The Silver Rose
(SR) L’Amfiparnasso: To A Sonneteer With Liberty
L’Amfiparnasso
TO A SONNETEER WITH LIBERTY
Everything you can imagine is real
Pablo Picasso
**********************************
STROPHE
Everywhere I go I find a poet has been there before me
Sigmund Freud
Sir, did you ever take these bright isles in a tour,
The pride of Scotland slake on Hampden’s awesome roar;
& did you ever feed your thirst in Cornish Springs,
Or take the time to read thro’ histories of kings?
Sir, did you drink the ale brew’d from the northern mills,
Or watch seafarers sail from Whitby’s salty sills,
& did you ever stun the herds of Jura deer,
Or strike a mountain run on Snowdon sloping sheer?
Sir, have you ever seen Cumbria clad in snow,
Or Brighton’s beaches been in summer’s easy glow,
& have you ever gone thro’ Glencoe’s savagery,
Or tour’d Portmeirion in total privacy?
Sir, did you please your skin ‘neath Nunraw’s sylvan falls,
Or ease your boat within Old Dunbar’s harbor walls,
& have you ever heard the Cambridge matin bells,
Or felt your senses stirr’d when Britain’s anthem swells?
To an Sonneteer with liberty,
What of these coy demands?
“These things, sir, I have known!”
You have? Then oer the sea,
Beyond these fabled lands
You’ve come to call your own,
Set sail for Calais sands.”
**********************************
ANTISTROPHE
O soul-enchanting poesy,
Thou’st long been all the world with me
John Clare
(i)
I wrote a poem once,
Near Stockport, by the gates of Manchester
Me & Nick were driving there one sunny day
Smoking reefers & talking about life’s changes
Well, we ended up in a funky metal scrapyard
One of those places you never thought existed
Like when you were younger & joked
About where all the lost odd socks went
But this place was the real deal,
Full of Volkswagen carcasses,
Camper vans, Beetle hulks
& a couple of greasy mechanics, chilling with the sun
While Nicky looked at a ninety-nicker bumper
I was suddenly inspired to write a few desolate lines
About decaying Earth
& the dwindling fuel reserves
& finished it off with an arty kind of twist
About discovering an old photograph of myself
Holding a young lady, she was wearing beads
Sat upon the beach of, perhaps, San Remo…
…She never really existed, that girl,
But all poems need an end!
(ii)
So I stash’d it away,
A single sheet of paper folded several times
Constantly forgetting to type the fucker up
Until it turned up in a book I was reading
Livy’s remarkable Early History of Rome
I’d packed it on my mission round the Baltic
Where, trawling about the soft streets of Stockholm
Wondering what the hell the plastic cows were for
Every time I pick’d it up the sheet fell out the pages
Constantly reminding me that I should make it safe
It’d only take a second, but I never took the time…
(iii)
I found myself having one of those moments
Sun setting sublimely as I made my evening meal
On the forecastle of the hotel boat I was staying on
The splish-splosh of waves & a gust of sea breeze
Blew out the sheet as I turned a page
To float on the air like a falling feather
Time was standing still, the paper startedF
A
Slips thro’ the narrowest of cracks between L boards
To be found one day in the distant future L
By someone breaking up the hold for scrap I
N
G
From Stockport to Stockholm flew my fine words
& now I’ve gone & lost the bloody lot!
I was well gutted at first,
Like the time my girlfriend ran off with a German
But, as I ponder’d home to my cabin empty-handed,
Past painted memorials of the age of sail,
I had a remarkable epiphany,
At last my poem had a proper end!
**********************************
EPODE
The great saints impart sanctity to places of pilgrimage
Narada Bhakti Sutras
Sir, did you ever ride the high-speed Gallic trains,
Or climb a mountainside kept by Croatian swains,
& did you deck your sails by Ponza’s pirate isle,
Or study Tuscan tayles in Dante’s sweet new style?
& did you ever flow thro’ Castille in the Spring,
Or seek a fireside glow from Finland’s wintry sting?
& did you surf the scree barefoot upon the Basque,
Or taste the brevity of the Venetian masque?
Sir, did you feel the heat of searing Rajhastan,
Or clad kimono greet fair geishas of Japan,
& did you ever take the waters of Trieste,
Or swim a Turkish lake without a moment’s rest?
Sir, did you ever ride the Vladivostok rail,
Or watch the proud roos hide from harsh Van Diemen hail,
Sir, did you bear the chill of the Saharan night,
Or felt your senses thrill with Rio neath your flight?
To a Sonneteer with Liberty
Art thou adventurous
‘I am sir, life is good!’
It is? then come with me,
A fresher course to steer,
Launch from Canaveral,
To pierce the stratosphere.
(SR): OVERTURE: The Grand Tour
Overture
THE GRAND TOUR
1
‘Tis the end of March & my rent is due,
But two life options lie open to me;
Break with a lover, lose status, split thro,’
Or chain myself to the servility
Of capitalism… a poet true
I yearn to be, so young, so sure, so free;
Romancing my mind with poetry’s flow,
So be it, with sure brave heart, let me go!
2
I made love to my love the night before
I wrapp’d my guitar in a grey, baggy
Jumper once worn on cold nights down Turf Moor,
Emptied Santander of my rent money,
& embark’d upon my third busker’s tour –
Her scent mull’d like wine, her tongue full honey,
How we laugh’d as we revell’d, dear Rosie,
In kisses, love-songs & pure poesy!
3
I watch’d the white cliffs recede to a speck,
Then sang a fond farewell to old Blighty,
But like a wreck-head at a discotheque,
A certain chunderness dock’d to smite me,
& had to head down to the under-deck,
Feeling so sick I think I would whitey –
As one voyage ends, another embarks
At Ostend, swapping Pounds for Francs & Marks.
4
Thro’ Belgium’s monotonous flat fields green
With mental-moustach’d men I shar’d the train,
Behind Flemish floozies, barely fifteen,
Who were singing the Spice Girls… no, not again!
We pass thro’ Bruges, whose spires of golden sheen
Glisten’d in the morning’s early-day rain,
Like beads of sweat on a boxer’s muscles –
Half-hour later we’ve rock’d into Brussels.
5
On changing trains for Waterloo Station,
I start my march with pride, forth to the sight
Of the Iron Lion of my nation
Pois’d oer the field of a terrible fight;
To walk with the ghosts of Napoleon,
Then bus it back to Brussels for the night;
See Catatonia play, blitzed on grass –
Boy-oh-boy that chick’s got a real nice ass.
6
I cross’d the border into Germany,
There took a little stroll around Cologne,
Whose cathedral tower’d high above me,
The holiest skyscraper hewn from stone;
With the Youth Hostels are far too pricey
& Sol was not yet sitting on its throne,
I hopp’d on a train, & off down the line,
Soon top speed hit by the side of the Rhine.
7
All thro’ Europa’s heart, in style, I go,
Handsomest citadels stood guard the way,
When, darkening the river’s ancyent flow
Sol sets again, stars tinkle in their play;
Into old Nuremburg my train did slow,
I’ve nearly crossed the Reich in one smart day;
The Frankenhoff hotel, a cheapish bed,
With joint sharp roll’d to stroll the streets I head.
8
I view the building where them Nazis heard
Their too kind fate; wyrd monsters like Herr Hess,
Who’d murder at an evil tyrant’s word
& smear an entire planet with his mess;
I sample German beer – glass size absurd –
Then find an all-night café to play chess,
Back at the Frankenhoff I cannot sleep
Beneath my room some strip-joint’s bass booms deep.
9
Onto Vienna’s cultured legacy,
Whose clean old streets are beautifully lined
With splendid architectural fancy,
As if some Roman mind had here design’d
A capital of neatest majesty;
First perfect moment of my tours defin’d,
Steps climbing up the Opera House roof,
Poet perches on a pegasus hoof.
10
With Parsifal tromboning thro’ my skull,
I roll up one last reefer, wash, get dressed,
& did one from Austria (far too dull)
On the world famous Orient Express;
With the rage of matador-aiming bull
I supersoar, roarin’ t’wards Budapest,
Ambassadorial, a Sultan’s feast,
All set to sample first tastes of the East,
11
A friendly, warm couple buy me coffee,
She is Norwegian, he is a Scotsman,
They are honeymooning in Hungary
Far from their home, the fishing port of Bergen;
He gives me sev’ral fags & some money
Which I change when I get to the station,
Into Florins worth less than one-fifty –
Well, Scots are renown’d for being thrifty!
12
“What the fuck ma doing in Hungary!?”
Think I as I search for somewhere to rest
In the dirty, bustling, car-choked, friendly
Bullet-hole-wall-lined streets of Budapest;
Architecture clearly steer’d by Turkey,
But laced with the consumeristic West;
I find the Mellow Mood Hostel – what luck!
For four pounds a night it’s as cheap as fuck.
