Rough Mystery

Van Gogh 'God took a terrible lot of trouble with this world study of his' 

Van Gogh says the whole world’s a painting study;

with form and colour, pencil dust

roughly pushed by fingers into arcs

on paper, shining, planned, unplanned.

Stepping back,

loving the action of it,

(and all the time it took)

I bet it feels good to taste

and smell and see

all the nascent parts

emerge and, listening, be.

Rambling

What shall we talk about – what’s up

(we’ve got a little bit of time)

and who will speak and who will follow whom

(what’s new upon this kitchen table top)

and shall we circle round and round

(with eyes and ears and touch and tongue)

giving little pats-on-the-head

(and will we choose to work, eat, dance or sing or sleep)?

Who shall we please and who not please

(tomorrow and tomorrow’s ace

encounters, meetings, semaphore)

or hate or care or love, respect,

or look across the surfaces

and feel for sudden truth - and trust?

Every year

it’s clear

that Xmas day is my mate

John’s birthday

and any old glitter on the table,

scissors and sellotape,

will be in play.

As two festivals collide

he often gets the thought

that, ultimately,  everything unites

although, as he looks out through

swiveling snow,

we know that (deep down) too

it bugs him – because

he keeps squinting to the East,

waiting for the next Jesus

coming - the second one

who will turn the table, soften

his inevitable burden.

Life’s backdrop

One day we set off

on a little trip,

oh Lord, to hike up

a middle eastern hilltop

in a madcap

attempt to find (on top)

a theatre of blocks

and yet no cairns of rocks

were there to guide or map

our way on up;

no arrows, dots

of paint - but on we stepped

(not at a trot)

without a single drop

of water in a cup

(to sip or sup)

and we didn’t stop

until we reached the top

where we three chaps

gave up

and stopped,

regrouped,

then clocked

we’re in the soup

and on that spot

we dropped

our cross.

Andrew will

dance through time like Peter Pan

and keep us dancing still;

freer than a sober man

or a girl who drank her fill.

Dancing’s like a spirit

that sober men endure

but drunken folk enjoy it

before they lie and snore.

Kick your feet and wave your hands,

feel the music’s wave;

drunk or sober, help us dance

like Elvis from the grave.

To my sons

I fear I did not give

enough attention, time,

and, when I look death in the face,

will my dreamed-of God forgive

a working father’s crime

not far beyond our last embrace?

For Emily Dickinson

I will not tally letters up

- or dots, apostrophes,

or add the words typed on a sheet

of prancing poetry.

Instead, I want to simply take

a feeling of the whole

enwrapped in music, rhythms – breaks -

and resonate a soul.

Fear and Melancholy

Through a perspex sheeting I can see

a massive ocean pushing out her strokes;

knowing, for a time, I won’t be caught

and pulled into her cold eternity.

With all the power sea invokes,

whitened by salt, let’s not fight!

Flight! This is no place for single human power

and not because I’m older, slow in years,

unerringly losing dignity.

No! Because, unending, hour by hour,

those waves push into solid stone with tears;

unlevelled water has no fear or pity.

Poet, move on! Feeling I will stand inevitably

one day and turn back towards the flow;

against those tumblers’ sure retreat, advance,

and so re-enter sweet eternity,

traveling fast but also, even, slow.

That day the waiting sea will take my sense.

Swimming

Today, relaxing, floating,

I’m lifted by a milky sea until

the sirens call and sing

and down I dive into a deeper chill.

That’s when I start to swim

up and on towards a golden rim

and stand again as I had once begun;

welcomed home into Byzantium.

Yeats could feel

a desire to be young,

greener than springtime trees,

and sing assembled songs

to sweetly hit top C’s,

and play like butterflies

(less caring how land lies)

ignore the path – so long

- that leads into Byzantium.

Play

Sons, alive in my mind’s eye,

wear guitar and tee-shirts, lyrical ones

strum and (in sing-song) blue notes fly;

faces aglow like hot stones.

Strings are shimmering side-by-side

and faces stand eager in the bar-room door;

enjoying the craick, along for the ride

of brothers and magical music once more.

Maybe

The first word of any new day

could maybe be yes or maybe no;

both words seem equally valid

reactions to onrushing light.

Maybe look romantically back to yesterday’s love

or glance for tomorrow and hyena laugh:

inexorable fate is pushing through now;

growing from substances, maybes and dreams.

