Beer wine cider

Beer wine cider ---

An old friend visiting with

News, stories, heartache

cold

it is rare

but today
if left alone
and free of urgent purpose:
I would slump
like a disowned marionette

all energy turned inward
under repair
out of service

sculpture and naughtiness

Jen, you were dying.

We knew that

And I was about to head back to England

So it would be a proper goodbye

We all knew that

And somehow, I can't remember

who had the idea.

We cooked up a plan to go out 

to see

the sculpture by the sea

Not the easiest thing when

walking isn't an option

But it was sculpture, and it was 

by the sea

On the sand, on the grass

by the surf club.

So off we went, I think it was,

on a Monday.

Wheelchair from hospital bed

down to the car

Propped up on the front seat with

that special cushion of yours.  

In a hospital robe.

To the sculpture by the sea

Getting there, under the 

Norfolk island pines, we could see

a little from the road.  But 

not a lot.

We drove down a service road.

No Entry except for access.

Access to sculptures. Yes.

We talked about sculpture

and life and stuff, about people:

Bea and Libby

and Gus and Benj and the people 

at the bridge club.  

Convivial, like Jen.

Not deep or political that day, but with that

deeper understanding, unsaid:

We know why we are here.

Time is short.

And inching the car down and around 

Cottesloe Beach --

careful reversing amongst swimmers showering

and sea kayaks,

We saw a lot of sculpture. 

And gathered dirty looks:

    You can't drive here. 

Why bother explaining?

We laughed, defiant. Nothing to lose.

And that, the simple 

adolescent naughtiness

of seeing sculpture but the sea,

by car, while

living, while dying

Was our greatest pleasure.

Driving back to the hospital;

flying back to England:

became a cold silent shadow

of that bright moment.

some random person on a train

you could be that guy

i don't know that well

i haven't seen him for a while

but you look rough

no sleep i'd guess

unshaven

older

face-lined

travel-worn

so literally

really

you aren't him

unless you are --

time-travel-worn

from our future

More like clay

at night
these leafless
sticky trees
rattle together in the chill breeze

mud more like clay - stiffening
brings hope for tomorrow's
commute

clean boots under my desk
in well paved London

here a creature of fire
but in London I am of the earth

This tree

If I were to fall

In a storm

Borne down by the wind

Like this tree

I could regrow

Perhaps lopsided but strong

Making new roots

Growing wiser and more solid

Making space inside

For me and other beings

Outside: signs of trauma

Inside: spacious and peaceful.

Stronger.

0754

oh seven fifty four

old rattly cold and dirty

be on time today

slap in the mind

a touch:

green light

a trill, electronic

and the gates slap back

I still flinch inside:

will I be slapped back,

caught or trapped

as I try to enter?

The flow of words

A few thoughts on my current style, topics and writing technology.  This isn't meant to be interesting except as reflection for me.

Styles

I'm writing short to medium poems, either modern, fairly flexible haiku, or longer, free-ish verse.   Nothing longer at the moment.

Topics

All observations, particularly nature, city, commuting, including walking, trains and the underground. There's a lot to say about the commuter and commuting.  I'm living it.   

Also a little stuff that buddhism/awareness/mindfulness inspired; hopefully not too preachy.  I'm thinking about writing some short angry poems, shouty ones.  Loud shouty haiku. Poetry by the pissed off.

Writing tech

I spent a while fiddling with complex writers tools (nice but closed) and a bit of a play with the kinds of tools I use for software development (git, vim, stuff like that).  All of them ended up suffering from the same thing.. not where I was.  I'd picked up the mantra that writings had to be easily publishable -- as I have no time to transcribe from paper to a blog post or something.  

But guess what?  When I want to write something about where I am (a lot of what I do) I've got a smartphone with me.  So I need something that syncs and shares.  

That seems to be what Evernote was made for.

measuring the day

the icy crunch underfoot

tells tale of frost and the last snow

of the season (we hope)

frozen mud - a happy thought

my boot and trouser legs

will remain unsoiled this morning

and like an accessories machine:

on gloves off hat off gloves on scarf

i seek the perfect temperature

out of the woods the horizon opens

what kind of day is this?

blue sky, few clouds, sunshine

a playing dog barks

the satisfying clink of the chain on the gate

and the crunch of my boots

Spiral Staircase

It was a light house
so light it was supported
solely by a rubber staircase
a rubber spiral staircase
that held aloft
the living room
kitchen and lounge
in a stack,
jaggeredly arranged
and bouncing gently.
the motion sickness
was hard to get used to
but
it was brilliant
in an earthquake.

Clipboard 2

did you ever
catch a finger
in the clip
at the top
of your
clip board
and the
blood
ran down
your neat rows
and columns
staining
away
your
tin pot
beaurocracy.

