
so I can keep up to date with you and Frank the Dog.


Destined for greatness and determined to achieve,
I will shed my tears privately when you leave.
You’re not just cool, you’re cool-cool-cool.
You’re a credit to your parents, your island and your school.

You’re a treasured-ever friend of the rarest sort,

so go – explore – conquer – and report.

                                                                                                                                                   

I was lucky enough to meet award-winning journalist and all round wondrous soul Kate Holland through poetry work, friend connections and the general magic of the island around about this time last year.

 She has been working at Manx Radio presenting the Women Today program along with Beth Espey and Jo Pack for the last year. She has now decided to fly this little island nest. Today was her last day and as a surprise, a secret show was planned. I wrote and performed the above for her.  

Love you Kate. Have a magnificent time. 
Xxxx

Too

it’s tomorrow already and all days are gone.
what once was hope’s now
broken, floating
           motes.

it’s too much already and all peace has gone.
what once was all’s now
cruel, crawling
        brawls.

it’s too hard already and all diplomacy has gone.
what once was tact’s now
fractured, panicking
              attacks.

it’s 2 AM already and all seeds of dreams have gone.
what once was future’s now
uprooted, fruitless
              disputes.
   
it’s too late already and all plans are gone.
what once was trust’s now
crusted, suppurating
            cuts.


Manx Lit Fest 2015 - Ep.1.

This year's Manx LitFest was a whirl of inspiration for me.

I managed to attend more events than last year, but still not all of the things I wanted. I thoroughly indulged myself and it was most refreshing.

My joys ranged from Matthew Kneale, to Jason Lewis, to the Famous Five, to all the outstanding local poets and storytellers and to Viviane Schwarz.

While I will get around to talking about the other events, it is Viviane Schwarz that I would like to talk to you about today.

Followers of this blog will know that I sketch from time to time and my friends will know that I used to create collages and overly-complicated postcards with interactive pull-downs and pop ups. You may also have noticed that I haven't done this in a little while. With this in mind and a yearning to return to it, I took part in a workshop given by Viviane during Lit Fest.
We swirled vivid colours, created characters and writing implements, learned about stagecraft in relation to the performative aspect of picture books and one of us may have stabbed herself in the finger by accident. (don't worry, it's all healed now.)
Since the workshop I have used the things I learned to create a dummy book of my poem Perdita and have been swooshing about on big pieces of paper with paintbrushes and richly hued inks. It's wonderful.

Yesterday, I tried combining my Eames and Yellow Owl Workshop stamps with some characters. Here's the result:

The best thing was that my son was interested in what I was doing and wanted to join in, but sadly it was too late and he had to go to bed.

This morning, he woke me up with this:


The figure on the left is saying "Fly, my pretty, fly!"
The figure in the middle is saying "Wait!"
The figure on the left is saying "Darling, can you stop saying that?"


Thanks for the inspiration, Viv. Xxxx

The Ballad of Bob and Mary

***TO BE READ IN A BROAD NORTHERN ENGLISH ACCENT***

Bob and Mary live in a semi.
They spend most every evening watching repeats on the telly.
Burying their heads in digital sand.
Bob sups his beer, thinks ‘Aint life grand’.
He belches, reveling in its echo, tone and strength
then half-heartedly apologises, to save the argument.
Mary is repulsed but merely gives a tut.
It’s not she doesn’t care, quite the opposite but
after all these years of chastising and nagging
her enthusiasm for home improvement is flagging.

Once Mary would have been described a dolly bird.
Now she is just bird-like with a faintly tinted perm.
She’s been smoking menthol superkings sine she turned 21.
They still make her feel sophisticated, though she won’t admit that to anyone.
It hasn’t been a bad life and she’s not one to complain,
but she thinks she’d do it differently if she had her time again.
She liked to have been an air hostess and travelled all over the world
or worked on one of them cruise ships, or been one of Pan’s People’s girls.
Just something a little more glamorous and less like egg and chips.
She gives poor Bob a sideways look and purses coral stained lips.

They’re a staple in their local. Bob drinks stout.
Mary likes a babycham and brandy when she’s out.
Bob’s not fond of Mary’s friends. He hates their gossiping ways.
Mary whispers too softly. He misses half the things she says.
At half past ten, habitually they totter up the road.
Arm in arm, step in step, it’s not a long trip home.
“Bob” says Mary, “do you ever wonder if there’s more than this?”
“Mary” Bob says, “I dearly love you, but you’re pissed.
When you’ve had more than three you know you get all philosophical-like
I’ve told you before about your limits, it’s too much at my time of life.”
He straightened his cap and Mary just sighed
then she looked up and saw how soft were his eyes.
“I know love” she said “and you’ve given me plenty
but sometimes I feel all used up and empty”.
“Oh, duck! We’ve had such good times, remember when we were young?
All those trips to the seaside, those summers full of sun?
Annual foreign holidays to the Costa this and that,
strolling, licking ice cream in a kiss me quick hat.
It’s only right you’re tired when you’ve lived as much as us.
That’s why they give us pensioners free rides on the bus”.