Maybe laughter is tearful and ugly's a beauty

- something is nothing – and maybe we’re falling

conscripted by newness, up, into destiny;

hello and, well, thank you, maybe today.

Dance

There’s harmony

in Andrew’s dance, hidden

in rhythm and infinite

orbit, suggesting

‘Care less of scorn

or judgment or gossip

but feel for the real song

in movement and tears.’

Turn immortality,

sweet nature’s harmony

infused, and infusing,

body and soul.

Hunger Games

At the end of our little flight

- right among the scrambling moments

when people panic, stand and panic again

(grabbing their luggage) a lovely girl

twirled and kissed her handsome boyfriend

- open mouthed like a hungry fish

unhinged her jaws and swallowed head,

shoulders, torso, then his legs.

She looked around and gulped down a fatter girl,

whole, and formed a bigger plan for dinner

- wings and fuselage, engine, petrol, oil,

all inside her belly, masticated.

Frustrated now, she turns her beady eye

towards the airport, city – walks along and hugs her belly, sighs.

Stopping,

most people on a flying train

would ‘get’ that space is time

- that space is limited,

- that time is ticking fast;

and an emptier tunnel is coming,

where (at a moment when brakes won’t work)

the tracks run out and we don’t know

who will steer or drive the engine on

but if you ask Andrew

to stop singing and dancing

he’ll look direct and quizzical

to say ‘Oh what!?’ and then ask

the big bad ask we all could ask;

‘Are you mad, mate, are you mad?’

Autumn

Plentiful, a few leaves rattle overhead;

uncountable , brown collateral

-  mulch of a future generation

and, every second, a dry cornflake floats

or plummets onto muddy autumn ground;

to be soaked and eaten by water, worms and earth.

Whilst airborne, no longer fixed or allied

to a mother tree with her branch and fire; deep, deep roots,

but, re-formed, sways away from her great connection

(with soft-hard edges) into a new collective.

Heading for chemical, mineral, damned decay

in a spinning fall from old body to new body

at the turn of the season, heading inevitably into

a turn of the year.

Writer's Block

Like a stroppy teenager, one blank page defies

my intention to write down words:

an empty mind and empty paper.

Silence, blank, void – until I listen with intent

and hear my train trundle and rumble South.

I let a pen leak a few words

and some thing’s down there now.

I learned the duties of a clown from Andrew:

at home in a world of nonsense,

turning up voltage again and again;

not perfectly perfect but urging

inclusion; connecting the hearts of some people

through smiles – with spaces between all their talking and words,

where, truly, a mystery lies.

Pass the Buck

Happiness seems

to COME out from

a small centre

- in a ray – a

SHOW of teeth, but

can be also

rude or vulgar,

expressing as

an anima

(Carl Jung would say).

Happy people

feel an inner

RUSH and Andrew

learned, this year, to

swear (in his own

way) intense, org-

asmic splurging

four letter words

like in a cough

or sneeze, a lit-

tle BRAY

     ‘if you

can’t find a way

to sing or sway,

BUCK yourself up,

make a noise, play

and dance today,

I’ll shout and spray,

and cry, exclaim’

he’ll say

    ‘Buck off!’

Habits

I smack

the same ball

at the same wall.

Numbskull!

My version

of what’s in front

is a blinkered person

marching, drunk.

I’m a disgrace:

today I caught

a grayling fish,

lost my rainbow trout.

Apart from this,

I do exist;

remembering

a little bliss.

When Andrew’s at the karaoke,

eyes are drawn to a young star

that only wise men follow;

microphone and punching arms,

exuberant little fellow.

We look and look – he burns a hole

in boredom - can we learn

beyond our resignation, beer,

to tread the boards and burn?

Haiku

To all poets with

writer’s block – a small piece of

advice;- Don’t you start!

To James Bond

Many a theme song

bangs-on about love;

‘Never say never again’

‘She loves you - yeah, yeah, yeah’

but it’s more than a missing

when romance turns off;

a desire for a person

can cloud into tears

and it’s not quite right

romancifying

this quality – love or desire -

let’s not make it pretty

as I twist in the night

(quiver a heartstring)

welling up from fire;

love can feel shitty

and, so, Mr Bond

distract us with sex;

institutions are saved

when your balls lead you on

but pick up a hand,

soften your looks,

for to love and be loved

rescues women and men.

