HERE SHE COMES

When walking,
Your beauty is a fresh May skyscape,
All cloudroll and blue yonder.

And I am a high flying kite.

When you smile,
Your beauty is a rising sunscape,
All birdsong and horizon,

And I am a spire full of praise.

In loving,
Your beauty is a noontide seascape,
All swelling and sundazzle,

And I am a galleon set sail.

In repose,
Your beauty is a new June landscape,
All blossom and moonshadow,

And I am the dew on your rose.

Here in church,
Your beauty is a Christmas snowscape,
Drifting down the August aisle,

And I am your right-hand man,
With a gold ring shining on your left;
Henceforward,
Into all our future, I shall escape,


(1998)


Many church buildings are beautiful; the Church as an historical institution and pillar of the establishment is not. Was it hypocritical to marry in church (I’ve done so twice)? Possibly – I saw it more as a compromise, I think. There would have been too many disappointed relations. The symbolism of the rings is meaningful though, and a sense of ritual is also important to me. Hatches, matches and dispatches etc.

Not that this is a poem about the church (incidentally, the organist at our wedding must have been the only one in the land who wasn’t note-perfect on ‘The Wedding March’…).

No, this poem is about Lisa and the metaphors are an attempt to convey what a beautiful person she is. I wrote this for her on the occasion of our wedding on the 1st August 1998.

Most people’s wedding pictures can seem rather dull in retrospect and ours are no exception so rather than a shot from the day I’m including one of my favourite pictures of Lise which I took a few Christmases ago.

GONDOLA

We swing out
From high, narrow shadows,
Smiling and serenaded
Through shimmering reflections
Of peeling paint and plaster,
Afloat on splashing backwaters,

Into sunburst panorama
Of sky and Grand Canal,
Whilst pealing bell-towers
Announce our presence
In an epiphany of time and space,
Bridging history and this hour.

Our grinning gondolier
Sings out, con brio,
‘Rialto! Ri-al-to!’
With sweeping gesture;
As, to others before, did his father
And his father before.


(2008)


On our first stay in Venice, we contented ourselves with a ride on a vaporetto up the Grand Canal – which was a quick, cheap and sensible thing to do. It was wonderful too, (as is everything in Venice). On our second time, though, we decided to indulge ourselves with a gondola – and it was every bit as magical as I try to convey above.
The gondoliers aren’t just ‘O Sole Mio’ merchants either – at least, ours wasn’t; he regaled us with a selection from Ennio Morricone!

We almost literally bumped into Neil Finn of Crowded House on a bridge near our hotel. I wanted to say hello and tell him how much we loved what was then his latest record (‘Everyone Is Here’ by The Finn Brothers) but we were lugging our bags at the start of our return journey and he was stood on the crest of the bridge, gazing around and taking it all in, so we just carried on our way.

WHATEVER

OK now, guys -
You don’t mind me, like, referring
To you all as ‘guys’, do you, guys -
Even though some of us are female
And none of us are sort of like American?
And when I ask if you’re alright and things like that
And you say you’re good and it’s so not a problem,
I’ll know that you’re basically just fine
And not actually declaring your, like, moral status
Or anything like that, know what I mean?
And yes, guys, I’ll know what you mean too.
And I’m like, cool with this now – we’re all cool, yeah?
This is so absolutely not a problem, is it, guys?

Right then, guys, hey, it’s all good, no worries,
Because, you know, at the end of the day,
We’re all sort of like - in this together?
And we’re on a journey and stuff like that?
Even though we’re going kind of like – nowhere?

Right, OK, listen, you have a nice day now, guys,
Because, hey, at the end of the day, it’s like
We so totally have nothing better to say.
Do you know what I mean?
Do I know what I mean?
OhMyGod!
End of.


(2010)

Lise and I both loathe conversational tics and threadbare clichés. These days, it seems like the spiralling babble above actually passes for cool chat. It reminds me of ‘duckspeak’ - the distilled form of ‘Newspeak’ in Orwell’s great satirical novel, ‘I984’. (You can, perhaps, hear the modern form of this corrosive prattle in TV’s ‘Big Brother’…).