She squeezed his hand and sadly smiled.
They walked in silence a little while.
Then, as they reached their little front gate
Bob’s caught Mary’s arm and said “Wait.”
“What?” said Mary startled, spun into Bob’s waiting palms
“While there’s moonlight, we’ve no music but we’ve love and romance,
haven’t we darling?”
Mary’s heart flew like a flock of starlings.
As she lifted her arms Mary was glad
that night she’d remembered to wear her Tena pad.
She murmured “Let’s dance” and Bob stepped a tango
then screwed up his face and yelled “Ee! Me lumbago!”
Mary cried “Bob! You poor old thing!
Let me give you a hand. Do you want me to ring
for the doctor?” “No, no,” he said
“the best medicine for me will be us in bed”.
“Oh, give over” she playfully teased
“between your back and my dodgy knees
we’ll be lucky to make it up the stairs.
Thank god the hot water bottles are already prepared.”

She helped Bob to bed and fetched him his pills.
Unplugged the cords to save on the bills.
Locked all the doors and turned off the lights.
Got into bed and they kissed goodnight.
In well practiced harmony they both removed their teeth
put them into one glass and pushed it out of reach.
They snuggled into decades long impressions of their love
on a mattress worn equally below as above.
As Mary’s dreams encroached she saw flashes of her life
From after and before she became a mam and wife.
A joyful tear slid down her nose
and she reached her cold feet towards Bob’s warm toes.
“Bob, why don’t we take the grandkids out?
Down to the pier and tell them all the stories about
when you and me was courting
and the lido? and your car?
And that bar that you fought in?
Let’s see how they are.”
Bob just grunted but Mary didn’t mind.
She knew her face was laughter-lined.
For it hadn’t been a bad life, and she’s not one to complain
and she wouldn’t really do it differently

if she had her time again. 

Some Poem

We are all searching for some meaning.

This curse of consciousness silk screens our experiences
into something more than just living.
Day to day survival;
waking, walking, working, wanting, wondering, whining.
Losing all sense of time and season.
The essence of humanity- the power of imagination
coupled with thumbs is a peculiar quirk of evolving mis-creation.
For our corporeal inertia alongside technology based modern culture
means we’re species-wide suicidal.
Maybe I’m just ignorant and if I am, please let me know
but, what other species carries the seed of its own destruction in its genome?

It’s all very well searching for meaning,
but would we recognise it if it smacked us in the teeth?

Romantic notions of noble knowledge wrongfully endorsing assumed superiority.
The “something more than this”
paying, praying, playing, planting, planking, pining.
Mistaking physical reactions as divine.
We’re tragically misusing the power of imagination,
arguing over imaginary friends instead of maintaining our own population.
If we’re going to survive we need to change our lives
There’s too many of us sitting idle.
I don’t mean to brow beat and I know I do go on,
but we’re distracted by searching for meaning while hurtling toward our oblivion.

Whether the meaning you find is friars, fractals or pterodactyls,
can you not do something more practical?

Anachronistic  practices are both more active and better for the environment.
sowing, stowing, slowing, growing, fore going.
We have much to learn from bumblebees.
Thanks to us, very soon they’ll only exist in the imagination.
Just like harmony, altruism and human rights legislation.
Go back to watching the Bake Off; never turn your magic slate off.
You’ll never sacrifice your idols.
You don’t have to listen to this.
You’ll forget it by the time you get home.
For I am just some person.
And this is just some poem.

Still.

I hope you found some meaning. 


_________________________________________________________________________________

This is the poem I performed at the Manx LitFest 2015 poetry slam. 
The winner was Jennifer Davies with her magnificent tale of a teenage practitioner of the occult. Funny, engaging, richly written and expressively performed, Jennifer is a new favourite of mine. I can't wait to hear her again. 

Education

“Those who can, do.
Those who can’t, teach.”
is used usually at the end of a speech
in that tone of sneering smugness
reserved for lies
that have been repeated so many times
they have earned a patina of wisdom
to the unassuming eye.

The purpose of teaching is not to instruct.
It’s about introductions and opening up
a mind to possibilities.
Then gifting the tools
 to make the best of these.

The folk that sneer don’t hear about the stories of success

that come when students overcome feelings of powerlessness.

Perdita

As I woke the other day
the sky broke. Big, grey
splotches on concrete.
Each one a cocktail thrown by an ex-lover in defeat.

Dressing, dreading
resigned to a day of
unabashed antagonists,
washing, waking
this disturbing state
insistently persists.
I attempted to give the half squint that hair leaving the house demands
but could barely see the mirror for Kirby grips and hair-bands.
They had spilt off the shelf and onto the floor;
some in the bin, some in the drawer
this atoll of accessories, point of origin undisclosed
 was girt by the lagoon of lost socks and outgrown favourite clothes.

Confused, I clamour for caffeine.

Stumbling through the hallway,
bare soles bruising on abandoned ephemera
as pen lids, lip balm and bouncy balls roll away
care-slow moving like a long lost Lepidoptera.

Steaming kettle further blurring sleep clouded
eyes I turn and reach wrist deep into a tower
of teaspoons.
Withdraw.
To hullabaloo calamitous, I stir.
I slurp.
I stare,
trying to work out where I am.
Such stifling clutter!
It looks like a nutter
lives here, hoarding
all things
carelessly tossed aside.