13
The Turks might have come to murder Magyars,
But up to their angel-built baths Ill go,
To boil in the waters, cool in the spas,
Immers’d in reading Shelley’s dreamy flow,
Then a ‘Cisco lawyer goes for my arse
“What the hell mate?!” – the man offers to blow,
Blood muddies the waters, he gets the point –
I click! It’s a freakin’ gay pick-up joint.
14
I meet a lassie later, out we go,
The price of a nice evening meal to share,
“I’m from Richmond, where Edgar Allen Poe
Was born…” “I’m from Burnley, Lancashire…” “Where?”
The ghoulash was great with the wine, we flow
Out to the street, breathing in the sweet air,
Where, in a moment of drunken romance
I kiss’d her neck & seiz’d my shagging chance.
15
I left the lassie dreaming in my bed;
Shit, shower, shave, pack, roll-up sleeping bag,
Greet the warm morning, buy freshly baked bread,
Cheap beer & cheap cigs from some gypsy hag,
Play chess in the street, get really wasted,
Swindle a swindler with a kingside blag,
Then heading back west on the railway line
I get me kicked off by the border line.
16
I gaze on familiar boyhood star
While I walk a few K to the border,
Singing a song I thumb down the wrong car,
They bundle me in, “Silence!” the order,
As the cops check’d my passport, my guitar
Rang out in bizarre tuning & coda,
Bemus’d they drop me at the train station
“Gizza lift” “No!” my tour’s first frustration!
17
‘Neath European night skies, thickly starred,
I find myself in a desolate zone,
Tip-toeing past the sleeping border guard,
Relics from the cold war the scene adorn,
Two young Austrians thought they were hard,
With angry clashing voices of slabstone,
I looked straight down the barrel of a gun,
“Who won the fuckin war!?” & pass’d right on.
18
I take the greatest train jump of my tour
From Vienna to Villach, on a sleek
Inter-City, as each Alp towers o’er
My little carriage, each volcanic peak
Thrust from the verdant, fertile valley floor
With breathtaking beauty – I could not speak,
Until dinnertime by a mountain stream…
Villach’s heap’d watchers echoed as I scream.
19
How glad am I to enter Italy,
For the call of the muse grows ever strong,
Like some wild animal trapp’d inside me,
To find fair form in my juvenile song;
Snowy mountains shrank into flat country,
Thro’ fields of lazy green we zoom’d along,
To Venice; as Italy greets my feet
The Grand Canal sparkles, but where’s the street?
20
Three days I spend in ardour Venetian,
Three nights in a disus’d railway carriage,
Gusting around this floating museum
By footfall & barge; there is a marriage
Between my soul & sheer elysian,
A poet dreaming pulses for the page,
As here, in this soft city, I savor
My first Italian ice cream flavor!
21
Thro’ Venice, I, poetical rover,
Roam streets by night, guitar oer broad back slung,
Under a statue of Casanova,
Ditties composed near Chichester were sung,
Eldritch voice attracting coins each number,
O tuneful tayles melodiously wrung!
&, after playing for an hour, these big,
Black bongo bangers add beats to the gig.
22
Distant Riviera di Levante
My heart’s destination, mine art’s true call,
But first, the mausoleum of Dante,
To tap into a predecessor soul,
Overgrown with moss & creeping ivy,
Good lord, you were the wildest of us all!
Ravenna, this may be a swift sojurn,
But one day, with my epic, I’ll return.
23
How balmy is the Florentine evening,
Whose stylish sweetness softens Dante’s tongue!
Outside Shelley’s villapast I’m busking,
Attracting, soon, a most beautiful throng
Of German fraulines, young friends visiting
This sultry city, entranc’d by my song,
Two follow me into a bonny park
For passionate encounters in the dark.
24
We wake in arms, after cappuccinos,
We’ll wander moped streets, a sacred city
Thro’ which patient Arno anciently flows;
I buy a book to fill with poetry,
The title page marks Maya with a rose,
Then buying food, we climb a hill, where we
Build a fire, dinner cook, watch the sunshine
Fade over Florence, with a dry white wine.
25
‘How romantic it is to be abroad,
Free from the chains of a working mans day,’
Think I while walking the main Pisan road,
There pass a troupe of buskers on the way…
With guitar, pens & notebook all my load
I am here, aye, & all my dreams OK –
Then see the leaning tower – am I drunk?
On further inspection one side has sunk!
26
Back from the tower Fate bids me to meet
That busker’s troupe in musical mid-flow;
There’s an old black bluesman with dust-bare feet,
A dark-eyed Chilean, Kapitano
& Italian saxman strafing the street;
They offer me wine, adding my oestro,
You’ve never heard a more raunchier noise,
& just like that! I am one of the boys.
27
I settle with this best of holidays;
Each one begins with pasta from a nun,
Then idle hours spent musing under rays
Of an English summer-like springtime sun;
When falls the warm evening I, then, amaze
The Pisan public with songs sweetly spun,
Then blitz’d on six bottles of Tuscan red
Outside a church we made our cardboard bed.
28
I jump a train for San Guilliano
To walk on Shelley’s mountains… but, instead,
I’ll sit in the street with old man Franco,
Who ploughs me with red, risotto & bread,
Plus a whole sow’s leg – my stomach doth blow,
Tho’ hardly understood one word he said,
We’ve convers’d on the Wolrd War, England, life,
Italy, poetry & his dead wife.
29
Pisa is like Oxbridge, old student town;
One daym while composing, I met a bunch
Of poser undergraduates, they’re down
With what I’m doing, cook up a great lunch,
Converse in English, then show me around
Pubs, night-clubs & jazz cafes; as the crunch
Doth come, with Latino chick well-endow’d
With looks, I fuck her, do my country proud.
30
I wander up the coastline for to muse,
Setting up camp in a cliffside quarry,
Resplendent in luscious blue, sea-side views;
By the chapel of Portovenere,
Tonight my life, my mind, mine art, shall fuse,
&, awakening to my destiny,
Prepare for the sun to set ‘low the line,
By building fire, ent’ring town, stealin’ wine.
31
With topless bottle of red in my hand,
Up cliff-face I scamper with the surge-might
Of some Hyksos hero from Samarkand,
To claim the top, where gulls in freedoms flight,
Silhouette the setting sun, awesome band
Of gold over azure seas, from this height,
I muse on the rippling sea-meadows blue –
This evening gives birth to a poet true.
32
I pause to reflect on the life I knew;
Nice house, nice job, nice girl, nice skunk, nice deal;
Compar’d them to these skies & seas of blue,
& sense of sheer assurity I feel
At joining the bravestars, we happy few,
No more the cog of the soul-grinding wheel,
Besides, England does my fucking brain in –
& I bet, as I’m writin,’ its rainin’.
33
Dizzying to my heart’s epiphany,
Last sun-chink slipping slow below the line,
One last shed ray sped ‘cross the darkling sea,
To sparkle on an object, close, divine;
A Silver Rose, so lovely & so wee,
Has caught my eyes with such delightful shine –
Plucking this moment’s floral momento,
I left for camp, led by its petals’ glow.
34
Southwards I go, to Viareggio,
Beneath Apennines peaks, whose lofty height
Canters o’er like Byron on a canto,
Now shrouded by this drowsy, star-strewn night,
I build a fire beside a soft sea flow,
Then cook a meal up, in the ember’s light
I shed a tear for some long ago year
When Shelley’s corpse was found & burnt – right here!
35
I awoke to the skin-warm, golden glimmers
Of glorious sunshine, whose burning rays
Ever stronger grow, over sand shimmers
A floaty, velvety, dream-splaying haze,
Watching speedboats dashing between swimmers
All thro’ the day my skin cooks more ablaze,
So much, when back in Pisa my new tan
Has cut so deep, folk think I’m a black man.
36
Soon back am I in bohemian swing
Musing away; one long, mellow daydream;
By the side of the Arno sometimes sing,
Or bask in the sun with wine & ice-cream,
Or busk to the world as a poet-king,
Or party hard with Kapitano’s team
Life! Life! forever tender, thou, to me
Having tasted this breath of Italy.
37
In the warm morning, after a party,
I sit with Kapitano round a fire;
He teaches me the bird-songs of Chile
& how to spend a day without my lyre;
Brimming with wisdom, into the city
Drift I, where in a shock of love desire
She sits on the grass banging wee bongos,
‘…To describe the way I feel,’ the song goes.
38
She seems to me the first fair star of Eve,
With ocean eyes & smile of teeth pearl white,
And perfect curves like you wouldn’t believe,
My heart melteth at the sensual sight
Of beauty’s first essence – this I receive
In raptures, as we, by Lord Arno’s flight
Converge as one, ‘til comes the sad sundown –
“Meet me in Rome,” we kiss as she leaves town.
39
The night before my tour’s final movement
I play my farewell set, busk up a pill,
Slide down the Maccinera for groovement
With a slick Sicilian band, until
An onslaught of Dutch Techno bombardment
Releases built up pressures, ‘til the chill;
Coming down leisurely, laid back, sublime,
Puffing out chillum smoke, passing smooth time.
