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.

Bis Illustrated

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 made 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 and 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.