This realization drove an elbow into my gut.
I checked the doors and windows.
Sealed shut.
Jellied legs delivered me to my cobalt velvet chair,
I sipped my tea most somberly, reflecting on my despair.
I finished, then straight-backed rinsed the cup,
head up high, jaw a-jut
then set about with mop and duster
until all of the items regained their lustre.
Gave each a home, it’s proper place,
put away pairs of briefs by the case
and learned to live through windows.
On tiptoes from upstairs
I can see a sliver of ocean.

I’ve chosen to make the best of it.
It’s orderly now. And quiet.
Some people would kill for this solitude.
I stoically abide it.

As for all the teaspoons, I’ve made myself a crown.
I accept I’m lost, for this is where I’m found

The Other Man in the Photograph

I got to the scene and wouldn’t you know,
there were people about, watching the show.
Squinting eyes under clammy palm,
I can just about see it.
A swallow.
A circle clears around me,
tainted by people’s realization of the role I am to play.
Unclean.
A hush.
Mine are the legs of a broken man.
The first step on the sand is a half-trip.
Drill Sergeant Duty barks in my ear:
“Get on with it son!”
While Compassion is left dry-heaving,
haunted eyes on the shore.

When I reached him, he was
half floating
hair fanning, like
hopeful fingers reaching for a
honeyed future.

I squat.
My shoes sink in sympathy and sodden sand.
My hands reach
Uniform baptized
I cradle him.
Skin puffy with salt
my teeth grit as my throat is assaulted
by the sickly coating of stench.
For him, I stand.

Valkyries do not ride for children who drown at sea,
but I carried him with professionalism and dignity.

Later, I went home, kissed my wife,
put my uniform in the wash.
Kissed my kids good night.
I stood under the shower for an hour and a half
scrubbing and soaping, but still got a waft
of wasted life every now and then.
Went to bed and tried to sleep knowing
tomorrow
I’ll do it all over again

Superpowers 101

Definitions of self are elusive at best,
Perceptions formed through actions
or reactions
or inactions
that surprise.
The lies we perceive
others tell to deceive
us are just
versions of verisimilitude unverifiable
by outside sources but
of course, we get all uppity, huffing,
“Just who does he/she think they are,
you can’t pull the wool down quite that far,
I’m not as green as I am cabbage looking!”
Putting ourselves on some pedestal,
as if our version is more credible
because that was our experience, so it must be right.

Descartes said: “I think therefore I am”
Expanding this, I plan
to define my existence through my opinions.
But what of utter indifference?

If we define ourselves through preferences
we have handy little references
to remind us of who we think we are.
Like, a car; a phone; a polyphonic ring tone – ironically.
And maybe, just maybe the Old Ones knew
of the selfie-and cctv-sodden future, too.

The act of watching a thing changes the thing being watched.
That’s a law of physics, that- I didn’t make it up.
But the point is, introspection, narcissism and the rest
of the behaviors oft’encouraged by the media of the West –
Are they changing us?
Thrusting flashes in faces starts
 a chain reaction
on a microbial scale.
Colloquially named
Quantum Manipulation
it has a solemn application
in your everyday details.
But the question we want answered
is “can this power be harnessed
so we might direct our dances
and our version might prevail?”

With glee, it falls to me to be your Miyagi-San.
You can, and will master this.
The power’s in your hands.
All you need to do is believe what you perceive,
but to be aware and selective about your perceptions.
I don’t mean kidding yourself, this has to be done with conviction.

If faith can move mountains, against microbes you’ve surely a lever?
After all, what do you call a God without a believer?
Perceptions of self and the resulting definitions
are malleable at will. This has far reaching repercussions.
For if “Mans’ greatness comes from knowing he is wretched”

surely we can know we are wonderful, instead?


With great joy I brought to mind my philosophy tutor at University. I hope he is wonderfully well. Sadly, we've lost touch. Paul, if you read this, Hey! Xxxx

Perseid Nights

The gift of a science celestial.
It’s the atmosphere’s firework festival.
The night is a warm one, breath-catchingly clear
with the galaxy’s profile an ethereal smear.
Cricked necks and curses at errant headlights
as space detritus burns up in the heights.
But,

beware, beware
adoringly gawping,
star-strickenly fawning
ignoring the floor
and where you’re walking
‘cause you’re outside, right?
And on these humid Summer nights
your every step is beset by

slugs.
These slithy gherkins
lurking; determinedly
mucously marking their paths
Those hobos hopefully hunting
sustenance
by the garden fence
are often tragically reduced
to a smear
less ethereal and more entrails.

When we noticed all our potential victims
of heavy footed murder, we picked, toe-tipping
across the pitch-dark path, therein
turning eyes to earth and star-sights missing.

It occurred to me the verse of learning is hidden in everyday things.

For if we live for the spectacular
we risk that sickening crack you hear
when crushing Sluggy’s cousin
to oblivious oblivion.
Similarly,
if we diligently
avoid this genocidal killing spree
we miss all the good stuff.
With eyes for the earth
and cricked necks and curses at the errant soles’ hurt.

There must be equilibrium.

At the hem of the horizon
the cleaving beam of the valiant beacon,
halfway between there and back again.
This suffocating compromise blinds us
to both wonder and loss.

When faced with this decision
I find I’d rather play
a game of sluggish hopscotch
and watch meteors when I may.