40
Heading down south on the click-clack train track,
At two AM the conductor finds me
With a bag of books, the rags on my back,
& in my hands a copy of Shelley;
Expecting some Hampshire inspector’s flak
This guy, instead, showers me wi’ pity –
Six hours later, ochre twilight at dawn,
I walk the streets of Rome, a man alone.
41
As o’er the Eternal City doth come
The mellow, yellow orb of Italy;
I tour the absorbing Colosseum,
Musing upon the world of poetry,
& my place clearly in it – struck dumb
By Rome’s incredible decadency,
Where ghosts of fallen grandeurs wide pervade
& legends linger, tho’ their glories fade.
42
These ruins seem to speak, they sing with pride,
Splendors far surpassing exhortation,
Where bridges, spanning the Tiber’s jade glide
Bare intricate statues, inspiration
Flows throughout my poetry, sanctified,
As, in a nation within a nation,
Dead popes standing in guard o’er Peters square,
I start my final stanzas – almost there!
43
I sharpen my features & dress to impress,
Entering a candlelit theatre
Where a dark, Grecian drama’s in progress,
Aha! My marvelous Manuela,
My sexy, smiling,’ stage-struttin’ actress,
I knew right then that I had to have her,
“You look beautiful, like a Silver Rose!”
That night… her hotel bed… our teeth-torn clothes.
44
With my lady sleeping, thro’ the city,
I roam, sweet sunhine illumines the streets,
A tranquil Protestant cemetary,
& Shelley’s tower, here my muse completes
Her visitation; I feel tired, empty,
But wait! As I stood by the grave of Keats,
Strength surges back to try the train-jump home
So did one from the glory that was Rome.
45
Cashing in my emergency tenner,
For now I’ve realis’d I’m quite hungry,
& knew I needed a few more lira,
To help me make the length of Italy
So, one last set of songs sang in Pisa,
My sojurn there already memory,
For Kapitano had moved on to France
To work the World Cup with a beggar’s dance.
46
Leaving my gentle Arno to her flow,
I train-jump to an uncertain future,
& once again view’d Viareggio,
Le Spezia, then pass’d thro’ Genoa;
Spent sunset in the streets of Torino,
Then jump’d a new train towards the border –
But traveling don’t always go to plan,
My bloody train had landed in Milan!
47
I was now sev’ral hundred miles of course,
& how it happen’d did not understand,
But youth is driven by a hidden force,
Which made me take the train to Switzerland,
At whose harsh border found I smart resource –
For they had me rejected out of hand
(I look’d like a tramp) – after midnight, tense,
I found a rabbit-hole shewn from the fence.
48
I felt like I’d escaped Colditz Castle,
But as I pass’d thro’ chocolate Zurich,
I was toss’d into a world of hassle,
The Swiss care not for buskers & their reek,
After lots of shouting & a wrestle,
I was plung’d in a police cell for my cheek,
But come sundown eveything was sorted –
The next day I was to be deported!
49
They marched me on a fancy Swiss Air Jet,
Handcuff’d until the very last moment,
For I had slipped right thro’ their border net,
Back to my native island must be sent,
On fine French wine my flight was free from fret,
For, thanks to a filthy rich government,
I’d been handed a shed load of Swiss Francs,
My benefactors – Nazi-loving banks!
50
I thrill’d so much to drop into Heathrow,
Tho’ from the wine a little worse for wear,
To Rosie’s boudoir, hopefully, did go –
At first she gave me such a startl’d stare,
But romance, soon, did reconvene its flow
I fed her verses on a velvet air,
Said she, “Why don’t we take a bath, my sweet…”
With that hot wash my Grand Tour was complete.
(SR) I: The Return of the Rose
THE RETURN OF THE ROSE
You find no man at all intellectual who is willing to leave London. No sir. When a man is tired of London he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford
Dr Samuel Johnson
INITIATA
BENEVENUTO
THE SONNEVERSE
FROM MY…
KENT
LONDON
CAMDEN MARKET
NOW THAT I AM TWENTY FIVE
COMMUTER LOVE: PART 1
WHEN THE DOME WAS BUILT
POET’S CORNER
RAILRIDER
ARTISTRY OF LUST
COMMUTER LOVE: Part 2
——————–
INITIATA
This is a poem for the Facebook Age,
Verse slinging zeitgeist butterflies in nets,
Ultimate ‘selfie’ swept across the page,
A blog gone viral… want to read… then lets!
For Homer, it was proud Achilles’ wrath,
For Virgil, it was Aeneas exil’d,
These led brave Dante down th’infernal path,
That Milton, Gods & Mortals reconcil’d.
For Wordsworth, it was all a world within,
For Byron how a poet moves thro’ men,
Sithen, no proper epic ‘as there bin,
Until the day I pluck’d & preen’d my pen;
Encourag’d by that manna-blasted gang,
I cast myself amang &, spangling, sang…
*********
BENEVENUTO
…I am the Silver Rose & in these words confide;
‘Tis better to have lived than to have died,
& in these lives of highlights that we lead,
Preserve them in plush pots where poets pour their mead.
These are occasions ‘twyx two kindred minds,
Whose love of poesia absolute
Brings those to raptures, whom, in numbers finds
A marching drummer & a lilting lute.
To thee, I leave my sonnetries in trust,
Dear reader, as in these see me alive;
Tho’ most of them will join me in the dust,
I hope the better handful will survive,
For tho’ my soul in this no longer grows,
While we share this, still lives ‘The Silver Rose.’
*********
THE SONNEVERSE
Every stanza is a planet,
Every sonnet is a star,
Fourteen sonnets constellations make,
But brighter skies by far
Are galaxies of constellations,
Fourteen in each one,
Epic, stretching, metaverses,
& when one’s works are done,
The better host of sonnets choose,
Two sets of precious gems,
Where whispers from thy gypsy muse
Infuse like diadems,
Crowning the sonneteer who sings
Like Ceasar did to petty kings.
*********
FROM MY…
From My Mum: every single moment of my life
From My Dad; my assurity & love of sports
From Grandma; my kindness & my smiles
From Nicky; the longevity of true friendship
From Glenda; a love of, & a home in, Scotland
From Emily; a family, & her adoration
From Alan; the fact that bass guitars play me
From Shelley & Byron; Italy, then, now & forever
From Burnley; my wonderful football club
From Shakespeare; the need to create a folio
From Homer; the need to create three epic poems
From The Muses: my art & my meaning
From The Baron; a home to complete my work
From The Universe; signs thro’ which I’ll follow
*********
KENT
I’d enter’d England by the milky cliffs
Arise round Dover, from the shores of France
My ferry had traversed the Gallic trench
That Ceasar & the Conqueror once forc’d,
A thousand & a thousand years ago;
From thither Kentish garden golden grew,
Relique of Anglo-Saxon Andreadswald,
Peopl’d by leopard-leaping Eurostars,
The rugged gulls of Margate & Ramsgate,
Rochester castle, Canterbury’s charm –
Dwelling on Chaucer’s lucid charisma,
Working half-way twyx Aneirin & I –
& now, the River Medway, to the heart
Of England’s soul, where the old Thames doth flow!
*********
LONDON
So, this is London still, a dream has flash’d
Since first I fled here, some mad year long pass’d,
In every street the feet of destiny
Have stamp’d a mark’d upon its history,
How snowflake different each face appears,
BY ruddy river’s roll, are souls set free,
Or is this more a penitentiary,
No more great place than crocodiles have tears?
But knowing not the towers of Tashkent
Nor writing haiku thro’ a Nippon night
Sat underground, assuming new intent
To Waterloo, up into the sunlight,
I’ll make myself take roads unwalk’d before –
What tides shall break me forth? & to what shore?
*********
CAMDEN MARKET
Returning from foreign places been,
With many fine tales to tell thy friends,
Check out the crux of your music scene,
Go trawl yesteryear’s retroing trends.
Down hustle-bustle, store-lin’d road, vibes
Blare, blur as one – this southern Afflecks
Fun Mecca to London’s fashion tribes.
…Chick on the sixties stall smells of sex…
Rummaging scarves, suedes & velvet pants,
Pondering Ben Sherman shirt to choose,
She serves a geezer… I seize my chance
Along with new pair of cool, blue shoes…
At my worn-out Ellese’s funeral;
Soles gone to shoe heaven, the rest plopp’d in the canal.
*********
NOW THAT I AM TWENTY FIVE
Now the landlords shouted, “Sup up!” at some jam night down Camden,
Time has come for me to sum up some cool stuff which have done;
Well, I’ve have had mi share o’ ladies, & some of ’em together,
Play’d football round the counties proudly for mi Lancashire,
I have drunk the Dublin ferry, compos’d poesy midst Pompeii,
Trudged thro’ muddy Glastonbury off mi nut to see Brown play,
I have master’d Fare Evasion, troubadour’d thro’ all my crimes
(Except one ‘boitelle du vin’ they’ve reported in the Times),
I’ve watch’d Burnley win at Wembley, been a champion at chess,
Dodg’d the workplace prison mis’ry, sonneteering, free from stress,
I have written wicked albums, form’d a company of kings,
Chas’d Napoleon thro’ Belgium… these, & many other things,
For I’m flush with understanding what it means to be alive –
With a spirit so demanding now that I am Twenty-Five!
