GHOST FAINT IMAGES

I appear to have spent this afternoon changing the following words into different combinations, ghost faint images into faint ghost images and I have reached the point where I can no longer decide which is the better. The drawer beckons for that particular quandary. I had been reading something about how photographs will fade over the centuries and leave blank shiny paper. Given the present state of dubious narratives, false news and outright lies the poem was an easy write. 

PROPAGANDA

The photos presented problems

having been badly curated

and too quick to fade

to a yellowing cream blankness

We were forced to trace the outlines

of the faint ghost images

with fine graphite sticks

which slipped on the slick surface

As we attempted to harness the past

to justify our political position

Even if I can decide the order of the words: faint; ghost; and images I am unsure that the poem is finished. As I say one for the drawer.

I've been listening to the expanded edition of A Distant Shore by Tracey Thorn, my original album is worn out. Such a classic. 

Until next time.

THE WIND IS SET ON DISTORT

Here is another poem I wrote in Estonia. It's pretty straight forward and self-explanatory.

YOU PLAY THE HAND YOU’RE GIVEN 2

I place my card

on the payment square

it buzzes

a red x flashes

unperturbed

I sit down

It’s not everyday

I fare dodge on a tram

I look about me

no one turns a hair

Seven stops later I get off

Yes I did fare dodge that trip. Then I worked out the location of the card machine. This next poem is also from the same trip.

A tenor weaves an old tune

breathes new life around the buildings

the wind is set on distort

as if each note had a different weight

and could only be carried only so far

If I had a voice

I would sing the words 

Yes I did hear a tenor sax playing in the street. Actually I jotted down the bare bones of the poem while I waited for the tram!

Brooke Sharkey has just released a video of her beautiful new single.

Until next time. 

ON A SCREEN IN HER HEAD

I am a confirmed people watcher as you can tell from this poem.

YOU PLAY THE HAND YOU’RE GIVEN 1

Tallinn Old Town – Friday afternoon

What catches your attention

as you turn a corner

is the bossy woman with the camera

chivvying the others into shapes

she sees on a screen in her head

It’s only then you notice the Bride

in ivory silk with a bouquet to match

being told where to stand

where to look

who to smile at

and you wish her

against all the odds

a happy life

I haven't got much to say about it as I think it speaks for itself. I have however changed this next poem after discussing it with the Secret Poets. 

CHARADE

I almost bump into Carey Grant

In the toilet of a cinema in Warrington

His image is all over one of the walls

look at the enlarged whites of his eyes

He’s in such a pickle

frozen in black and white panic

Definitely flight or fight mode

who wouldn’t be

He’s being chased

by a crop dusting aeroplane

Stuck in the re-creation

of someone else’s nightmare

As if he didn’t have enough

of his own to be going on with

Just two small changes, one in the third stanza and another in the sixth. Three words have been removed. You can read the earlier version here.

Brooke Sharkey has just released a new single. Her new album is beautiful. 

Until next time.

THE FOUNTAIN FALLS

I had an interesting conversation with a friend this week who raised the point that in the last post's poem there was a need for editing or punctuation. She said there could be some confusion in the penultimate stanza. We talked about the alternatives and I thought the solution was to remove the confusing two words. Here it is in its completed state.

3:30 am IN TALLINN

he wakes into a dream

there is stillness

light

no one is about

yet the fountain falls

perhaps with less pressure

than it had in the dark rain

he wonders when he will wake for real

returns to the large lonely bed to practice sleep

I have to thank Nel for her observation and highlight that collaboration is always a positive process. This poem is now complete.

I was at Tropical Pressure last weekend and was thoroughly impressed by Diabel Cissokho. He is touring at the moment and I cannot recommend him highly enough.

Until next time.  

TO PRACTICE SLEEP

A poem about an experience that felt like a dream. I had arrived in Tallinn after midnight and gone to bed in a hotel. I had awoken a couple of hours later to find the sky was light. I felt I was in a dream and wrote this brief poem.

3:30 am IN TALLINN

he wakes into a dream

there is stillness

light

no one is about

yet the fountain falls

perhaps he thinks with less pressure

than it had in the dark rain

he wonders when he will wake for real

returns to the large lonely bed to practice sleep

It is not a complex poem. I hope it captures the dreamlike state I was in on waking in the night. I have no photographs of the fountain in the daylight as it looked very small. Here's another piece of reportage.

It’s mid-summer’s evening

he’s videoing his car

phone held up on high

metal blasts out of every open door

rises skyward to fill space in the world

he’s riding the curve

of his own imagined wave

Nothing to say about this one. it was simply a note a scribbled down. I have no idea why he was making a video of his car, perhaps it seemed a good idea at the time.

I was reminded of a song the other day that I hadn't heard for a long time. This is Errollyn Wallen with the Brodsky Quartet.

Until next time.

BIG BLUE SKY THIEF

There's been a heat wave over northern Europe and yet there are those who still deny climate change. Beats me how their minds work. This post's poem is about entropy [again], how the heat death of the universe waits for us all.

COUNTDOWN TO ENTROPY

the heat followed him

a thirty degree plus shocker

that set the air to shimmer

and seemed to be everywhere at once

bowling down the tunnel and onto the plane

Somewhere above the sunlit clouds

in decreasing instalments

the heat fizzled out

the big blue sky thief

stole every Joule

I hope what the poem communicates is that nothing lasts forever, that we move towards entropy whether we realise this or not. It is a finished piece. One of those exercises I set myself when travelling.

I had forgotten how good Ruben Blades was until I played Buscando America again the other day. I hope you like it too.

Until next time.

FIGHT OR FLIGHT

I've been moving the lines of this poem about trying to get it as clear and concise as I can. You can read the earlier version here.

CHARADE

I almost bump into Carey Grant

In the toilet of a cinema in Warrington

his image is all over one of the walls

look at the enlarged whites of his eyes

He’s in such a pickle

frozen in black and white and panic

Definitely flight or fight mode

who wouldn’t be

He’s being chased

by a crop dusting aeroplane

And is stuck in the re-creation

of someone else’s nightmare

As if he didn’t have enough

of his own to be going on with

I've changed some of the lines about and I think I'm finally satisfied with it. As I get older I find myself tinkering with poems in a manner I don't think I would have when younger. I suppose it's the distance from the poem that enables me to see other possibilities in the words.

Here's another enchanting song by Brooke Sharkey. You can buy her new album here.

Until next time.