Clipboard

waterproof trousers, tick,
green tomato ketchup, tick,
tuscan olive braces, tick,
german frilly knickers, tick,
aged bakelite knobs, tick,
sandwich crust remover, tick
adjustable egg stand, tick
hat froster, tick

all ready then? yep
let's go

Pigeon-toed

You'll need a lot of pigeons

Pigeons are easy
Doves are more um, selective
I scatter grain
but this time I only net Sea gulls

You netted them?
No I mean figuratively

A pigeon arrives
I marvel at the breast
metallic purples and blues
then another

I never did get enough
dental floss

Christmas 2012

Money falls like
wanted
Chrismas snow
into
Cash registers at M and S

And I pursue
again
the puzzle that is the 'fridge
bursting
with too much

And I feel
bursting
like a glutton over-indulged
full
of Christmas

My blood
pulsing
stomach bound
digesting
all that is Christmas

And here I am
wishing
not for peace and love for all
wishing
to eat less tomorrow

I won't be taken

I won’t be taken. I won’t fall prey once more, for now it is my time, and I will shine and burn and with head held high leave intact, no, greater, broader, stronger, deeper than before, and I will make it my own.
It is my time. This turning point belongs to me and I will make it.

And if I really deeply, shiningly in my heart believed this, then it would at once be easy, be something little, a small bump in the road of life. But no, I don’t so this is the hero’s journey for me. This is a big one.

In front of me is a telephone. It is cheap and plastic, and dirty. It has great power over me. It and the damnable people that use the thing, that sit at the other end and judge and cajole and fail to listen to me.

Powerfully I take the receiver in hand. There’s the doleful sound of the dial-tone. I pause, of course, for enough time to boil a kettle. I don’t boil a kettle, I just try to summon the guts to take the next step.

A “you’ve got it wrong noise now”, and that woman, I nickname the wire says “Please hang up and try again. Please hang up and try again. ”, over and over until she abandons me with silence.
The line is dead, save for the whisper of white noise, sea sounds, that remain after she has left. I can imagine anything in that noise. I listen harder and it seems to grow and envelop me. The noise surrounds and comforts me.

You see, where by now I could be off into some great story or deep in a meaningful conversation, I’m pulling up the cool blanket of white noise and settling into failure, of not taking the step, and of befriending the noise of the wire instead and pretending it is sort of art. Bollocks to that.

Receiver replaced, I try again. The number. Ah, here it is, and for a moment I repel the distractions of the computer, the kettle downstairs, that slightly strange noise I can hear at the edge of my hearing and start to dial. Wow, only five attempts and I’ve got the number into the phone. I congratulate myself, basking in the glory of my power and plain forget that the phone at the other end is actually ringing. I’m so awesome that I want to tell somebody.

“Hello?” says the other end. It says it in a way that is quizzical, potentially critical and I’m shaken out of in-my-head world domination into gut-churning fear, a few milliseconds of complete failure; who am I calling and why? What do I want. Willpower and furrowing brow brings is back. I consult the menu in front me and go on tentatively:

“Can I order some food to takeaway?”
“Sorry, what?”
“Can I order some food to takeaway?”
“Must be a wrong number.”
Click.

Eating Cake by the Cake Eating Committee

From a 10 minute exercise describing how to eat a piece of cake. While eating a piece of cake. At Not For the Faint Hearted 4.

Eating cake
by the Cake Eating Committee

Oh and there is the first taste of icing.

“Oh” said Eyes, “That was unexpected because I really didn’t see any icing there.”

“Oh eyes, you really do think you know it all don’t you. This is not about you. Close yourselves, eyes, let’s get to the taste.”

“Errm”, said a nasally voice “, can I have a good smell of this?”

“Biscuity. not cakey at all. I’m not even sure this is a cake. I’m definitely getting biscuit here. But you know I don’t think I’ve ever smelt a cake before. Cooking in the oven with the delicious odour wafting, but not exactly deeply sniffing a piece of cake. “

“Stop waffling, smell. Taste’s turn.”

“Point of order! To get to the taste, it’s going to pass the lips, and that about touch, texture. So, I want to have a say before taste waffles on about thing and that.”

“Oh okay. Lips, touch, what are you getting”

“Firm but crumbly edges. a bit dry in places. not a lot of lip action here. Clean but crumbly. Now, teeth, what do you make of it.”

“A little bite and it breaks, I can’t chew on this. No molar action either. all front teeth. Pleasant enough. Very suitable for wolfing down. Is there any more?”

They all looked over to taste. Taste took her time and then began to speak ecstatically, rapidly.

“Oh my, there’s sugar, definite cakeiness. This is no biscuit. It crumbles, it goes past-y, I roll around with particles of cake each one sweet and bready, bringing the saliva and I’m getting lemon and sugar and wheat and what is that flavour, it sure works for me. Ah, c’mon you lot, let’s get more of this…”

The party

From a 3 minute writing exercise at Not for the Faint Hearted 4 while looking at this picture:

the floor was sticky
but no more than usual
the broken bottles littered
the walls scrawled on
in expensive lipstick, mind you

a carousel of memories
both vague and embarassing
flickered through their minds
and stilted conversations confirmed
half forgotten details as they
started to clean up

but then the questions rose;
who was the host of this party;
and how had it come loose and
found itself roaming the streets
of brighton without a collar or
a tag or even a party microchip?

(image from flickr by AndyWilson)

My stick

This is my stick. A dry stick. To lift the electric fence.

It insulates me from the live wire.

In my mind I gracefully duck beneath the wire pushed up but in this actual universe I duck in an ungainly way and very nearly brush the wire with my back.

My fingers tingle as I raise the stick to the wire. Is this electricity in my fingers or anticipation in my nerves?

Rainbow over stone circle, Dartmoor