I’ll give you back your even keel,
your solid, dependable lighthouse deal
I’ll reel
with my nadirs and zeniths instead.
For as long as I’m feeling

I know I’m not dead.

Chance Encounter

She came in breathless, restless, shaking
looking for something calming to take in
light of the heartless news he’d broken.
Miles from home and hard words spoken.

A cliché he’d taken, younger of course.
Probably blonde, probably divorced.
He wants to have and eat his cake.
To her, this is the island of heartbreak.

When we saw her she was in shock but soon she will be livid.
The bastard before he’d told her, had already spoken to the kids.

What can you say to a woman’s shell?

except; you have to keep walking when going through hell.

The Company (Part 1)

Once there was a company
that traded magic beans.
It co-opted people’s tragedies,
it monetarised their dreams.

Selling wishes granted,
with side conditions attached.
Agents of The Company
were everywhere dispatched.

Wielding shiny printed pamphlets
and wearing brittle little smiles.
They promised the world for a simple exchange-
just to keep your record on file.

The People were pleased with such offers of service.
The Agents worked ideas to bone.
Then came news their Benevolent Dictator
had given up his throne.

The Troll King, his replacement, quickly set about
installing Goblin minions and rationing magic given out.

To the enormous surprise of no one,
things began falling apart.
Without enough magic
wishes were only fulfilled in fits and starts.

The People began to get angry
and The Agents began to get scared
because when they asked for helpful smiles
they were rewarded with barbed teeth, bared.

Heady Goblin Henchmen
began to run amok
as The Agents fell into a state
of ongoing traumatic shock.

***

There is no happy ending here,
for the story is not yet done.
Be sure to check back in a little while

and find out how they’re all getting on...

Dear World


Look, we need to have a chat.
I’m getting a bit fed up
with dealing with the fall out
of your drama.
And it’s not only that,
my son keeps waking up
crying, calling my name out.

I’m trying to teach him about karma.

You see, he’s noticed (as have I)
that the bad guys keep winning.
Every time I leave the house
without him he cries.
I don’t want to raise a fearful child.
and his awareness is just beginning
but with news of more killings day in, day out
he’s convinced I’m going to die.

Not helped when I say
“Well, one day, I will”
through desire to tell him the truth.
So he says “But not today?”
And I’m swept over ill
tempting fate to give me liar’s proof.

So look, World I’m asking
you to buck your ideas up.
I love to share in positives
and I’m sick of masking
cracked ideals in cover ups.
Show them you get back what you give.

Sincerely,


Georgia. Xxxx

Ugh, People.

“They didn’t get rid of you, then?”
They all said,
eyes glinting.
The gossip-beast slavering to be fed.
“Got rid of me? Hah! For what?”
I’d challenge
as another pen dropped
 from my wizened hinge.
Crippled with the clarity
of this vista of viciousness.
Why do people always want others to fail?
Is it modern gladiatorials
or voyeuristic grotesques?
Or just jealousy,
that most verdant of vices?
Is it easier to share joyful memes virtually
than really share in meaningful joy?
I hope not.
Strange fruit goes to rehab in a heart-shaped box.
These are generational fables,
the martyred and the mocked.
Hype-hounded hysteria
When will we ever learn?
The ones that glow the brightest

are the fastest ones to burn.


I used to feel cosmically connected to Amy Winehouse. Now that the film of her life is coming out, my thoughts have turned to the ghoulish spectacle that was made of her life. I read this article on the Guardian website which states that this phenomena is worse among portrayals of women. I am not certain that it is, but it was definitely food for thought. 
What do you think? Do we hunger to watch people crash and burn?

Avowed Renewal

Trust
rusts
When taken for granted.
We’d started
not to see each other.
Another role to fulfill.
Being responsible against our will.
This irresistible metamorphosis
re-imagined our existence from
blissful arts-based subsistence to
long term goals, earnestness, contentment
projects, rejections, expectations.
You know, it’s hard
to wear ill-fitting skin
just to get protection from the life that you’re in.
We’re both as bad;
I and he, he and me.
From our balls to our chains
we have shared difficulties.
We have our own little ways of getting through these days
that might seem odd
from an outsiders view
but you know, they work for us
and we’re not about pleasing you.
Our fights and compromises
have brought lessons and surprises.
Sleepless nights from anger teach as much as nights of joy
and one without the other is just noodles with no sauce soy.
So polish off those gloves, love.
Ding! Ding! Seconds out!
Let’s find out together what tomorrow’s all about.
I don’t promise to be gracious.
The best I can do is kind.
But if you promise to tell me your truth
I will promise to tell you my mind.

Simon Andrews Memorial Lap

We gathered in our thousands
to rend the sky with roar.
To celebrate the lives and rides
of those who went before.

Armour plated mourning-suits
helmets to protect
our beasts from saline offerings
that fell as a mark of respect.

Deafened by the orgy
of throttle twisted hymns.
Our incense snarled into the sky
absolving them of sins.
Crowds congregated, clapping, waving,
remembering the souls too brave in
their glorious golden days alive
as the prayer wheel throbbed with devotional sighs.

This is the bikers’ pilgrimage.
Thirty seven and half a smidge
miles from Grandstand to Governor’s Bridge.

For them; for us,

we ride.



