Showing posts with label Georgia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Georgia. Show all posts

Winter Solstice

History's hurts burst gracelessly and blur
the polished edges of responses
sponsored by maturity.
Blurting half-burped mutterings of
defensive small-talk offerings
in place of confident honesty.
The maw of malicious memories yawns
and looses vapours venomous,
vines around voice until it leaves a croak.
Crone-dry and bladder-wracked,
hoarse retorts crack
thoughtless reports across the
hectares of unspoken battles fought.

Token offerings to false idols prove the dedication to deceit.
Conceit conceals tears long since congealed
into crevasses carved by rictus grin.
Spinning stories cobweb thin
from which a larder fully stocked with
melancholy memories of mockeries suspends,
an endless supply of abuse.

Cogitations crank and the wheel, it turns.
Burn the lights on the longest night,
for tonight we learn and sacrifice
a sorrow
in exchange for wisdom.
Flames devour, smoke billows,
sour tongue converted to
icing sugar ash,
cinnamon cynicism
and not-in-my-name nutmeg.

Feast upon your fears and you will never feel them again.


Yule Be Back

A portal opened in my lounge
sometime in mid-November.
A velvet wrinkle overlapped and
time’s quilt was oddly angled.
Up went the tree!
Up went the lights!
The glorious windows
dressed in party clothes.
Stair rods and banisters
festoons and fragrances
that speak of feasts and warming spices.
Inviting glows and cosy stories
by torchlight.

Outside
conker battles finalise into
en of season skirmishes.
Guys succumbed to elemental distress
and the stench of rotting pumpkin corpses
rang from the town in
jubilant and guttural rowdy shouts
as cold breath caught in
over confident throats.

As a penalty for this
badly ironed chronological coverlet
a fine was set
and the time was taken back.

With bated breath in stasis
the presents waited.
The house waited.

In the missing time a place was found for everything
and having no time to dally in,
everything went to its place.
Reset for rambunctious rabble’s return.
For music and pictures and stories and tea.
For dinosaurs and Harryhausen, Nick Cave and walks by the sea.

Longing for the normal passage of time.
Smooth, wrinkle.


The house waits.

Camping

In this canvas-shanty-holiday town,
you'll hear strange sounds when the sun goes down
and played out families are tucked up tight
in polyester slug-suits in the still of the night.

At half past three
you need to pee
in insomnia regretting that last coffee.
Your tent mate is oblivious;
they've been snoring for two hours
while you slithered up and down the slope
with great rustling sounds.

The decision made, you try to rise
and sit up with a plan.
But your elbow's caught inside your zip
and it pulls you down again.

The zip is caught! You can't get out!

Your bladder twitches a threat.
You cursing, muttering free your legs
which immediately don goose flesh.
Pull on shoes, wrong foot, wrong way
laces tied as long as they'll stay
and with screwed up face and finger tip
try to open the front door zip.
The slower you go, the louder it is.
You think “Fuck it!” and try to go quick;
The zip is caught! You can't get out!
The whole tent gives a wobble
and you burst into the porch of sorts
in a breathless, blundering bundle.

Picking past the other homes
newly acute awareness
of whispered squabbles, saucy moans
and farts confidently careless.
As eyes adjust you realise the toilets are worryingly distant
and like Lara Croft with lasers you must cross the guy rope alarm system.
You wheel and tiptoe, duck and hop
knowing you'll pee yourself if you stop.
Nearly there but then your heel catches and pulls out a peg.
You freeze and hear blamey whispers coming from inside that tent.

“That' the fifth time! I said not to camp here!”
“Fine, you can come on your own next year!”

Run away! Preserve yourself and reach the portaloos.
They'll be equally grubby, no matter which one you choose
and finding one with toilet paper's a great thing to behold.
You lock the door and sit but the toilet seat is cold.

The relief is blessed beautiful. You dress again with leisure.
And water free hand cleaner is a modern camping pleasure.
Confident, collected now you begin the return trip
and trip's the operative word as over the same peg you slip.