Of course, we’re all susceptible to this kind of thing - no matter how hard we try to avoid it. Myself, I can’t seem to shake off ‘like, y’know’ at the end of too many sentences when I’m in the middle of a good natter. It might have come from my Mother because I think my brother and sisters all fall prey to it as well. Oh well, not to worry, or should that be - no worries?

The picture is a nod in the direction of that famous painting 'The Scream' by Edvard Munch. Lisa took it on the bridge at Abbey Park yesterday.

FROM ABOVE

As the G-force takes hold, lurches and lifts us from the land,
I know a critical point has passed and let go your hand.
You start to read but, as ever, I crane at the window,
Awed to see so much in so small a space so far below:
The miniature world before it dissolves into cloud-haze -
The churches, towns and hills and the woodland and waterways,
And I am humbled with wonder at such infrastructure
Wrought on the sprawl of land, the order of agriculture,
The charting of seas and skies, the power of invention,
Which, from above, seems entwined with nature’s evolution.

A crimson band of sunset girdles the horizon’s glow
Between high, blue heaven above and deep, black cloud below.
The feeling is of floating in limbo between it all,
As evening sifts into nightfall and then into landfall,
And our aeroplane descends through tonight’s rare clarity.
Coastlines twinkle now and the bejewelled urban circuitry
Defines itself in the eye, whilst the vacuum in our ears
Quickens the pulse and the mind is clenched by echoing fears
When the wheels hit the runway to rush, then slow to a stand,
And we kiss and smile at the intense, white grip of each hand.


(2010)


A few flights in the making, this one. Unusually, I’d developed a number of single words - rather than phrases – which eventually suggested the beginnings of a rhyme-scheme. The long lines distance the resulting couplets and hopefully make the structure of the poem an effective one.

Completed after a wonderfully clear return-flight from Dubrovnik. We’re not sufficiently ‘frequent fliers’ to be blasé about the experience, hence the ritual of holding hands.

THE PICTURE AT THE TOP OF THE STAIRS

I’m about eight, my fair hair starting to darken,
Dressed in t-shirt, shorts, sandals and ankle-socks,
Clutching bucket and spade, sat on the sand between them,
At the back of a beach, in the front of a wall.
Grandma, on my right, would be around seventy;
Mum, on my left, is in her mid-thirties;
Grandma always looked older than she was
But both seem to me old-fashioned with their forties
Hairstyles: Gran grey, Mum dark but silver at the parting
And both wearing calf-length, flowered frocks.
They sit in deck-chairs holding drinks on little trays
And we’re all sort of smiling, with our backs to the wall.

My sister stitched this picture from a pattern
Made from an old black and white photograph.
It must have been taken by her father - not my father -
Before she was born. I wonder where her older sister is -
A baby then, I think. Perhaps her father – not my father –
Is holding her in one arm whilst taking the picture
With his free hand. He didn’t take many pictures –
Their father – but he did take away almost all of those
Taken before he took Mum and me away from my father.

I’m guessing it was the East Coast in the summer of 1960 –
The five of us packed into one of his old black bangers
With the running boards and yellow indicator-pointers -
Great Yarmouth, Skegness or Mablethorpe, maybe,
Or Chapel St. Leonards in Aunt Agnes’s cottage, perhaps.
The monochromatic British fifties linger on, poised
To blossom forth into the century’s most dazzling decade.

So the story goes, a true story too but beneath it another lies.
The picture seems clearer from the bottom of the stairs
But step by step, it blurs the nearer you climb.
Neither will reality bear too much scrutiny:
The camera’s kind white lies may dissolve under our stares
As when we try to recollect this or that half-forgotten time
And the road forking when we took our right and wrong ways.
Memory’s sunshine can turn to thunder down the ages,
Playing tricks with some of those good old bad old days;
But see how the rainbow arcs above the album’s pages
To shelter us, if we choose, from yesteryear’s rain and rages


(2009)


My sister, Lorraine, gave me the cross-stitch when she emigrated to New Zealand. She later found the original photograph and sent that too. It’s one of precious few pictures that survived the divorce of my parents, because my stepfather – rot his soul – destroyed almost all of them. The original shot shows that my Mum and Gran were actually writing postcards and that behind us was not a wall but a stack of deckchairs. So the metaphorical notion of ‘backs to the wall’ turns out to be unwitting poetic license…It’s the blurry indistinctness of the cross-stitch that appealed to me – like glimpsing a scene through a portal of time and space. Perhaps I should re-title the poem ‘Postcard From The Past’…