*********
COMMUTER LOVE: PART 1
Two singers fell in love upon a train
Before they shar’d a melody – erewhile
There is a hierarchy of soulmates –
Steep, stepp’d pyramids of impurities -,
The topmost is a plinth of perfection,
For Hugh & Lesley theirs’ a lower rung,
Tho’ rare, a hundred million to one,
When even best of lovers fatal flaw’d,
“This is my station…” “Perhaps…” “Yes?” “Perhaps
We could connect, meet again & reconvene
This wonderful distraction to our lives?”
‘She’s hesitated far too long,’ he thought,
But broke impending doom with a rapture;
“This is my station too, I’ll buy you lunch.”
*********
WHEN THE DOME WAS BUILT
At this stage of Mankind’s devolution,
We live in an age of air pollution,
Fat-cats & taxes, taxi fares, faxes,
Serial killers, silky leg waxes,
Condoms, modems, gimmicks, gadgets, gizmos,
Two rubber ducks & comic book heroes,
Football… rock & roll… catwalk… movie stars,
Recession, depression & wonder bras,
Four packs & prozac, pylon countryside,
Anarchist daughter, schoolboy suicide,
Just-add-water, slaughter of Mother Earth,
Demise of religion, pagan rebirth,
Not one inch left of this globe to explore,
The whole world itchin’ for its third World War!
*********
POET’S CORNER
Mine art asleep, yet… she dreams in beauty,
Paints tangible scenes to adorn the page,
Illuminous thoughts to milk this strange age
For mellowing souls, sing a song freely,
Whose notes of triumphant resplendency,
Shoot lumunous stars cross an opaque stage,
Rare spirits releas’d from a mortal cage,
I have a new song for thee, poetry!
In raptures receiving the sacred states
Of enlighten’d mind, its virtuous heart
& resurgent soul, I’ll follow the fates,
For tis a fine thing to live life as art,
To champion Renaissance, join the brave
Who sought this greatest glory of the grave.
*********
RAILRIDER
I hop on a train
little fuss
few passengers
watch me sit
a black woman
a young punk
old man twiddles his tash
& in a flash
the train sets off
planes wing over London
& as we reach Brixton
my brain
pretends to be elsewhere
dreaming of mysterious fancies
*********
ARTISTRY OF LUST
A girl I gave a line to caught me up,
“Fancy a smoke?”… that’s what I call karma –
She’s an artist… Poets & painters,
‘Boets & Bainters!’ said King George the First.
We catch taxis to Clapham, she cooks up chi,
Post-gig glow, smoking skunk in my kitchen,
She’s fit-as-fuck in an unkempt kinda way.
We chat about life & poetry & music,
Then asks me if I wanna do some art
& strips down naked – she must mean life drawing.
Elegant & energetic she was my kinda lady,
I start to sketch her tits, think what the hell
Am I drawin’ em for, & pleasantly suggested
A congress of the Tiger, the Cat or the Deer…
*********
COMMUTER LOVE: Part 2
She shivers in vain under the old clock tower;
Drizzle spate, lover late, fizzling date.
“The 17.17 from Dover Priory
Has been diverted via Bat & Ball…”
She walks, morbidly, into Unwins,
Buys a bottle of cheap red Chianti
To take home to its depressing glass;
Tonight she’ll romance Albert Square
& a fisherman’s pie from Tescos –
Laced with white-hot jalapenos.
The EUREKA knock at the door
& Hugh stands there, slick-flicks wet hair,
& says, “Sorry, Leslie, I’ve had a total nightmare!”
“Drive next time,” she says, kissing him prodigously.
(SR) BOHEMIA
BOHEMIA
I remember a night in brixton when you were the best band in the world and me and james who were in the crowd of 23 just turned and looked at each other just like when we saw the pixies at the academy and said nothing but just grinned with a smugness of those who just knew they were there at the birth of the Beatles
Stephen Rocke
———-
I’ve a personal squat perch’d on lolloping Dorothy Road
But first thing’d first, need a section six in the window,
Alright, there might be no gas, water, nor electricity,
But half-a-million grand’s worth of Victoriana
Can’t be sniffed at… as for poetry & the internet,
Battersea library’s just there at the top of the street.
Transported my Oasis shop bed in pieces on the buses
Open fire fuell’d by plentiful wood from the skips
A calor gas for food, shower radio for Classic FM.
Clapham is proper up & coming;on Tuesday nights
The theaters are ‘pay-what-you-can’ = a quid
Plus Britain’s largest sports screen down the Old Grand
I shave in Tesco for a strut about the city,
A poet’s night out, those random & aimless
Saunters thro’ nightlife which always roll sweet.
I found myself at the Queen Elizabeth Hall,
Bert Jansch’s 60th, Jonny Marr, Bernard Butler
Guitaring so haunting like chauntings half-spoken
Astounding applause as I board the night bus home
To spin a brand new silver key, enter rent free
Repasting in my castle for the first time!
* The Latchmere Theatre & Battersea Arts Centre
Postscript:
Chris: I remember doing pills at your gaff in the dark
Damo: What – in clapham?
Chris: Yeah
Damo: Did we play indoor hockey downstairs
Chris: A bit – think you had just opened the place – me, you and some Ketamine Karen
Damo: sounds about right
(SR) 2: On the Road
ON THE ROAD
There’s gotta be a better reason for writing than some vague impulse to produce monuments
Reed Whittemore
WESTENDERS
THE GENTLEMAN’S ART OF GOOD WOOING
ROSIE’S SCHOOL RUN
CAMPING
TOO MUCH CANDY
THIS IS MY COUNTRY
THE WAY
TRAINING IN THE ART OF FARE EVASION
The Fader Code
50P BOOKSHOP
TRAINING IN THE ART OF FARE EVASION:
The Jedi Stare
TO MY CRITICS
CAMBRIA
EIRE
FLOWERSCAR ROAD
WESTENDERS
‘Twas a quintessential English evening
All about town & the capital’s core,
On my arm a wonderful flutterling,
Perfectly amenable to the tour.
We met in a wine-bar off Trafalgar,
To delve within a cosy eaterie,
Then took our places at the theatre
For the Mousetrap’s befuddling mystery.
O! The night brimm’d a goblet romantic
& our spirits, yes, they sparkl’d as the stars,
Rosie was a gentle alcoholic,
Floating, flirting, thro’ her favourite bars;
When to the chimes of Big Ben’s booming bells
We jump’d the last train down to Tunbridge Wells.
*********
THE GENTLEMAN’S ART OF GOOD WOOING
Sir, just as sea-galleons need proper manning,
To act like a stallion needs dapper planning,
Ride out in the morning, find snappy new shirt,
French wine & fresh melons for a private desert.
Whether up in the Andes, or by the Atlantic,
Reserve a nice table with view quite romantic
For dates in the city seek art, tho’ not too much,
Sitting still together allows two hearts to touch.
Sir, to get the best out of screwing,
Try the Gentleman’s Art of Good Wooing,
For a woman well-wooed in her bloom,
Is a vixen if moved to the bedroom,
So, strike like a cobra, then kiss like a man,
& undressing brings success to your plan.
*********
ROSIE’S SCHOOL RUN
OH MY GOD! I’m having a nightmare,
Fuck, look at the fucking time!
“SHUUTTT UUUPPP!!!”
The kids are doin’ my head in
With their school-stuff everywhere,
“Here’s yer shoes, here’s yer socks,
Heres yer fuckin’ sandwich box!”
“MUMMY… don’t swear!”
OH MY GOD! Its ten to nine now,
& my car-keys JUST AREN’T THERE!
Will it rain, will mum call,
Will I end up on the dole
O MY GOD! Its five to nine now
& the traffic’s hits a WALL!
*********
CAMPING
A few miles west of Winchelsea we found
A perfectly poetic spot called Fairlight,
Perched on a cliff-top, private beach below us,
The grey-green channel stretching out to France,
Behind us; lovely, swarming Down Country,
To our right a forested coastal hill
Dotted with extravagant-looking houses,
Homes of the wealthy, or the famous elite,
Like Paul Macartney’s crazy second daughter…
I whipp’d us up a campsite in ‘man’ mode,
& large pallet found, a few ninja moves
Broke it to firewood, I cook’d up a feast
Wash’d down with wine – to a hot, scarlet sunset,
Made love like lions on a tall cliff’s edge.
*********
TOO MUCH CANDY
As bakeries stock icing-coated treats;
Like danishes, cakes, stroodles, tarts & pies,
I sugar-rush to see thy brimming sweets,
& taste the jelly babies in thine eyes.
You are the dairy cream of an eclair,
You lips the berries of a bramble bush,
Like honeydew the gold locks of thy hair,
& with rose-milk your soft cheeks are aflush.