Twang! With owl wide eyes you scurry,
ducking, wheeling, tiptoeing in hurry.
The saucy moans you heard before
have progressed to throaty groans of “more”
and their unfortunate head torch shadow display
is giving delight to some, but others dismay.
You pass by and observe all this
but after five minutes, something's amiss.
Where did we put the tent again?
I'm sure it was here. I remember when
we pitched up. That seagull flag,
the leilandii trees, that plastic bag.
Oh look. It's starting to rain.
Didn't bring a coat of course, the noise it would have made
would have been a rustle too far.
Oh God, looks like I've walked right past
it. It's all the way back there.
Stumble, trip, grab the zip.
Slippy fingered wrestle with it.

The zip is caught! You can't get in!
Over in the next tent a stirring begins.
You've woken their kids and they've started to fight
An angry bellow rings out through the night
followed by a man's voice, shrilly;
“I've told you before not not stand on my willy!”

Back in your bag, the rain sounds heavier
but only liquid sunshine falls on the British Riviera.
And fresh air sleep is fuller
you wake feeling so refreshed
and sleeping under canvas for sciatica is best.

So when the sun comes up we'll cook sausages and bacon
And smile like we heard nothing of the other campsite's patrons.


Are You Sitting Comfortably?

If you like the theatre,
or going to live shows
there's a whole cast of characters
who to you are quite well known.

I'm not sure if they're real
or some sort of rent-a-crowd
but where ever there's a view to obscure
you'll find them gathered round.

It doesn't matter if you book seats
or turn up hours previous
to guarantee your front row view.
They're cunning and they're devious.

First up in this parade of pains
is the Giant Head-Geared Horror.
Whether hat or hair it doesn't matter;
its mass is a thing of wonder.

You crane to the left,
you strain to the right
attempt to secure
uninterrupted sight
of all the stagely treads afoot.
You finally find the best place to look
and now the 3 rows behind you's view's hidden.
As you hear them all shift you're a bit guilt ridden.

What you don't realise in your angsty little quest
is that now you've taken the entire armrest.
“That ignorant bloody space invader”
is how you'll be remembered.
But this about-to-be-a-bad neighbour
is of an individual standard.

He's invading space on the other side!
He got quite claustro when he tried
to avoid to being touched or crowded or crushed.
Now it's becoming apparent he's the Great Unwashed.
The stench started as just a whiff
the woman on the end wasn't sure so she sniffed.
It made her eyes sting and her nose hairs burn.
She gagged and the woman in front of her turned
and over glasses chastised a “hush!
You're ruining it for the rest of us!”

Gagging woman sees her chance
and joins the crowd at the front to dance.
And just as she's found a great view of the feature
enter the Four Legged Staggering Crab-Like Creature.
United at the shoulder, mutually supportive
but with feet and legs at war with each other,
attempts to walk are abortive.
Everyone they stumble into spills their drinks in shock
but from their own never-empty glasses they don't waste a single drop.

Another multi-organismed beast
makes incremental attacks and never retreats.
It's starts in on your peripherals,
usually embodied by a group of girls
who over time push their way into the space
that previously was taken by your arms, or your face.
They never tie their hair up
and it all goes in your mouth
when you try to light your cigarette,
then try to put it out.
Their bloody hair's on fire!
They use so much spray and mousse.
You put up with it for so long but in the end it's just no use.
You sidle to the sidelines and go for a quick wee.
At one point one of those girls ended up sitting on your knee!

Upon returning to the scrum,
sweaty, dancing, joyful.
Your space has been taken by a man
wearing a coat half-duvet, half-hairball.
A firm-fan-favourite song begins
the surge forth irresistible
and you fall forward into him.
As least when you land it's comfortable.
His po-faced wife or girlfriend is leaning over the railings
looking bored and slightly offended by these audio assailants.
I don't know why she came along,
it's not like it was free.
I think her space would be better taken by
a fan. You know, like me.
Upon closer inspection, you recognise these two.
They're the one's that annoyed you earlier
by pushing in the queue.
It wasn't fair, it wasn't cricket
But you 'd never say anything,
you're far too British.
And besides, you've been waiting a third of your life
for this very gig, for this show tonight.
So you put up and shut up,
choose the obstruction least offensive
and if you can learn to live with it
be an audience attentive.