Picture above totally stolen from https://forum.motorcyclenews.com/topic/74662/unbelievable-turnout-for-the-simon-andrews-memorial-lap-of-the-tt-course-thousands-of-bikes

I took part in the Simon Andrews Memorial lap and had an image of my head of the Mountain Course becoming a prayer wheel, with the exhaust fumes being the burnt offerings. It was a hugely emotional experience. The Island is always exciting at TT, but this felt reverential. 
I would urge anyone with even a slight interest in bikes or road racing to visit, take part and thoroughly enjoy the TT. It's an experience. 
Xxxx

Home and Hospital for the Incurables

Gothic institution, high on island hill.
Oceans of ink. A sky entirely of quill.
The Warden’s keys jangle alarmingly in the lock.
She punches in, signalling day’s beginning on the clock.

One by one along the stacks
the strip lights buzz and yawn.
Their dust dilated haloes are vesperturnally forlorn.
Muffled footsteps on threadbare shuffle
and distantly a hushed kerfuffle
whispers through still air.

The Warden sighs and rolls her eyes
at the metronomic morning mantra
as the echoed mouthfuls materialize:
“You can’t make me get up if I don’t wanna!”

This is Gulchik. Every day
she wishes that the night would stay.
She likes to moonbathe. It helps to soothe
her erratic solar-stifled moods.
The Warden pays her little mind
but checks the email, flips the sign
on office door from “out” to “in”.
Another day at work, for her sins.

A shadow flicks across the door
trailing a wake of intense intention.
Lamps flick on. Decisions are made.
Coffee brews.
Its olfactory serenade draws others to the room.
They are gathered in a foyer of a library of sorts.
A refectory of writings and of reactionary last resorts.

The people here aren’t free to leave
but purgatorially persist.
Endlessly refining their flaws
as three dimensional as a Moebius Strip.

The self-appointed Head Librarian is a very jovial chap.
He wears a suit of sepia wool and a shiny brass-badged cap.
Perpetual cup of half-drunk tea
in hand. You’ll find him at his desk.
Any scrap of thing you want to know
he’ll give upon request.
He has it all neatly filed away,
it’s hidden in the stacks.
Taped up dusty cardboard boxes
labeled “Synonyms”, “Sources”, “Syntax”.
BUT.

He really

loves

charades.

The Simpleton Sphinx has found a way
to turn easy admin into frustrating play.
He will answer all you care to ask
in cryptic clues an interpretive dance.

Gulchik tries to help the situation along
offering answers so painfully, blatantly wrong
that Warden orders her to read
and get the education so clearly needs.

As she strops away we catch a glint
deep in the murk. If you squint
you might just see a figure slim,
locally known as Tin-Foil-Tim.
This is a name the others gave to him.
He will not reveal his own for fear
of hidden cameras, tracking devices conspi-
racies and the mere
acknowledgement of his presence
scrambles him like a startled pheasant.

Thompson or Thompson,
(It’s not clear which)
twinkles his eyes
and gives his moustache a twitch.
“Only 3% of pheasants live to be age 3”.
The bowler-hatted figure grins charmingly, broadly.
His lapel-pin draws the gaze
in pompous-fonted letters the phrase
‘Keeper of Ephemeral Wisdom’ is engraved.

Bouncing his cane he turns with flair.
And all returns to the still, silent air.

A distant light fades into view.
A pale coral comforting hue.
The kitchen with its Aga and its well worn table top
is host to existential debates that never really stop.
The sisters here go on and on about the nature of truth.
One’s called Anna-Nostalgia and the other is Memory-Ruth.
Steaming tea-pot, pink wafers biscuits, cross-stitch and knitting.
The only thing they agree on is which chair the other should sit in.

This little room is haunted by the wraith of poor Miana.
She hisses now from shadowed corners.
She was drowned in raucous laughter.

While this cosy little picture may well warm your oysters
there are secrets to be discovered in the dark beyond the cloisters.

This monochrome stone is Daemenzia’s domain.
Her most terrifying weapon her glaring disdain.
All angles and German modernist lighting
she is used as a guard specifically to frighten
others to stay out and one to stay in
the padded devotional cell that she’s in.

Through the door-grill she may be glimpsed.
The disheveled, wide-eyed Mistress of Mince.
Hunched over paper, desperately scratching.
Her dress is so well worn its mostly just patching.
Bare foot and grubby she tremors with breath
for if she ever stops writing it would be sudden death.

The Warden sees the Mistress but they rarely interact.
How can a rock hope to understand the notion of the abstract?
For Warden knows what others don’t, by virtue of being the carer.
The Mistress’s powers are transcendental. What Warden discovered had scared her.

All the books in the library were hand written not typed
in identical scrawly pea-green swirls on identical pages striped.
New volumes are forthcoming at an ever steady rate
but the oldest book in the library is sealed inside a safe.
For it describes in detail the ink washed island hill
and how the Mistress had created it through the force of pen and will.
The sudden death she fears isn’t her earthly own
but everyone that’s placed in the Hospital and Home.
For although they cannot leave and are prisoners of her construct
she has grown accustomed to their distracting disorderly conduct.

And so she goes on writing
above ink sea on island hill.

In a gothic institution

where the sky is made of quill.