You are an hour spent bathing in the sun,
Another hour spent swimming in the sea,
But in warm rays the blazing skin grows numb,
& in seawaves salt-texture vexes me,
Like too much candy – so I’ll say farewell,
Loose cut, sweet Rosie, from your cosy spell.
*********
THIS IS MY COUNTRY
Good Morning Great Britain
Still great, still Britain
The sun is shining, 10:45 AM
£296.26 pence in my pocket
Time to bet it all on black & hit the road again
If time is a mere scratch & life is nothing
& nothing that occurs is of the slightest importance
From Aberdeen to Birmingham, Arundel & Deal
From Dullis Hill to Rotherham, Bristol & Peel
From Inverness to Liverpool, Leeds & Palmer’s Green
From Lewisham to Padiham & all the pubs between
From Badminton to Twickenham & Barton-in-the-Beans
‘Til my bardic breath expires
This is my Time,
This is my Rhyme,
This is my Country!
*********
THE WAY
There is a baton wild & free,
The ancient art of poetry,
That flies out from the mouths of men,
As tho’ them gods on highest ben,
By them the great tradition passed
That pins a sail to Poet’s mast
& carries them across the wave
To famous islands, glory’s grave!
The Poet never truly dies
Those fancy twinkles in their eyes
Are Muses, who like fireflies flit
In destin’d dance, from wit-to-wit
Stokes dragonsbreath in mortal clay,
Next Poet sets along the Way.
*********
TRAINING IN THE ART OF FARE EVASION
The Fader Code
1 Remain alert
2 Always keep your cool
3 Trust your instincts
4 Never show your money
5 Know your stations
6 Another five minutes won’t hurt in the loo
7 Know your enemy
8 Know your postcodes
9 The train’s going there anyway
10 When in doubt, clout
11 Trains always comes when ya skinnin’ up
12 It is every Fader’s duty to baffle & confuse
13 Always remember your free cup of tea
14 No need to rush unless you’re being chas’d
*********
50P BOOKSHOP
In the heart of the Maritime City,
On Albert Road, still trades the treasure store
Where first found I those gems of poetry,
Little jewels of literary lore.
As I disturb the silence of that room
Bookseller barely glances from the page,
The musty smell of leather-bound volume
After volume…
…shelf-stack’d, floor-piled…
…the sage
Deems sweeter than perfume of a lover.
I find, buried, a long-forgotten tome,
Blow dust in clouds from it’s sea-green cover,
To chance upon a book on sonnet form!
‘Tis such monumental moments as these
Which sets a craft drifting on time-shifting seas.
*********
TRAINING IN THE ART OF FARE EVASION
The Jedi Stare
I first learned how to Fade at sweet sixteen
Top of the M1, dirty Leeds in the rain
“Fuck that!” I huff’f & hopped on a train
Aint look’d back (or paid) since, welded to wits,
Like fa{are-eva}ding the Leipzig train outta Colditz!
Excellently ticketless & groovy!
Me-in-the-mirror the in-flight movie
Thorsten Veben once said,“He with sufficient
Means to live, Without gainful employment,
Is a gentleman!” “May I see your ticket?”
The Jedi stare: “You’ve seen my ticket mate,
I turn to my phone with a carefree shrug,
Bag the blag, settle in, check my facebook, smug.
*********
TO MY CRITICS
O! Let the poet ruffle feathers far!
When, wallowing in mediocrity,
Men mock ‘wyrd’ ways, the voice of vanity
Effected, like the gasp of Balthazaar
When first he saw messiah – Halley’s star
He’d follow’d blindly since Chang’an City,
On a lone barn shone – or the gritty gulp
When Brendan left from Earth by flying car;
This bedrock fog, this bog of grunting sland,
Where squirms opinion in its wormy dirts,
However clever, ‘credible’ & scann’d –
If ignorance is taken for a wit,
We laureates should rip aside our shirts
& smear best chests in festergripe & shit!
*********
CAMBRIA
I’d enter’d Wales along its southern shore,
Pass’d many breezy towns of prime bereft;
Like Newport, Port Talbert, Haverfordwest,
Dolgellau’s mellow stream, Harlech’s stoic stones,
Where, standing pois’d upon Glendower’s keep,
Cymru’s grey passes bash the flashing skies!
Like lanterns drawing phantoms from a fen,
I’m wrestl’d westwards with a restless pen
To tacklr Snowdon from the low Rhyd Ddu,
Infinite furlongs from her summit view;
The twinkling of the distant River Dee,
The rising lion of Aran Fawwdwy…
…Britannia’s Isles enwrap me, all around,
Tho’ up in Heaven, feet still touch the ground.
*********
EIRE
From Holyhead the British Isles recede,
Before another spreads horizon wide,
& soon we have entered the Dublin pale,
Divided by the sluggish Liffy flow;
Refreshment lifts us from the Temple Bar,
Thro’ Bray, into the gloomy Wicklow Hills,
To spend a week at gorgeous Glendaloch,
Then gallop west through Galway’s savage peaks
To Connemara, proof of God’s own art;
Braving the fierce, grievous Atlantic spray
I scale the heights some human mountain goat,
To pace the ancient battle cairns of Cong,
Then back to Dublin, back to Liverpool,
As soak’d in history as soak’d in rain!
*********
FLOWERSCAR ROAD
Pois’d, almost home, we hiked up Kinder Scout
In early April when the branches bare,
Or glittering with leaves just starting out
Upon their quest to fumigate the air;
Foxglove & thistle empurpling the trail
That modern man in motion wide discards,
Across the heights that shadow Calderdale,
My home awaits among the crude back yards.
About the wool & bones dull moorland spann’d,
& Burnley’s beddiness one walk awaits,
Where first my spirit felt its mother’s hand
Entangl’d by the fibres of our fates;
But now… a moment settl’d on a stone,
A breath of wind, the heather… & alone!
(SR) SONG OF THE MORNING
SONG OF THE MORNING
The sky is pink, & rose, & red,
A chink of golden sun!
It’s almost time to leave your bed,
The day has scarce begun.
Be glad for this beautiful morning!
Now that Dawn has deliver’d us day,
Go & shake off your sleep with a yawning,
To the whiff of a café au lait.
But, if the hours to roll ahead
Seem thorny, rough & steep,
Don’t drag back up your duvet spread
& plunge off back to sleep.
No! what a precious stepping stone
This day of life ahead;
All yours, these hours, this life, alone,
So, mate, get out ya bed!
The longest day’s in June, they’ll say,
The shortest’s in December,
But whatever day it is, today’s
A day you’ll long remember.
Yes, it’s time to escape from your bedding,
Pop on kettles & toasters & hobs,
& I know they might batter yer ‘ead in,
But we’ve got to get on with our jobs!
Wake up & get flex’d with yer stretches,
Or ya yoga if yer that way inclin’d,
In ya mind draw up plans, making sketches,
Days run better if cleverly design’d.
But leave some spontaneous spaces,
& savor them, random & rife,
Meeting different people & places
Are the flavorsome spices of life.
For life is a wonder, enjoy it!
Let it’s living be sweet & sublime,
Today let us leave a fine footprint
On the shores of the oceans of time.
They say each day’s a novel bound,
But what kind could it be?
A history? A mystery?
We’ll have to wait & see!
There’s rough & smooth, there’s bad, there’s good,
There’s weeping, there’s a smile
There’s summer nights, there’s Autumn flood
There’s Winter (for a while),
There’s rivers & there’s rainbows,
There’s savory, & there’s sweet,
There’s children in the meadows
Chasing butterflies in bare feet.
There might be bullies in the schools,
Or mildew in the steeple,
But think of problems as the tools
To polish us as people.
If gloomy strains thy mind enshrouds,
Remembering stigmas you’ve fear’d
In former times, depressing clouds
Thro’ actions fast disappear’d.
Today, no folk ye shall offend,
Nor be yourself offended,
Whate’ers amiss let’s strive to mend,
There’s nowt that can’t be mended.
& it’s no use feeling bitter,
& it’s pointless getting mad,
& it’s no good always longing
For the things we’ve never had.
A bell’s not a bell to ‘til you ring it,
A song’s not a song ‘til you sing it,
A friend’s not a friend ‘til you miss ‘em,
A kiss is not real ‘til you kiss ‘em.
If feeling things just don’t seem right,
Release the need to grouse,
To fret & gloom, from room-to-room,
Sulk-stropping thro’ the house.
If yesterday, when things got tough
& you gave up, said, ‘that’s enough,’
A moan won’t make life’s fog less thick,
Its sunny smiles that do the trick!
Vow to yourself today’s the day
When all your worries cease,
For hearts untouch’d by worrying
Are hearts at peace & ease.
With patient ear, with open eyes,
With ready, helping hand,
With gentle spirit & a heart
That’s quick to understand,
Whate’er your goals & dreams you’ll find
They can’t be reach’d a glance behind –
Life’s chances only e’er appear
For those who forwards thro’ life steer.
With ‘doing’ let thy day be fill’d,
So many misconstrue,
We cannot reputations build
On what we’re going to do.