So if by some lucky twist of fate your eye line's unimpeded,
you're comfortable and the toilet queue's non-existent when you need it,
check you aren't just pushing in or obscuring others' view.

Because you might be unaware that the annoying bastard's you. 

Anti-Shanty

We all sing the songs of souls lost at sea
and preserve in musical amber memories.
But what of the land-bound in fishermen’s towns,
Now the fish are all dead and the industry’s down?

These boatmen more solid on liquid than land
on coal-littered beach front at sunset they stand.
Watch while their mistress is tossing her waves.
Greying and gloomy. She resents what she gave.

Now she casts off the covenant and keeps all the catch
and the sails in the harbour are folded or slack.
Lobster pots line up, empty in the sun,
while their salted-faced owner silently burn.

For it’s pints they are downing
to tribute the drowning
of another in whiskey not sea.
For they know where they’re going,
it’s their own path he’s showing
a way out of their own misery.

The swallows that flit through the cherry blossom trees
know the sea demands her tithe ev’ry fifteen years.
She lowers the pressure and hitches her skirt.
Swishing them wildly unbuttons her shirt,
booming with laughter she rolls on the shore
and demands that more businesses pay her, and more.

Her revenge for her rape is undeniable and savage
for hell hath no fury like an ecosystem ravaged

The touch of the hull on her skin is well met
but behind these caresses is an anchor of debt.
She gives life and takes life; some later, some soon
changeable as wind direction, reliable as moon.

People flocked to pay homage in sunny days gone by
but they’ve mostly stopped coming since the monkeys learned to fly
and now the town relies on hand outs and the landing stage is closed
and they’ve paved over history with a red brick road.

The people left land locked pay their dues in installments
of barometric infirmity and camphor-based liniment.
Crippled by ozone and scattered by squall.
They yearn when they hear the Wind Maidens call.

It’s a lifetime of hardship and internal fights
when the wind’s from the West and the bells ring at night.
But the Goddess takes all, every bit in the end.
Either swallows with love, or starves and contends.

And if
you ask if in this contract they willingly took part
They’d say

They’d give it all again. Body, soul and heart.

Lyrical Living

So I’ve been to all these gigs
and listened to the bands
and heard how nobody understands
the loss they feel,
the heartbreak, the pain.
It’s the same old story Sam,
sing it again.

I’ve heard all the fills, like
“Oh, baby, yeah”
Did you run out of words to fill that space there?
Am I getting old?
Or just getting pickier?
Or perhaps, with experience, cynical and bitterer?
It’s just that all this monotonous crap
as about as profound as clickbait video soundtrack.
Calculatedly sentimental,
as irrelevant as Blockbuster video rental
to the age we are living in and the way I experience
emotional ambush and unspoken inference.
Blandy McBlanderson.
Selected generic
when we lives in such interesting times.
LED screens on with lightshows mesmeric
to distract from the mundane straight rhyme.

That’s not to say I don’t love it.
Dancing is pure bliss.
Eyes-closed-bass-pounding-through-my-chest-my-arms-a-twist.
Exchange of energies intense,
connection of rhythm and chord and cadence.
Dance for sorrow.
Dance for rage.
Dance for anxiety.
Dance for tomorrow
belongs to those that can see it coming.
Dance because knowing what’s going to happen isn’t always a blessing.
Dance when you feel powerless. In
some small way you’ll feel better.
And whether you know it or not
the shot of joy I feel,
knees buckling after a night on the tiles
is the same depth of smile
I get
from poetry.
And so, although I seem
ungrateful
I’m really not.
I’ve had a summer of music never to be forgot.
And from my depths, thank you
for you’ve all heartily moved me.
It’s just that if I’m honest


I’d rather be at poetry.

                                                                                                                    

This was one of my entries for the Manx Lit Fest Poetry Slam this year. One young man mistook my friend for me. He asked her at the interval what her problem with modern music was. To him, I say two things: 1) Wrong tall dark-haired girl. and 2) You've totally missed the point of the poem. 
Much love. X

Devon to Stafford

Brace for re-entry.

We are on the journey back
from days of beautiful denomination.
Microcosm Utopian of idealistic civilization.