SUMMER SONNET

After the brief bluebells and daffodils
And the simmering blossom-swell of spring,
Summer comes galloping over the hills,
The sun beating through a billion wings,
Bringing it on, singing it in with long
Days, hot spells, short showers and old folksong
Grown new in the swaying fields of barley,
Gathering in the harvest finale.
But, before the fall of the merry scythe,
We will roll in the grass by the bandstand,
Carelessly young again, laughing and tanned,
To sing the song of leaf and fruit so blithe:
Summer is a-coming in, year on year -
And see – the trees, the trees, the trees are here!


(2010)


So much poetry grows out of doubt and melancholia, and I’ve heard songwriters say that it’s somehow easier to write sad rather than happy songs – and I wonder why that is. Perhaps when we’re happy we’re too busy being happy to reflect too much about why we are. And then many positive poems tend to be tinged with sadness when the experience is being recalled in nostalgia.

I often want to write something really bright and upbeat but, being of a rather pessimistic disposition, I don’t usually find that easy to do. Let me tell you, I must be ‘in a good place’, as they say, to have come up with this!

‘Summer Is A-Cumen In’ is one of the very oldest of English folk songs. It features on one of my favourite soundtrack albums, ‘The Wicker Man’, which I was playing whilst writing this poem.

I never seem to tire of photographing Abbey Park just a couple of minutes away from where we live in Leicester and the picture included here is of one of my favourite views.

IN CONCERT

(I)

A seated study

Blurred still

String-hardened fingertips

Taloned

Slide like live china

Along the frets

Skill

Intent and long

Refined in the bones

*

Astride

And stomping

To beat of skins

Plectrum

In nicotine grip

Skids primal

As loins grind

Soul

Improvises from the heart

And through the boot-heel

(II)

Wing-collared

And funereal

Grand Master

Undertakes classics

Patient eyes

Follow pale hands

Which instruct

Patent feet

Embalming old symmetries

Note for note

*

Open-necked

And pounding

Holy Roller

Rocks his pulpit

Accusing fingers

Vamp and stab

Brimstone chords

Smoke and roar

Pushing the crescendo

Further every time

(III)

Eyes on dots

White-gloved

Sniper

In the distance

Surveys his tools

Waits for his moment

Measures his beat

Selects and strikes

Steadies the vibrations

Replaces and reloads

*

Eyes wild

As sticks are twirled

Tossed and snatched

Above volleys of sound

Power

Locked with bass

Blizzard of cymbal

And crash of pedal

Rolling with thunder

The avalanche of beats

(IV)

Muscular larynx

Flexes

Perfect diction

From banal libretto

Takes up positions

On polished stages

From rich boxes

The elite rise

In measured ovation

*

Leathery throat

Convulses

Slangy melismas

From juvenile lyric

Hips jerk

Almost sacrificial

On sweaty boards

At brandished mike

Surging crowd

Whoop tribal

(1989)


I hope this poem doesn’t give the impression that I don’t like classical music – because I do (a fair bit of it, at least). In a live context though, it can seem rather clinical and stilted compared to rock music. I’m not certain I had particular musicians in mind when I wrote this, but the classical guitarist is probably Julian Bream who I remember seeing quite often on TV. The rock singer looks like it might be Mick Jagger. The rock piano, however, is definitely being played by Jerry Lee Lewis and the rock drummer simply has to be Keith Moon. I doubt whether he was always ‘Locked with bass’ because he may not have been the best technical drummer ever, but he was surely the most exciting.

The photograph is of one Frano Gryc, an extraordinary musician we saw several times on the isle of Lokrum near Dubrovnik. He plays acoustic guitar with an electric pick-up every afternoon at an outdoor bar-café there. Beautiful rippling classical and jazzy renditions of all sorts of song emanate from him. No singing though and very little talking. The shades and cigs are permanent features of the unsmiling Frano-fizzog. Supercool.