& wouldn’t days be drear & long
If all went right & nothing wrong,
O! what a world so dull & flat,
With not a jot there to grumble at
If you’ve a most unpleasant task
Don’t whine at it, get to it,
& if a favours needing ask’d,
Don’t put it off, just do it!
& if you’re not so young these days,
One thought can youth renew,
Pretend to sing and twirl around
As once you used to do!
& if you find the going rough
Too tough, too steep, too gruelling
Don’t pack it in, gripe that’s enough
Cos its just yourself youre fooling
Before you love somebody else,
You’ll have to learn to love yourself,
Upon achievements set your sights,
& climb them to their highest heights.
Open your mind to hope’s soft sway,
From future worries part,
& let no mournful yesterday
Disturb thy peace of heart!
If you, today, can find the bread
To pay a debt, then pay it,
& if a kindly word needs said
Just go ahead & say it!
If friends have gifts encourage them,
If faults, first recognise
The perfect time to mention them,
Lest friendships might capsize.
If miff’d, don’t leave the drift unsaid,
Relief lives in an emptied head,
Nor keep nice comments in the dark,
There’s beauty in a kind remark.
But, it’s better to apologize,
Naught gain, we, from delay,
Left festering, your good intent,
Like all things, must decay.
‘I’m sorry mate,’ or ‘love,’ or ‘ma’am,’
Costs nothing but yer pride,
Such simple message, soft & calm,
Shall soothe the storms inside.
If from the world your life withdrew
& days are grey with sorrow
When bits of blue come breaking thro’
The sun will surely follow!
The most important folk are those
Who wear a sunny smile;
Those friendly, cheery, help-you-folk
Who make this life worthwhile.
Be prompt if friend or duty calls,
Be deaf to scandal’s know-it-alls,
& if your faith has ebb’d away,
Stand up & reach for God today.
If someone needs a ticking off
Be careful how you’ve set
The tone of your admonishes
For, in the end, not none of us
Is perfect – well, not yet!
But, if your heart is near to breaking,
Feel this Earth a cruel spot
& you hoped today’d be better
But you’re feelin’ that it’s not,
Then nows the time for courage,
Time to parcel up your fears
& if the scourge of gossip
Comes a-bleating to your ears
Have courage when facing your problems,
For none have e’er striven in vain,
& there never was glorious rainbow
Without a wee splatter of rain.
Those negative thoughts, they’ll all have to go,
So, try & say ‘yes,’ when you want to say ‘no,’
& never say, ‘can’t,’ saying only, ‘I’ll try,’
Accepting things happen, not wonder, ‘but why?’
& if a kindness you have done
Has made somebody glad
Whatever griefs or fears were yours
How can thy heart feel sad.
Who likes to see dark clouds roll up
& hide the bright blue sky,
Who welcomes rain that spoils the fun
Why, neither you, nor I,
But, day-by-day, & all thro’ life,
It’s good to know the rain
Will pass, the clouds disperse, & then
The sun must shine again!
Then, mingling with this wondrous world,
By choice, or situation hurl’d,
One step won’t take you very far,
You’ve got to keep on walking,
One word won’t tell folk who you are,
You’ve got to keep on talking.
Perhaps you’ll be fac’d with the violent,
With all of their moron attacks,
If so, take time out & be silent,
Switch off, run a bath & relax.
& refrain from complaining about it,
For gossip’s a dangerous game,
Where slateful words & idle talk,
Can harm the honest name.
A careless word might kindle strife,
A bitter word might hate instill,
A cruel word might wreck a life,
But gracious words might someone thrill!
Let others gossip how they will!
If misfortune rumbles at ya,
Like a rock in fast free-fall
It can’t be a complete disaster,
For life carries on, after all.
If there’s a question left to solve
Somewhere within your heart,
All changes grow from firm resolve,
Such things must have a start.
When, climbing out of life’s dark traps,
No matter how daunting the slope,
Tho’ you spirits have sunk to your boot-straps,
& you feel that you simply can’t cope;
Take a step, & then go take another,
Just a heave at a time, taking care,
With a flash of delight you’ll discover,
One moment you’re suddenly there!
& so, before you’ll start your day
There’s one last thing I’d like to say –
There’s No need to huff & hurry,
Life is not all rush & worry,
For the world is full of magic
Take the time to stop & grasp it,
Catch the moment lest it dies,
Such enchantments can be fleeting,
Brief as passing butterflies!
(SR) 3: Lancashire Rose
Lancashire Rose
LANCASHIRE ROSE
He who tells or hears this tale shall reach the same place
Bhishma
*********
BURNLEY
You must know Burnley to see it’s beauty,
Twixt Hamildon & Pendle where she lies,
Thou fertile region of the North contree,
Of Bingo halls & market stalls & pies,
Of cobblestones & Bovis Homes & lanes,
Of working men & the working men’s pride
Of balmy days & snowy greys & rains
& blatantly the world’s best football side.
You must know Burnley to see it’s beauty,
The arches & the chimneys & Turf Moor,
The stately halls of Gawthorpe & Towneley,
The station & the bus-stop & mi door –
You can keep yer New Yorks, Delhis & Rome
At the end of the day there’s no place like home!
*********
FIRST KISS
I was a six-year-child when first I felt
My soul entwining with the fairer sex,
Em’rald-eyed neighbor, who, one starry night
Said, “Have you ever kiss’d a lass before?”
“Of course!” I yelp’d, but grandmas do not count
& as we kiss’d she giggled at my lips
Closed shut & clamp’d by frigid innocence,
& said, “No, not like that, ya kiss like this!”
& show’d me how my mouth should act a fish.
Soon sprinting home, embarrass’d at the deed,
That never was repeated I believe,
For looking back, I was, in tender days
Contented with the kisses of grandmas
& nee-owwwwing with little Corgi Cars.
*********
PENDLE HILL
With a vigour that hordes the squirrel stores,
Fair sommer’s morning drives us to the moors,
Twix’ scatter’d wracks of industry’s decay,
‘Along the auld canal I made fair way,
Then, to some heathen sentinel upwind,
Treading rough fields, the roads, the world behind.
Shelt’ring from northern breeze I lounge supine
On whale-back’d peak, thou solit’ry Pennine;
All in the misty vale an entity –
Slashing terraced rows round Pendle City,
Whose galaxy of lights shatters the gloam,
& one of them’s the hearthstar of my home.
Forever, here, my spirit shall abide,
Fair-feather’d by this precious countryside.
*********
GANNOW TOP
I learnt to swim right at the top o’ Rosegrove
& got a ten-meter badge for mi speedos,
I was seven or so, & two years later,
Went off wi’ mi class to the baths, n’ that.
So, as I’m sat down wi’ mi mates on the bus,
A poo started moving, a real turtle-head
& instead of rushing straight to the toilet
I thought that I’d get changed first, n’ that.
Then, lo & behold, on mi cubicle floor
That self-same poo plopp’d down all goo & stinkin,’
So mi teacher made me clean the buggar up,
Then sent me to sit in the stands, n’ that,
Where I waited mi teasing classmates with dread,
But never, to their credit, was one word said!
*********
MI MUM’S
Ah breeze in, kiss mi Mum, butter some bread,
“A phone call, letter, we thought you were dead!”
“Mum, chasin’ destiny, I’ll do great feats,
But you treat me just like Abbey treat Keats!”
“Yer no son of mine get a proper job,
Yer nowt but a no-good, bone idle slob!”
That same old twitterin’ in mi ear lobe,
I shit, shower, shave, raid mi Dad’s wardrobe…
Down the Burnley Miners, men dodge their wives
Best bitter’s well cheap & bonhomie thrives.
“Oi thats mi shirt!” “Owdo Dad? “Owdo Son!”
“How was London?” “Funny!” When the drinking’s done
Back at the ranch Mam curses bingo numbers,
Dad snoring thro’ his twelve bitter slumbers.
*********
ME
I love the smell of garlic on mi finger,
& The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe,
Can’t stand a tuneless karaoke singer,
Or pain whenever stubbing any toe.
I’m angry when the chippies charge for ketchup
& Burnley losing to a stupid goal,
I’ll never try an internet match-up,
& always save spiders from the plug-hole.
It’s joy to hike about, up hillsides camping
& daft to have a shave & leave a tash,
Its excellent to DJ, vibes upramping
& buzzin’ when mi pockets cough-up cash.
‘Cos when I’m not writin’ mi poetry
The little things in life are what make me!
*********
ARRAN STREET
As a poignant time-lapse of the soul
Removes my child-hood street-by-street,
I brood upon an artificial meadow,
Where recently dilapidated terraces
Were brick-by-brick demolish’d, levell’d low.
Once, with life, these districts resounded,
But all is fading now, like fallen flies;
Grandmas, Grandads, Cousins, Aunties, Uncles –
A generation bounden in photographs –
Back then they laughed & cried like me & you.
My own street seems to have survived the cull –
But for how long? If others of its ilk
Were deemed ungodly, surely snobbish time
Shall banish mine beneath some grassy mound.
