Tag Archives: poem

31

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sitting in the room. beer flowing freely. conversation turns from easy books to tv to wrestling. an unfamiliar subject. i fall silent. they talk of moments, characters and moves. past greats and legends. the intricacies of contracts and politics. president in passing. the make up is put on. the costume adorned. they enter the ring. loud music pumps their arrival. the crowd goes wild. enormous hands wave approval. the zebra signals the start. a bell rings. two forces clash and hurl. the cry of the crowd. a head encased in arm. a crash to the ground. groans and cheers. all is lost to me. i think of haystacks and big daddies. of women in curlers. chips to hand. small crowds and small venues for small rewards. a name on a sauce bottle. the conversation turns to comedy. i take a sip of beer.

30

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Orange white and black cat

the cat sits on table and i in chair. the house is silent. not a sound. outside not a sound. not even a drunk on a phone swerving on route home. not a sound. silent. i sit in chair writing. gathering the thoughts of the day. now all is calm. a wine at hand. the voices have quietened. external.. internal.  now peace.. the room seems larger. bigger. full of. me. my thoughts. my moment. the quiet.  and me writing.  the light of the lamp casts shadows on the page. shadowing words. shadowing thoughts. moments. ideas. i pause to think.  to connect. recollect. and forget. a combination of desire, dream, and the movement of pen on paper. not sure where to go. being in shadow. once things were clear. clear as day. crisp in air. thought. but that moment has gone. so i sit in shadow. in the silence. with the lamp. cat on table. wine to hand.  the telly is on. but it does not speak. it too has succumbed to silence. the moment.  the hour. a flickering lamp. shadows dance.  then stop.  as my pen runs out of ink. and i am left in a moment in a silent room.

107

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this is not about love. the way you walk into a room. filling it with light in a moment. words spoken to reassure. praise. warmth radiating from a word. a touch. no. this is not about love. the sweet moments together. exchanging glances across the room. laughing over a glass of wine. the touch of hands. the touch of lips. this is not about love. sweet caresses in the night. hot skin to touch. a warm embrace. silky. breath whispering. no. this is not about love. i’m not that sentimental.

a psychogeography of turnpike lane

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in the summer of 2023, during the haringey arts festival, i got involved with a writing project. the idea was to map the psychological reaction to local area in turnpike lane, london through pieces of poetry and prose. we spent an afternoon exploring and writing about the local area.

writers ventured out. made notes. then sat and scribbled a piece or pieces of writing. what resulted was a collection of work that spoke of different roads, shops, buildings, or journeys.

after some editing and compiling by clever people, a book was born. some abstract illustrations were added to accompany the work, and a year late the book was launched in london.

i attended a launch in the all good bookshop which is right in the heart of turnpike lane. extracts were read, discussion took place, plans were made, and whiskey dunk.

friday 20th september sees us at the magnificent st mary’s tower in hornsey to promote the book. it promises to an atmospheric evening of celebration, laughter, and possibly intrigue.

new york

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a guy plays sax for coin on the corner of 6th avenue and 55 street. mechanical rabbits and cats dance to the beat. a few walkers tap their feet to the rhythm, sway to the sound. but give no dime. they’re too busy waiting to cross. pass the manhole covers venting steam in the 31 heat. they cross. on their way to meet. sit in a bar. sip a cool beer.
outside barnes & noble on 5th avenue a grey old man sleeps. head on a box. slumbered. he holds a sign in one hand. black marker pen: please help i am homeless, oh god save us all, oh god save us all. he makes no dollar. he doesn’t notice.
the street sellers set up their plastic crates with goods for the night crowds. genuine rolexes and gucci bags for a ten. they give their patter to the tourists. everything is for sale. even souls.
the queue builds outside the rock. the red carpet awaits. cool efficiency bundles the bodies in for a view like no other. come enjoy the ride. sorry the tops closed. lightning expected.
the wise seek shelter in the air-cooled diner. iced lattes and milk shakes with candy floss. all day breakfast. delivered with a smile. they work hard for their tip. the manager smiles.
in dillon’s the locals drink ice-cool beer and watch the sports on the many screens. how we doing in paris? there is the crack of the pool table as the screen light gleams off the copper jars hanging from the ceiling.
in the bar of the renwick hotel loud music plays. you have to sell a kidney to pay for a beer. they take your money with a smile. a drunk new yorker tells you about his wall street deals and visit to london. he’s scathing of both. but it is no better here.
the strand bookstore. the lost wander the shelves looking for loved ones. they find them hardbound. there is the smell of coffee by the graphic novels and teenage girls browse the romance novels. not that one – my mum would kill me!
lafayette is a place of chilled wine and flaky pastry. pistachio cream filled croissants are devoured eagerly as talk turns to the best shops for sneakers. have you tried macy’s?
in the white horse tavern in west village tourists drink cocktails and tell stories of dylan thomas. you can’t help thinking the place was better then.
empty boutique stores in greenwich village display designer goods without the price tag. no one goes in. the locals instead walk their dogs and talk of the best place to get coffee.
in washington square the young play for the crowds. street sellers have handcrafted trinkets. you can play chess for a fee. a bare chested man practices his dance moves. too vigorous. his shorts fall down. unperturbed. he dances on.
times square you get bundles by mickey and his friend mickey. with mickey. their mouse features are fixed grinned. menacing. the screens pop ads encouraging you to spend. come on! embrace the american dream.

POEM: Bookshop

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Quiet are the shelves
Time to let the words whisper.
Tomorrow they will be noisy.
Shouting stories at customers.
Protesting: buy me!
Medusa will leave you as a stone.
Transfixed before the shelves.
If only you had brought a shield.
But then, it is a bookshop.

This poem came about because I was in my favourite bookshop waiting for the end of day. It made me think of how quiet a bookshop must be at night and how each page of the books had a story to tell and wanted our attention.

Moment

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There is that sweet moment of the day when silence seems to descend and time holds still and even the bustle of a packed café remains unnoticed as you let your mind wander, take a turn down a path, untrodden, overgrown with branches forming a canopy of green, and as you wander you begin to notice the magical figures that flitter between the leaves, darting from flower to flower to add a sparkle of colour, and just ahead you glimpse a white steed, a unicorn, drinking from a brook as an elf plays a lullaby on a panpipe, an it is at these moments you paint a scene, craft a character and place them, give them words to say and a task to do, a quest to strive after, to reach for like the words you seek to place on a page, a phrase of imagination, and then you pause for a moment, look around, and realise where you are, in that café, surrounded by people.

This came about when wondering what to write. It had been a while since I wrote something new as I had been spending my time editing a book of mine ready for submission so the creative muscle was rusty. And whilst sat there in the open with a coffee nearby, it reminded me of all those times when time stood still as I wrote, how it could take you places and how a good piece of writing could also take its reader places. So I wrote about that moment.

contentment

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ball of contentment
sweet dreaming of warm log fires
and a little mouse

This poem came about because I was trying out different poetry forms. I like poems with clear structures that constrain you but at the same time free you as you don’t have to worry about how many stanzas you are going to use, or what rhyme pattern you are going to go to battle with. This poem is obviously about my cat and how content he looked settle on my lap before a winter’s fire.

words

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words are watching you
they gather your thoughts
they tell your secrets
they spread lies
and state truths
they can break a heart
they ruin friendships
or destroy an evening
beware words
they can imprison you
or set you free

This poem came about as I was mindlessly watching tv and thinking of the impact that certain people’s words have had on others. It got me thinking about the power of words and how easily they can be misused to create harm.