Rant

Fear
steers
our ideals.
I like to pretend
my intentions
are guided by pride
in my liberty
but honestly,
it’s obvious
that them and us
mentality
has still in some way
stuck to me.
Headlines. Lies. Wage discrepancies.
Turmoil. Spilled oil. Unwanted pregnancies.
Terror. Hate. Islamic State.
Ukraine. Fascist Spain. Corrective rape.

We are all in the throes of compassion fatigue.

Our syndrome’s symptoms are nationally glaring;
nonchalance not-so-much as simply not caring.
Heads in phones, wearing headphones.
Drown the sound of the world.
Limit your vision to screens
that only show scenes
 you enjoy.

But ignoring a problem doesn’t make it go away.

Borders are force fields that only bureaucrats and Ultra-Nats believe in.
Between here and there
the air is barely blown,
just breathed across the seas
and when it reaches from them to me
it still carries discordant disharmony,
tasting of wasted life,
of sighs and suffering.
 It howls in the night.
Insomniacal  I howl back
attacking the geminid specters of
Worry
and
Guilt
with mindfulness.

Breathe in.  Breathe out.

Leery beasts grow bored of fangs
and inconclusive forms.
As aurora creeps forward
reluctantly they resolve to return
appropriately costumed.
Donning masks of questions asked uncomfortably.
Of bills and will,
sobriety, propriety,
duty, judgments…
I thought once I was free of these.
It turned out I had nurtured alternative anxieties.

If 2014 was the year of mock outrage,
is 2015 the year of sincere apathy?

Disempowered, disenfranchised. disinterested and diseased.
This stiff upper lip is slippery with sweat
and yet, and yet…
we plough on.
Heads bowed.
Backs bent.
Begging bowls deflecting heat.

Al l the better to beat you with, my dear.

From this disadvantage point we focus
on dropped litter
unscooped poop
and the life-changing necessity
of gadgets built with slavery.
When did we lose sight of reality?
We’re the quiet kid in class.
We gave them our lunch money when they asked.
Right now we’re being left alone but we know they’ll be back.
Attacks on disability, on obesity,
on smokers, on pensioners…
all in the pipeline.
And in time
even you.

Spurious statistics trick citizens into soul sickness.
Scared of what strangers might say
they toe the line.
Seeking only to be allowed to survive.
Never even dreaming of the freedom to live.

Times are hard for dreamers.

But is this really the time to be dreaming?

Massacres masquerade as aid resulting in mass graves and raids
and despite all this we still maintain
that we’ve done nothing wrong.
As long as we ignore Mrs Doasyouwouldbedoneby
We are living and
they are dying
by the bad mistakes we are making.
Simple moral codes forsaken.
Deserted water babies we are,
gasping, gulping in the arid air.
Mrs Bedonebyasyoudid
blows the lid on thoughtless theories.

Preposterous postulations applied to human populations,
pushing politics, suffocating nations.
Freedman economics makes
slaves of man to profits.
It galls me to know that both bullets and blossoms
are patented
with pocket linings in mind.
We click, click, click on little links,
as if it makes a difference.
We: raise awareness.
They: raze cities to the ground
in our name.
As a life-long, tie-dyed, self-sufficient Dove
I’ve always had faith in the power of peace and love
but I’m beginning to see the
necessity of action.

Funding and fueling feuding factions
is certainly not a diplomatic tactic learned at charm school.
Such cruelty only stokes the hate,
chokes the hope,
halts the growth
and seals the fate
of recipients of its offensive.

And it is offensive
to tell you that out of 287 plane crash victims,
8 were British.
As if that’s the only reason it’s a tragedy.
Assume the air of supremacy.
Motherland knows best.
These modern-day quests
to slay behemoths of our own creation
are an exercise in the power of misinformation.
Cnut now I stand ,thigh-deep in blood
and rage at the rising tide.
Sweetness swept away in the flood.
Read the bones that remain.

We are all in the throes of compassion fatigue.
Ignoring a problem doesn’t make it go away.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Resolve to return
empowered, enfranchised, interested and enraged.
The life-changing necessity of
attacks on spurious statistics
seek the freedom to live.
The choices are simple moral codes.
Make a difference.
Stoke the hope.
It’s a tragedy to assume the air of supremacy.

This world is our creation.



This (long!) poem was inspired by conversations with a few dear friends. We all feel something in the air at the moment. It feels like change. We hope we're right. 

International Women's Day 2015

Yesterday was International Women's Day.

To mark this occasion I was invited up to Manx Radio to take part in a live challenge as part of a Women Today special program.  This year's theme for Women's Day is "Make it Happen" and the challenge was to Make something Happen in the two hours we were on the air.

The challenge was to write a poem.  In two hours.  With specific items. And then, half way through the challenge, extra words were added to be included.

(I don't know if any of you guys knows Triple J in Australia and the Song in an Hour challenge with the group Tripod, but it was a bit like that. Those guys are absolutely hilarious. If you don't know them you should check them out.)

The items:
The Venus symbol.
A ring.

The words to be included:
Yesterday, today, tomorrow.