*********
MI’ DAD
Yes, I’m really glad yer mi dad, Dad,
Yer the best that a young lad could have, Dad,
Far better than the king o’ Baghdad,
Yer mi dad, Dad!
Aye, I’m really glad I’m yer lad, Dad
Cos I get to crash in yer pad, Dad
& chat to yer when I’m all sad, Dad
Yer mi dad, Dad!
Yer always so bloody well clad, Dad
& make the best eggs that I’ve had, Dad
But yer brews, bloody ‘ell, they’re so bad, Dad
Yer mi dad, Dad!
& better still, yer mi mate, mate
& I love yer, an that’s fuckin’ great!
*********
ON THE PISS
one of my my mates is a right piss head
& he said are ya coming down town fir a piss up
but i said its pissin down, mate, im not coming out
& he goes stop pissing about get yoursell’ down town
so i did, had a few pints, needed a piss
& i said ter lads, lads im off for a piss
anyway this lanky streak of piss were there
coke head n all, a right piss tekker
you could tell he was well pissed up
& he’s started tekking piss out mi new top
said it was a piss poor effort & his were better
so told him to piss off, finished my slash
& by the time i’d got back to mi mate I were well pissed of
he said dont worry about it, damo, lets just get pissed
*********
HOT-POT PIT-STOP
Up Manchester Road, b’ Shanks’s Pony,
Inter Scotts Park, then on up t’ Summit
T’pay mi Grandparents a swift visit
Fer a bowl o’ the best broth in Burnley.
Grampa potters about ‘is garden shed,
Granma slaps th’icin on’ slice from market,
Cake crumbs fall on mi old Batman carpet,
Big piles o’ comics & games under’ bed.
Wow! Space Marine, Gnasher Badge, Hairy Hand,
Toy Soldiers, Test Match & mi old Spectrum –
“What fun,” said Gramps, “We ‘ad back in those days…”
“Yer tea’s ready!”
“Mmmm…them dumplins look grand.”
“Do you like ‘em son?”
“Aye Gran, I love ‘em.”
& polish seven platefuls in ‘er praise.
*********
BINGO LINGO
“…Eyes down fer yer full house!” the camp caller croons,
“Kelly’s Eye, on its own, the number one,
& its thee & me, two & three, twenty three,
Heinz varieties, five & seven, fifty-seven…”
Mary glances nervously at Eileen Pointer’s sheet
“& its Sherwood Forest, all the threes, thirty three,
You’ve been & gone at eight & one, eighty one!”
Tension, frustration, tutting & twitching,
“A fumph & a duck, five & two, fifty two,
& its those legs, eleven!”
The room fills with wolf-whistles…
“Who didn’t flush the toilet? It’s a dirty loo, thirty two,
Ooo! It’s the top of the shop, blind ninety…”
“EEE-YAAAAA!” screams Mary Pie, spilling her drink.
“Buggar,” puffs Eileen, “I only needed seventeen.”
*********
TO SIR NICK
Lord of all Barlick, MBE, MBO, BO,
Bachelor of the Farts, Super Chick-in
Puck-aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!
Nick, ‘diddliddling,’ my bestest friend,
Do you remember our eighteenth summer,
It felt that the good times would never end
& Barry Island the only bummer.
That Ynnysddu flat, weed, laughs & wimmin,’
‘Blowin’ a reefer on Salisbury plain,’
Seven chicks in Newquay, soapbar, swimmin’
Our first Glasto – you gotta go again.
Saw… Bjork’s Debut, Newport’s Supersonics,
Peer Gynt down Stratford, Burnley rule Wembley,
Massive crowd in Brixton for the Manics
& that mad, May night near Monmouth, where we
Sat with the Roses and their album new,
“Don’t think it’s as good as the first,” said you.
*********
AMSTERDAMINNIT
We trawl the long-haul of the motorway
& pick up more pot-heads past Birmingham,
Jelly wobbles on the waves to Calais,
Mojo pukes in the lowlands near the ‘Dam.
We rush to relax in the smoky cafes;
Try Purple Haze & buy Sensemelia,
Each stella & space-cake skanks up the daze
Of a mushroom gilded psychedelia.
We tram through ‘Dam to the sleezy district,
Pluck up Dutch courage for ‘Sucky Fucky,’
Crack-ed whores slink at doors, wink’d to be pick’d-
It’s a shame when you pay to get lucky…
Skunk’d-up, smasha fuck, zombie bus, bongtubes,
Grass stash’d up Nicky’s ass, Richie’s itchy pubes.
*********
CLUBBINIT
“Reyt, where next ?” “West Bams on at the Orbit…”
“Nah man, too late…” “The Hac’…” “Nah, the beers shit…”
“Sankeys…”“…Nah man, it’s closed down…” “Wigan Pier…”
“Beer’s well dear…” Nick steps in, “Lads, listen ‘ere’
“Lets ‘it Blackpool, find a shit B & B,
& pick up some fit chicks from a Hen Party…”
“Nah, bin there, worn the crap hat, c’mon team,
Let’s unleash these libidos down at Cream!”
Razzin’ the freeway, babblin ‘bout the Dam,
With Techno Bangin – BAM-BAM-BAAM-BAAM-BLAM!
“Mint mix, Ricky Dee,” “Angels ninety-six!”
”…Ee-yar Damo” “…Ta Mojo, Oos next?” “…Nicks!”
We park by Sefton Park, “Owdo lasses!”
Beauties cruise by, “Hey cuties, nice asses…”
(SR) LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT
ON
the
LOVE
the poet experienced
AT
the
FIRST SIGHT
of
Sally Cinnamon
LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT
A virgin to Eros & his sighs,
What spectral seconds shake the waking soul,
Hearing a lute-string’d, aether-seeking call,
I turn’d to see her lusty, stardust eyes.
My eagle-lash’d Latvian poetess,
My pearl-eyed raven in her Persian dress,
My Spanish pea-hen spangling as she comes,
My nude Numidian banging djembe drums.
Like mountain men & archipelagos,
Or young sweethearts sniffing a first red rose,
Like money men glimpsing a glint of gold,
Or distant kin resurfac’d at the fold;
We are the music of the finches green,
We are two pussies purring by a fire,
We are the fragrance of a vernal scene,
We are two frogs full throated with desire.
We are the thistle of this bonnie land,
We are two rabbits sprinting cross the glen,
We are the seaweed strewn on sedge & sand,
We are two badgers snuggled in their den.
Like songbirds witnessing the world’s first dawn,
Or parents proud who’ll coo their babe’s first yawn,
Like virgins witness to the breast expos’d,
Or an exploring of the always clos’d;
We are morning in the Tuscan enclaves,
We are night on the Sea of Galilee,
We are swans, out gliding on the white waves,
For we are one in nature, you & me.
(SR) DREAM-CATCHERS
DREAM-CATCHERS
When a woman decides to sleep with a man, there is no wall she will not scale, no fortress she will not destroy, no moral consideration she will not ignore at its very root: there is no God worth worrying about
Gabriel García Márquez
I’m watching you sleep. I love to hear you breathe when you sleep and watching your chest rise and fall. I’m looking at your perfect body, and I love your handsome, gorgeous face, your strong legs, your hands that bring me so much pleasure and tenderness. I love your fearlessness, your intellect, your curiosity, your ambition, your creativity, your kindness and loyalty, your friendship, your optimism, and the way you seek and find fun and adventure. And I love joining you in the adventure; there is so much fun to be had! I love the way you roll with the punches and don’t waste energy being stressed by much. I love the way you’re living your own life, and that you know who you are. I love that you fuck me on the grass. I love that you cook for me, and sometimes eat crap food and watch crap tv. I love the way you love me and the ways you show that love, not just beautiful words (and you say such beautiful things to me), but with meaningful actions. I love the way you make love to me. I love kissing your lips and breathing your breath and holding you close. I love how you’re not afraid of my darker side; I feel cared for and accepted despite my issues and fuck ups. I love how you love the complete me and aren’t selfish with my attention. I love how supportive and understanding you are; I know you’re on my side. I love feeling at home with you. And there is so much more I love about you now, and more to come. I truly do love you. I’m immersed in you.
I am full of the purest energy it’s exciting.
It’s a lovely physical feeling, I feel lit up and strong and bolstered by an amazing sureness. I hope so much that I can be all that you need from a partner. Sorry for all the gushiness. Well, actually, I’m not. It makes me happy to write this stuff to you, and at worst you will find it a bit “much.” I’m kept warm & content knowing you’re happy, & knowing I’m in love.
You’re still asleep. I want to wake you but I know you’re tired. I want to be with you, wordlessly stripping, scooping me up in your arms and pulling me down with you, kissing until our breath was deep, your hands over my body so it shook. I can’t wait to feel you in my mouth, playing with you, taking you in slow & deep, licking & sucking you. You in my mouth gets me so wet. I feel very owned, my mouth and throat full of your cock and so happy to have you there, drinking you & then I want to feel your hands toying with my hair, throat, breasts, tummy and finally pushing fingers inside me, rubbing my wetness all over me, watching intently as your touch makes me lose language and control and everything but pleasure. Then your mouth on my breast – sucking & biting me, then your body heavy on mine. I kiss & lick your lips & breathe your hot breath, then I feel your tongue on my pussy, getting me so hot & wet that I’m aching to have your cock inside me, with a powerful thrust that makes me gasp & lose control. Finally fucking, feeling less two separate people more waves lapping and fizzing on the shore.
