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

Blessing for All

May all the marks you leave on this world be positive

(and not in only a footnote kind of way).

May all the hearts that are touched you remember it

and recall you most fondly and often, day by day.

May kindness to strangers be commonplace to you and normal.

May all that you work for succeed in a way that’s unique.

May you recognise treasure in everything.

And find every truth that you seek.

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

Musings on Time

The time it slips, it slips away.

Handfuls of sand through fingers greying and shrinking inside their skins, knuckles gnarled and buckled through a practical lifetime's abuse.

Decades come and go so slow by day, so fast by year. You blink and find yourself awakening here. So far from then on paper and so vividly recent in memory. 
When understood and appreciated fully they lack that fog of nostalgia by which comforting versions of events are often obscured. Reassuringly, this means pain is also racing in retrograde, flying us away from it in bated breath taken at treacle-light speed.

My knees are mechanical now - gristly grinding each gesture in echoing growls. My barometric blood gives me warnings through the aches of coming rains.

I recognise my lifetimes by the shade of my hair in photographs, my dress size from outfits of mismatched clothes donated by long lost friends. Some I miss, some I am relieved to have had riddance, but all I cherish.

Is this aging?

It certainly feels like growth.

Romero

Romero was a romantic.

Voluntary Zombification

wasn’t included in his epic.

Nor was informational monetisation .

We are the mumbling, stumbling masses.

We’re the brain dead, GM fed, disposable classes.

Deafened by the rumbling malice used to reassure us.

It’s the somnambulists’ sonorous psalm-like chorus:

It’s their fault – COMPLY

It’s their fault – OBEY

It’s their fault – ACCEPT

Above us holographic promises projected

onto roiling clouds of discontent

seem concrete.

Below, the mire sucks to ankles, feet

rotting in perpetual effluent, deep

and cloying as corruption is cheap.

Malaise molests our mucous membranes,

remaining even after exhaling this weighty air.

With fuzzy focus, our brows furrowed

we attempt to see clearly in ever-long shadows:

the projections.

Mirages of meaning

heinously inspiring  false hope

through eye burning vapours  

and looking glass lies.

Fingers outstretched we strive

to grasp

then gasp

surprised

when hands pass

through

banisters on stairs

that were never really there

at all.

We fall

for this repeatedly,

our gullibility

rivaled only by the virility

of our envy.

Gaudy baubles.

Tawdry tell-alls.

Scandals based on media morals.

Distract, deny

debase, decry,

berate, then buy

into this

mis-in-

formation.

Visions of similar vexatious veracity

we are force-fed emphatically

until this aspirational claptrap

is snapped up

by strapped up

facsimiles of fashionable pretence.

(In their defence,

all face paint is war paint

and all clothing is fancy dress.)

And yes, I too

am subsumed

by this murky world.

Cursing at cloud forms

coughing at coarse fumes

finding comfort in costume.

Is this

security?

The Mafia style Protectorate

we live under with Protocol Three?

The perverted version of protection

offered by the Panopticon

promotes

extreme proposals

perfect

for pitting us

one on one

and on and on

we go ‘til we turn on

ourselves.

Belly-flames long gone cold,

we’re dejected, cut price, wholly sold.

Raised on debt and dreams of gold,

forget ever owning anything.

Political correctness causes steroid- thin skins

to equal the pages of the books we binned

and burnt

never having learnt

to critically think

our way out

of the mess we’re in.

Overused superlative responses

out-stretch soaked and underrated nuances

to polarization purpose.

Once we are accustomed to unreason at this rate

 we lose our slippy grip on the power of debate.

Reduced to frothing opinions,

forthright remonstrations

forceful demonstrations

and farcical deliberations

over arbitrary -isms and -ists.

“No I’m sorry, you must choose from this list

of things we have determined are suitable for you.”

When the decision is between

 being thrown to the hounds,

or buried under the ground,

still breathing

it’s no wonder folk are

keeping their heads down,

silencing dissenting sounds,

numbing their sense of feeling.

With enough bodies under the mire

the heap might just be high enough

to lift us up beyond this stuff.

That’s the logic, right?

Except that fetid foundations

build putrid palaces

and subsidence is simply

impossible to fight.

Sooner or later we are all sucked under,

fucked over

by a state that places emphasis

on cronyism and nepotists.

What makes you think you can win?

It’s not a case of sink or swim.

We need to invert the way we think

to even have a chance.

They aren’t world leaders,

they are world servants

And the sooner we remind them

the sooner we end this macabre dance.

Skyscape

Hillside.

Blue sky.

Breath blowing above squinting eyes.

Watch the clouds sprinting by.

At once- a dragon, a lamb.

Souls of puddles awaiting

yellow rubber-booted stamp

of toddler’s approval.

Unsullied, before the fall.

Beyond the reach of trees and steeples tall.

I indicate the shape of a claw-footed bath.

You show me Charon’s Lethe-locked craft.

We laugh

and under the disapproving huff

of angst atmospheric

the clouds wander off

giving unbroken blue perspective.

Vertigo grips.

I bite my lip

as realization drips

savagely.

All that holds us here is gravity.

Before us an infinite we can’t see

through eyesight limited by our humanity.