I had a whale of a time and can't wait for the next challenge. Pressure calls the muse wonderfully well. The resulting poem is below. Huge thank yous to everyone on the Women Today team, but especially Kate Holland for being a star. Xxxx


For International Women’s Day
I’m sitting here on Women Today.
Challenge set and yet I find
confusion in these female signs.
Venus: lollipop with cross
since renaissance thaw of cultural frost
has meant the 51%
in shorthand for illiteracy’s argument.
Distaff, mirror, domesticity,
spinning the fabric of life through history.
The Norse Gods though, gave Freya this power;
Spinning the clouds while from raindrops men cowered.
The archetypal figures of fate-
Lachesis, Clotho, Atropos make
us realise the strength held within
the masterminding of the tangled skein.
And if life’s a tapestry as sang Carole King
What now do we think of the gilded ring?
The fourth finger on the sinister hand
Has a vein to the heart, or so folk understand
In times gone by... (Look, I know, I tried.
My tenses are out, but time’s not on my side.)
Miniature yokes of marital oppression
Or religious symbol of soul felt confession
Or one to bring them, and in the darkness bind them
Or heirlooms passed down with memories inside them.
What change do they make, these circles of fidelity?
Do you wake up one morning and believe in eternity?
And if you do, don’t you think you should start
on the immediate world making your mark?
We’re talking today about Making It Happen
in reality, not just in worlds we’ve imagined.
The movement was started in 1909
by New York socialists supporting a strike
of the Union of Ladies’ Garment Workers.
Great shouts will grow from grass root murmurs.
The advancements we've made in society over all
in a century of campaigns, of fighting, of appall -
- ing misdeeds and practices we’re trying to assign
to yesterdays. To the unenlightened times.
To change the world there’s a secret trick
that I learned while working on a cross-stitch.
It’s that tiny actions eventually make
tomorrow’s reality yours to take.
Even one step is one step closer.
Take your time, keep the faith, retain your composure.
You won’t believe when they all combine
how far you can go, one step at a time.
Identifying lacks is all very well
but unless you do something, don’t bother to tell
me you’re bored, you’re unhappy, there’s nothing to do.
This is opportunity.  It’s up to you
to fill in that gap; to give your life meaning;
to refuse to do anything you find demeaning.
The theme for this year is most motivational.
Look out for figures unassuming and inspirational.
How much did your mother give up for you?
And those people doing what you want to do
have just accepted the greater timeline.
They don’t give up in the face of bad signs.
So Women Today celebrate femininity.
Embrace your power.  Salute your divinity.
Do that thing you've always wanted to do.
Make no excuses, just steps to the new.

Women Today on Manx Radio.

Today I had a great time on the Manx Radio program Women Today, talking about all things poetry, the Oscars and performing some of my poems. You can listen to a recording of the full show here:

Yes! I want to listen to awesome women! 


Many thanks to the whole team. As for writing a poem about my experience... well, you'll just have to wait and see.

Xxxx

Valentine

On this,
the day of martyred lovers
I recall a misunderstood comment.
“One day I’ll see you live”
it said.
Of course it meant live, as in music.
But the former struck a chord in me.
To live in place of existing
To BE and not to be.
There isn’t a question
that this is what we will
for those we love unconditionally.
Imagination is distilled experience.
Expression of essential natures
exhibits intimacy intensely.
Earnestness earned less rudely,
more conscientiously chosen.
The resulting constraints are the price of those decisions.
But to you I still wish the freedom
to truthfully tell how you feel
instead of fearfully throwing up shields.

One day I’ll see you live.

He Shoots People

A little while ago I wrote a poem called 31 after a day taking modelling for internationally celebrated photographer, Phil Kneen.
The photos resulting from that day are now up.
Find them here

Here's one I particularly love:


Hypocrisy

Hypocrisy,
I’m sad to say, seems to be
everywhere.
This unfair, self-sided
not sharing sentiment.
It’s meant I've bent my principles
away from empathy.
And yet, for me the beast
of these
self-imposed, self-broken laws
is the source of bitter courses
of reaction.
I act on what this serves to teach
me about my own breach
of codes.
I suppose I could deny any involvement
but self-absolvement is the last of my concerns.
Discerning behaviors distasteful that I once displayed
dismays me more than I can say
because if I recognize
that sly behavior it implies I see myself
reflected there.
and where is my authority
to deny life’s great variety
or experience gained through tragedy?
In hypocrisy.
Just there
perched,
cursing at its shadow, scowling
hissing at its own misdeeds;
impeding growth
of seeds of both
maturity and change.
It’s strange to compare the grey haired and blue haired versions of my conscience.
Did once I consider this all to be fine?
“What’s mine is mine and what’s yours is mine”
-          where flaws are found, resoundingly.
I’m not sure about my ability
to learn through humility
I’m much more likely to learn through humiliation.
And if the situation is just
history repeating with perspective skewed
I refuse to lose this chance to prove
I’ve changed.
And all the same,
this reframing of my shame
avoids placing blame
and leads me back where?
To hypocrisy.
unfairly
on this horse, high,
sighing self-satisfied smugness
while judging others
bloodlessly
from a position of
faux wisdom.
As though instances of insecurity
and immorality are things that
don’t happen to me.
As if I’m beyond that.
As if I’m not distracted by
fantastical thoughts and dreams
of grass being seemingly greener.
So between condemning
contemplation and the conduct
of freshly experienced rule breakers
remember to be kind.
You’ll find yourself at one point or another
struggling to discover
some earnest self truths.
And the proof?
Your own hypocrisy.

You’ll see it there.