Can’t wait to enter our sensual world, hot & dizzy & orgasmic, my pussy is desperate for you to bring release, with a chest heaving & tingling with love & desire & transcendental passion.
(SR) 4: Seeing Sally Cinnamon
SEEING SALLY CINNAMON
There’s two kinds of women
Those you write poems about and those you don’t
Jeffrey McDaniel
*******
SALLY’S SILKY KISS
What is more beautiful than Paris in the Spring?
More lovely than the thrill, dawn’s pretty petrels bring?
Dancing sedge-side, perchance, to sylvan seraph strings?
Perhaps… or sat among white faeries in a ring?
Deeper than hearts sublime, tender than all of this,
I, fade, & pass the the time ‘til Sally’s silky kiss.
Ah! Sally’s silky kiss, the touch still lingers long,
A surge of perfect bliss; of lips & teeth & tongue,
Feel Cytherea rise as spirit centers meet,
Diana in disguise, this life, how, seems so sweet,
Complete, & in my mind, behind the half-clos’d eye,
Flows heaven as I find forever passes by.
Tho’ moons & suns eclipse, tho’ flowers fragrant petal,
Beside Sal’s silky kiss, what else more beautiful?
*******
THITHER THE ABOVE
O knightly lights of heaven, star on star,
You never shone so beauteous, we are
The work, perhaps, of some astral being,
Or am I him, now I am the all-seeing
Acolyte of the lost art of the skies,
Painting Orion & the Geminis,
Musing upon those long, eternal days,
Soar shooting stars, trailblazing my amaze,
Mix’d with the phantom-llumin’d Milky Way
I saw, I swear, the Seraphim at play,
Dancing between the planetary kings;
Lord Jupiter & Saturn’s eerie rings –
As Venus beams her streaming dreams of love
Sweetheart come hither, thither the above.
*******
FOREPLAY
Humid waves of want,
She holds my hardening shaft,
Playful, erotic.
My tender tongue leaps
Thigh-to-thigh, skipping the spot,
“Lick it… suck it… NOW!”
Like flickering snakes
Each pleasure-tickle grips her,
Spasms of delight!
Her smooth back arches
About to come; she’s grasping,
Gasping and panting,
Then kundalini silence
Utters nothing but breathing
*******
AMORETTI
There is nothing like a smiling woman
Astride the throbbing member of her man,
When both of them – in panting unison –
Up-climbing to a symbiotic scream,
Bird-chorus of the physical conjoin
Surfing the florid energies between
Our first flesh-lock, ’til silence, satisfied.
While thrusting cunny fully pleasures both,
Her bosom bounces outwith all control,
& as she phallus rode my to full climax,
I left my spear within her fluid wound.
Thro’ clench & kiss we find a nest in each,
‘Til breathless woosiness of passion spent,
Endows us both with drowsy sweetness sound.
*******
PILLOW TALK
Now that the wildfires of passion are gone,
We lie, two pulwars tether’d into one,
Dreaming of sensuous stars & comets,
Whispering slow Petrarchean sonnets,
Pledging myself, ‘Cavalier Servente,’
Reciting the Vita Nuova of Dante
Fingertips stroking lips, nipples & thighs
“So beautiful…” she sighs… closing her eyes.
Thro’ draperies morn’s airy beamlets peep,
Lighting an angel’s drowsy naked sleep,
Led snuggl’d in the death-shroud of my arms
For she’s been kinda murder’d by my charms
For as our rite of lovers play’d its course,
Deep went the blows that sever’d her from force.
*******
LOVE’S DAWN
My love, as our love is spreading wider than the morning
Together, with waking day, in the wake of night
Let us settle in silent ecstasy
Observers of cities below Watching
From this high advantage Developing
On heath, up hill, Enveloping moments
As one For like a flight of swallows lift
On ocean winds, above the isles We touch
Soft spirits sail higher Eyes comitting
Pleasure beckons Mercurial kisses
We smile As kitten paws a mellow mouse
The lion roars inside these feral souls
& we are born again, the music of the morn
Accompanies these energies love’s mysteries supply
*******
ON COMING TOGETHER
I’ll never pass another night
As sweet as ours was yesterday,
When all the world was set aright
& Angels play.
Tingling, romancing, dancing tongues,
Went tender-twisting, while your eyes
Contentment shone, we heard the songs
The Seraphim devise.
When, like the running of a race,
We reach’d the rope, there souls unpent;
& stroking trembling thighs, your face
Show’d passion spent!
Aye, lass, we set the world aright
As Angels meant.
*******
SALLY LOVES CUSTARD
She lusted for my custard
As it dribbl’d down my chin,
She lusted for my custard
But she knew this was a sin!
She lusted for my custard,
She lick’d it with her tongue;
& as she lick’d the custard clean
She knew this lick was wrong.
‘My word, what are you doing!?” her
Cheeks ‘barras’d as she bluster’d?
‘I must apologize, kind sir,
I’d got all hot & fluster’d,
That moment, was a crazy blur,
I just had to have your custard!’
*******
TO SALLY: A LOVE-NOTE
Singing thy sonorous songs of triumph
Astonish’d deeply by thy vulva’s heat,
Your splendid ladylove astride my loin.
It seemed your long, perfect legs,
Simply went on up – that flaring hand!
Those long balletic, monkey-elegant fingers!
Little soft places,
I wish I was still with you,
I would kiss you slowly from toe up,
Getting to know how smooth your body is,
The memory of it goes thro’ me like brandy
One of my most tormenting thoughts,
Is that I didn’t suck & lick & nibble you
All night long… but tonight I will….
*******
TWO WOLVES
Let us scamper under summits
As the rivers thro’ them move,
Where all this love for you girl
‘Midst the mountains I shall prove.
Lets us skip along the lake-banks
Where the coupling salmons leap,
In the heat of highest summer
Lie two lovers sound asleep.
Let us waken with the moondrift
As she shingles thro’ the glen,
Energizing strings & songsmiths
For a fireside tale or ten,
Aye, lass, let us wander onwards,
Under mountains, once again.
*******
WEE SALLY
Wee Sally came to school one day, a bandage on her eye,
“What happened?” said her teacher, “Miss, a monster made me cry!”
“Don’t be silly, Sally!” said the teacher with a smile,
(The Universe grew heavy for that brooding juvenile),
“Monsters do not exist my child,” her teacher brusquely said,
& went on with the Spelling Bee, then History instead.
Wee Sally’s not at school today, her teacher won’t ask why,
For Sally would not say a word, too fearing, & too shy,
She felt a silly Sally saying Monsters do exist,
When condescending laughter all her honesty dismiss’d,
“Monsters do not exist my child,” that teacher brusquely said –
Last night; her daddy, mad & drunk, had batter’d mummy dead.
With little Sally Cinnamon head-weeping on my knee,
“Dont worry babe, just let it out, now I’m your family.”
*******
IMPERFECT LOVE
You’re not perfect, but I love your imperfections
I know you’re hot as fuck
But I love it when I’m taking a photo
& ask you to look hot
& you get all awkward with your beauty
& don’t look your best in the photo
I love the way we’ve been fucking all day
& your orgasm is lasting hours
& you say, ‘I can’t do it anymore, darling,’
& I’m left listening to your dream-breath
Thinking of fucking you, instead of fucking you
& I love that, & I love you –
You’re not perfect babe
But its your imperfections that I love.
*******
THE POETESS
Sally’s a first-rate poetess, the best I’ve ever read
& her main enthusiasm, at present, is me
She thinks my sonnets are as good as I think they are
& has accordingly despatch’d several sequanzas
To various publishers & pamphleteers
She left me this, the other day, in a fruit bowl;
Let me pleasure you like a Princess of Monaco,
Let me fuck you like a common Marseille whore
It’s amazing how we strike sparks
We work, walk about, repair each others’ writings
& when we’re fed up of that
We sit by the river & watch water voles
& when they come near, Sally
Goes almost unconscious with delight
*******
THE BEDROOM OPERA
Scene: A Double Room in the Priory Hotel, Ashby,Scunthorpe
Recativo
Him: I am glad we came to Scunthorpe,
I was only ever going to visit it once
& I’m glad that I did so with you.
Her: I know, I never, ever wanted to come here
Until I met you, it just never felt right.
Aria
Her: Sleep well, dear Damo, tenderly sleep,
My heart is running with spaniel bliss
Across this vast & precious beach of love.
Recativo
Her: What are you doing?
Him: I’m just nuzzling your neck
It doesn’t mean anything
Her: Don’t make me fuck you
Him: I want you to fuck me
Her: Put it in then
Mumble Words 