The perception of being pinned in place by forces

we name and explain with theoretical solemnity;

research in universities;

master in laboratories;

weaponise selectively;

is overwhelming.

If we hold our breaths and listen

we can hear tiny rustles in the grass by our heads.

Insects inspecting our picnic while

we repose reflecting

on shifts of perspective.

The earth is a dervish and I a willing conductor.

I feel her energies flow through me.

Honeyed, bulbous, nebulous,

effervescent viscosity,

warming, wondrous.

Nails clutch roots and wet dirt crowds cuticles

as our indentations of individuality

smooth to meaningless

completed by connection’s kiss.

Annie Ziyah Attacks

Annie Ziyah would drink tea

but wrings her hands incessantly.

Hunched and bunched and bundled in her cardigan

she is the plague of panicked whispers behind pleasant conversation.

She is “what if?”; “what then?”; “this could go wrong!”

She is the worst conclusion jumped to

with a wheedle extra strong.

Eyebrows arcing over horn-rimmed lenses

Salt and pepper ‘do resembling avian garden fences

This sorceress of scandal wields her spells with devastating zeal:

Raising pulses, stealing breath,

 clothing stained by seeping sweat,

memories wiped, voices silenced

over-ridden by ‘boom-boom-boom’.

her gristly grip gets hold.

You feel the suffocating room

close in around you and as the blackness swells-

you’re overwhelmed

Annie Ziyah sips her tea,

dips eyebrows momentarily

then raises them, a new disaster hatched.

She’s ready to fight the next match.

Cheesecake: The Prequel

Wake up, late.

Dry mouth.

Morning after the house warming party before state

and yawning, stretch.

Slight retch

at tequila backwash acid.

Heavy lids

downstairs skid

past poltergeist pong of

overnight guests’ evacuations

exposing pot pourri’s limitations

and push open kitchen door.

Thirsty.

Detritus of guests

abandoned cups,

abandoned hats

for poetry and otherwise

plates on sides.

Kettle on: click

then the comforting promise of

pkchkchkchkchkchkch

as dry lips are licked in anticipation

of culmination

of delayed gratification.

Made three days previous

(and left out too long) grievous

sin to waste it though,

Too good to throw away.

Chocolate sprinkles, biscuit base,

New York style. The last piece placed

back on the shelf

in the fridge by itself

next to orange juice. Healthy.

A hangover cure.

Oh blessed breakfast, mon amour!

I reach for fridge door

stand on sticky spiky tines.

Raspy swearing cough

and hop

and hold my toe as I

sideways go

and fall against spillage stained sideboard.

Who would leave a fork on the floor

next to the fridge?

Grumpily slump

retrieve fork from floor

and squint.

What’s that?

Between tobacco stained finger and chipped painted thumb?

A crumb.

Suspicion aroused

fridge door open flung

 to reveal:

Someone’s eaten my cheesecake!

                                                                                                                                         

My good friend Bill Strutt wrote a poem about cheesecake which is often requested and always performed with great aplomb. I wrote this in his style, in tribute to all the fantastic work he does to introduce poetry to people on a daily basis.

 Bill has a great, deep growly voice which lends itself to characterisation, storytelling and the gift of the gab. An incorrigible poetry pusher, he can often be found performing at different events and open mics across the island. I urge you to experience his skill.

A Shout Out To My Online Stalkers

Shen yn aggle t’orrym writing lines

Nar ta lane yss ayd t’ou data mined.

Jean eh my shegin dyt.

Lig dhou ginsh yn irriney dhit:

I don’t really give a shit.

Er lhait dy vel eh feeu?

Sure you’ve better things to do.

As, ny smessey, dobbyr dou tuittym

hannee mee my host.

Gyn fockle y ghra

laa lurg laa.

Vaa me my hassoo

while upward climbed my views.

Cha nel mee mastey’n sleih chredys ooilley chluinnys ad

but I reckon you probably are and that makes me sad.

Foddee oo jannoo dty red hene

watching, reading, misunderstanding my page.

Mish, er son dy bragh foshlit

choud as veeym bio.

Cha nod fer dy kinjagh tannaght  ny host

cha jean shen jannoo.

Lucky in Cards

We wear our palms out applauding luck
as if there's any skill in such;
like raffle tickets are determined
by solid research. Candles burning
both ends until you're left the heart:
melted, burnt out, all light departed.

We falsely think that games of chance, as
all life is are as prescribed as dances.
(Foxtrot, waltzes, cha-cha-cha)
and never see how wrong we are.

Celebrate, by all means, yes
but recognise we're powerless
against the ebb and flow and flood
of the rhythms of the heart and blood.

                                                                                                                                 

I was lucky enough recently to go to the prize giving event for the Save the Children's Festival of Trees with my wonderful friends Ciara and Julie from Sweet Ginger Emporium.

( They are brilliant people and their shop is a delight. It is a goldmine for crafters of all varieties and I urge you to check out their website, or if you're on the island pop in to see them in Ramsey.)

 It was an evening I thoroughly enjoyed, as it gave me a chance to dress up, let my hair down and show off my brain all at once. I was struck by the enthusiastic applause at the raffle, how sincere people seemed to be, when it takes no effort at all to have the number that is pulled out of the hat. This poem flowed at that moment. 

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.