On this Monday there’s a lack
of colour and common consciousness.
A frustrating thrust of others’
sense of self in faces
gladly grubby,
creased, greased, glittered, refitted
with natural smiles.

Hold on to that happiness a while.

Block out the brash blast tablets
of the crass consumer classes.
Transport yourself with memories of
Redwood morning walks.

Swaddle cloaks invisible
protective and permissible
with expectations reasonable

and feet at one with earth.

Where's the Justice?

The debutante floats down the stairs,
gloriously made up dead-eyed stare.
Hand rests light on banister.
can’t grip too tight for tendon’s tear.

Fabric flows over fragile frame.
Shawl on shoulders hunched with shame.
muscles mangled, marked and maimed.
Blindly believing she’s to blame.

These daughters of a generation
grew to dream of degradation
and aren’t presented to society as they ought
but instead face their attackers in days in court.
Boys who play at being tough.
Punch-bag girlfriends painted as sluts
by advocates paid by tax payers’ pounds
to let violent criminals walk around.

“Service the community,
pay your fine and you’ll be free.
Legal aid with pay my fee.
You can put your faith in me”.

How dare they show their face in the street?
Hold it high and smile and meet
supposed friends who go and treat
as heroes boys who girlfriend beat.

200 hours, some cash, no bars,
while they walk about bearing your scars,
sometimes bear your babies too
‘cause they can’t afford the boat fare to Liverpool.
Meanwhile back in those same courts
other battles are being fought.

15 years for importation
of a herbal medication.
Sole carer of his wife, for saving
his son from men who wanted to erase him.

This justice is a fallacy.
It’s all misjudgements I can see.
Don’t say they need help mentally
when she needs reconstructive surgery.

These boys who never do hard time
perpetuate their life of crime
and become the kingpin slime
of empires rotting communities spine

who drag us all down to slum-like homes.
Curfews, flood-lights, no-go-zones.
Locked in for safety. Don’t go out at night.
Don’t walk down dark alleys. Don’t wear clothes too tight.

Don’t’ stick your head up, don’t have any pride.
Let these happenings go on island-wide.
Say nothing and just keep it inside.
Brush under the carpet that she nearly died.

The law is an ass, not a donkey, an ass
and since I wrote this more miscarriages will have passed
and the new Chief Minister will be raising a glass
and we’d better see things changing.

Fast.

Vacationcy

Suitcase castors skitter-clattering
fights the
cloudburst pitter-pattering
battering
homeward jetlagged smattering
of tourists in the dark.

Taxi tyres swishing
hitting
pedestrians with mists
of filth that were
puddles
moments before.

The roar and whistle
of the storm’s winds bristle
hairs on necks
suntanned
and long haul sore.

Cash for taxis crushed in numb hands;
plans of walks on sunset shores
are splattered monumentally
with clarity of fact.
You’re back

from your holi-bobs, your jollies,
back to bills and job and worries.
Scurry soggily, fog clogs
your vision and windscreen.
Familiar roads pass under you unseen
as fatigue erodes last run of sinew keen.

Tinnitus eardrums
numbed
to thrum of engine’s
 singing
lullabies
as hedges echoes follow behind.
The drive has never been longer.
wringing wrench of
muscles hunger
to feel some
relief
from cramps.
Angry clamp
stamping angles
into ankles.

Damp hats doffed,
clothing off
and duvet down.

As sounds recede, your thoughts
of pastures greener, all sorts
of golden reveries consort
themselves freely.

Home.

And comfort.

                                                                                                                                         

I had the honour and delight of running a workshop on the Writer's Day of Manx LitFest 2016. This is an event in which budding authors attend workshops, Q&A sessions and panel discussions with authors, publishers and agents. They also have the chance to pitch their idea to a publisher. 
The workshop I was running was all about the use of sound as more than the obvious. It's all a bit complicated to explain here, but is based on the Kiki/Booba experiment and resulting inspiration. It leads to very meta-rhyme and form. 

The point of it is to recognise that sound is almost as evocative as smell. That the sound of words affects you more than their actual meaning. The poem above was inspired by sound and written using the principles of the workshop. 