The Lunatic Will Always Look Like A Lunatic

I’m a loud speaker, baby.
The fun-house mirror of the world.
I amplify the signals.
I throw back at you your words.
I’m a great big natural sea sponge,
absorbing your projections.
I long to be impermeable, unreflective
to have protection
from all the barbs and badness
that others throw at me.
Instead I let them in,
magnify them, then I see
the way I’ve been affected
and what I’m giving out
isn’t really what I think at all
so what’s that all about?
Thoughts not mine come flowing forth
frothing with their falsehoods
while reason screams “you’re making scenes
from others’ opinions and bullshit!”
True people make me truly myself,
I noticed years ago
when first I learned what it meant
to honestly let go.
The worst of these adopted themes
is others’ jealousy.
I don’t know how to deal with it
it doesn’t come naturally.
Instead it makes me crazy,
thinking in ever smaller circles,
doubting those I love
eroding my hard-won self-worth.
It must be fucking awful
to have to always feel like that.
I’m glad these thoughts are not mine;
I’ve just absorbed them from that twat.
The one who fawns all over him
and then treats me like shit.
To see her act like a Mean Girl bitch
is frankly, a bit pathetic.
I’m his wife and he’s my husband
and we believe in marriage.
Perhaps you should focus on your boyfriend;
your own relationship needs to be salvaged.
You’ve no respect for us, it’s clear
and your self respect needs attention.
And as you really aren’t worth my time

This is the last time you’ll get a mention.

Magpie

All week long I saw them.
Those portents gleaming, squawking,
hopping, cocked head, taunting,
“Sorrow! Sorrow!”; giving warning.

Well dressed spectres perching trite
on ghoulish glamour of foresight
from watchful beads. Their message might
be overlooked, taken light

-ly. I mistook their solo missions
as personally guided acts of attrition
and didn’t realize what they were bringing
was the precious gift of premonition.

Now I replay my memories and lessons impart
-ed by you, my husband’s family’s matriarch.
Luminous lady now journeying in to dark
with no map or signs. No official chart.

Are those monochromatic couriers guiding
the Valkyries with whom you’re riding?
Battles corporeal you fought inspiring
-ly with bravery unretiring.

If the piebald post can pass their notes from Future into Past
Can missives slip between the cracks of the Living and the Passed?
And if only one can get through to you
out of the endless many
let it be this truth you’ve heard a million times:

“Ciao, Tesoro. Ti voglio bene”.


In memoriam of Luciana Pavia. 4th October 1940 - 20th January 2015

Island of Culture Film

A couple of months ago I was interviewed by Christy DeHaven and Dave Armstrong for a film they were creating celebrating Island of Culture. Here is that film. Please take the time to look up some of the other people featured. You'll find some new favourites, I'm sure.

http://vimeo.com/116070096


Only Words (The Alphabet of Racism)

Apparent Brainwashing Conquers Defenses Eventually Forcing Ghoulish Haters Influence Jarringly. Kakistocracy, Letting Meaningless Names (ONLY WORDS) Pierce. Quick Result; Scarred Terribly. Violent Words Extol Yobs Zilch.

A is for Abbo.
B is for Black.
C is for Chink.
D is for Didikoi.
E is for Eskimo.
F is for Foreigner.
G is for Gringo.
H is for Honky.
I is for Indian.
J is for Jungle Bunny.
K is for Kike.
L is for Limey.
M is for Mong.
N is for Nigger.
O is for [ONLY WORDS]
P is for Paki.
Q is for Quashy.
R is for Raghead.
S is for Spick.
T is for Taffy.
U is for Untouchable.
V is for Vulgar.
W is for Wog.
X is for Xenophobe.
Y is for Yid.
Z is for Zingare.

After Brutally Collecting Deemed Epithets, Flinging Grenades Handed Intergenerationally, Judgments Kept Mean Not [ONLY WORDS]. Plainly, Quiescent Revolution Solves Troubles. Unclaim Vicious Words. Express Your Zen.

Indesiderata

You looked at me and the love in your eyes faded
And I realized it was this I was most afraid of.
The swapping of fluids is only an act,
A bodily function, a pastime in fact but,
Seeing you look at someone else like that –
This is what heartbreak is made of.

You looked at me and the love in your eyes faded.
It was a look until then I hadn’t noticed was missing.
I saw it the day our son was born,
Before we were married each and every morning
But yesterday I would blindly have sworn
That sparkle was there, betraying your feelings, glistening.

You looked at me and the love in your eyes faded
As if someone had put a night-cover over the sun.
At that moment I felt myself partly disintegrate
Pulverized by a blow indelicately dealt
It jarred and its impact still reverberates
Was it too late to go back to where we had begun?

You looked at me and the love in your eyes faded
As if it were I extinguishing your flame.
I would never have thought
A glance could import such
Weight of a lesson well taught
But this is the time to rebuild and not place blame.

You looked at me and the love in your eyes faded.
And I saw it had been for experience traded
The trust between us had degraded
By poverty broken, jealousy jaded
Both hard headed, couldn’t be persuaded
That through the worst we had already waded.
We spoke and we realized we’d already made it.

We looked at each other and the rest of the world

Evaporated.




2014 was a tough year. Not just for me, but for everyone around me. This year I learned the importance of good communication. 
Ironically, that's all I want to say about that.