This style of writing is why there are so many tongue-twisters in my poems. 
Xx

Stardom

Stella lived her life in a most dramatic vein.
One crisis was replaced by another
each with limited arc and time-frame.
Each morning montage defined the day;
a theme song sung in the shower.
Costumes thrown on any old way
had miraculously stylish power.
Her morning walk to work was seasoned with cheerful greetings -
miniature talk well rehearsed,
ceremonial coffees and sweet things.
All was an adventure.
Stella occupied the Right Place at the Right Time.

But that time became a trial
and Stella's smile
began to slip.
She was tired.
One night she took the option
of having an
Early Night.
She just... went to bed.
Head under covers.
Smothered.
Swaddled.
She modelled
her behaviour on a bear she'd once seen on a documentary
and slept for months.

Once sated,
on waking
she walked naked to bathe.
Eyes closed
in steaming flow
she cleared her throat to sing and
----------------------
nothing.
In the absence of theme
she brushed her teeth
and roughly dried her skin.
Throwing on any old clothes, towelling off her hair.
You couldn't call it an outfit
and even "bird's nest" wasn't fair.
Leaving for work, a memory lapse.
Her keys stayed in their bowl.
As the door clicked shut behind her,
she shivered in the cold.
No smiles wore the merchants
as she purchased her refreshments.
Perfunctory politeness,
instant coffee, cold toast
and lack of breath-mints.

Ahead of her, along the street
she noticed a commotion
of cameramen and camouflage
and folk of filming notions.
As they scurried to their points of view
a figure strolled with confident shoes,
a figure well known to Stella.
She knew that hair cut, she knew that sway
of the hips, she knew the way
the chin was lifted in a smile, she knew
the length of those legs,
the shape of the head, she knew
her.

It was... her.

Did she have a twin?
Stranger things
have occurred.
Stella turned and saw this doppelganger
greet Joanna.
A long time colleague and friend.
She watched them bend
in the choreographed art of hello
showing their best sides to the man
who'd tried to hide behind the post box.

Stella tripped towards them,
head curious-terrier tipped to the side.

Now about 25 feet away
she heard a crackle-voice say
"Stop her!"
Stella fell to the left,
a great force had hit her from the right
throwing her to the ground.
Hot salty fingers crammed against mouth
hairy knuckles inches from two pound coin sized eyes
and spittle-flecked "Shhhhh!" spilled forth
in halitoxic sigh.
Crackle again:
"Get her away. You'll have to tell her
she's been replaced
she got too dull. We've hired another Stella".

"You heard the man, get out of here, you're ruining the shot"

"But," Stella whispered, "this is all I've got.
You can't just take my life from me.
What do you mean 'replaced'?
Have you given that girl surgery?
She's got my fucking face!"

"Look, love, you need a new job, they've given you the boot.
The viewers demand to see action,
new Stella's 'enjoying her youth', if you know what I mean".

He leered and patronised all at once
"You know, if you're stuck I know a bunch
of guys that make films with girls like you;
rejects, has-beens, once-had-it-alls.
They'd pay you well, it'd be something to do,
your back's really against the wall".

A wave of panic burst through her chest
as she kneed him in the bollocks and took her chance to wrest
herself free from his weight
and scrambled away
sobbing.

*********

Blanche works in a cafe.
She wear a practiced smile.
She hands out cappuccinos
and is a bit fifties in style.
Brittle blonde and boring,
but for the moments in her day
when she relives her past life
and the cameras point her way.
As a bit-part she is comfortable,
it's a steady job at least.
But her eyes expose the brief time
she tried to get by on the streets.

_________________________________________________________________________

This poem was debuted yesterday at the Deep South Music Festival, where I was performing alongside the magnificent poets, Bill Strutt, Martin Lynch and Jennifer Davies (winner of the 2015 Manx LitFest poetry slam). It was a brilliant event, despite the weather being typical of a Manx summer (rain/sun/rain/sun/rain/sun/WIND).  Lovely atmosphere, great music, much silliness and aches this morning. Love the Summer season here on this island, there is always something going on... Roll on Dark Horse.

Love to all of you.
Xxxx