Time in St. Ives

Outside, the wind’s a howling beast,

more unpredictable than dragons

and water lifted from the sea

washes blue sky grey.

Off shore, a killer sea

waves out – then in – predictably

and moon time people crab along

from blinking caffs and shops.

Caressed by sun, clockwork town;

a timepiece ticking on.

On the last day,

after all, it’s not been

too monotonous

or momentous either.

You stare out from a

window that isn’t

what it seems.

Nor can you be seen.

You finally got

that reality is

invisible

infinite

essimal.

All you did get, after all,

was to stare awhile and swim like a demon.

Reality transforms from warm to cold,

wet to dry, then rhythm to

cacophony.

Birth and death aren’t gradual,

after all.

Memories

In early April, cruel showers

turn and splash and fade,

without a plan or auto-cue

or credits rolling at the end.

No sleep is possible in this wind

- memories of camping rain

spatter and splatter and splat again

my rooftop tingling brain.

Memories! A tent flapping,

ghosts insistent for remembering

- calling but uncalled for.

Almost, they breathe, look,

aching for texture

as wind and rain let up.

Lost,

he looked into a compass face:

East – the clarity of morning

North – a thump of afternoon

South – the warmth of midday love

West – a poignancy of sunset

… and a little face

winked back, lit up by

midnight’s grinning moon,

asked a tiny question;

‘which direction mate?’

‘Matey, which direction?’

Fatherhood

Originally Pinocchio

twitched and danced like Neo;

caught inside a matrix

of jerky little puppets.

Giuseppe and Marius

saved their special lads:

Pinocchio and Neo

also saved their Dads.

Oh God

Happiness or lousy life?

Head to foot in fear and wonder,

am I in the dark or light?

Will I live as prey or hunter?

Am I plunging in the sea or

lifting wings for flight?

In a swirling world,

will one Technicolor movie

stop my head from worry?

Oh, let me stop ringing this bell;

Oh, let me escape from this shell:

Oh hell.

Here

Mostly, I do my best to fend off

pointlessness

but here, with breakfast bacon,

coffee, iPad;

I get it down.

Left and right, two

flying finger pads

try to weave a net

from what’s around,

through ears and eyes,

heart and head,

with letters, words and spaces

tying a little philosophical knot

of what the hell is maybe happening,

why I’m here, what the people at the next table

are really saying

and whether one little letter, another word,

will settle, fly or capitalise.

On the radio, a jingle sings

and it’s travel news next.

Push-on, or stop, review;

turn off the mains, delete?

Hello

Feet have

almost gotten

home - through the gate,

the path, a door,

turning green

to grey and brown;

from natural to man-

made - corroborated

by harder edges

and the sounds

of one hand turning

a handle’s practical

activity exhibiting

pattern and habit:

splitting a second. This

has happened many, many times

before - but there’s

a pulse today,

an unending slowness

and a longing old

seeking of senses

zooming their fibres

towards, out, and passing

a dovetail of door jamb’s

open inclusion

compression and feeling

a spot of reality;

a hug with my son

who whispers my ear

‘Daddy, hello;

you’re alive.’

Chaconne

He walks along in personal space

- now - worry a lot,

because there’s a violin case in his left hand.

You never know what’s in a case like that!?

The man stands up and grunts, and starts.

He lightens up strings

as if Bach is here, now,

in present tense: string-tense: a sigh.

Hear sixty three repeating bases,

respectful, alert:

stabbing a bow;

roundabout bow

of melody, rhythm and chord.

Like Hopkins he springs

triumphantly tragic;

grief in Bach’s pain!

Alone! And hear an elbow pull

become scratched - a touch

of homecoming earth-time;

heavenly business.

A solitary man gyrates

and puppets in dance,

grieving, he’s busy,

- a lonely string screams:

so catching and real – Bach’s wife’s death.

Let’s grieve like a Bach;

screech in a bow-string,

grieving vibration.

But Bach is up now – lifting now,

envisioning hope.

Play us to ecstasy:

Heaven and Earth!

Has anything changed since last breath?

A man and his bow,

back in its case, away, walking away

from intimate personal space.

Skimming Hope

I threw a Word

- a big, flat word -

* spinning in seconds *

and the Word rebounded from an ear,

mystically bounced

- sped on -

curtly caught an older eye

(twisted by a stranger’s touch)

but now ~arcing clear and free~

it plops

and ripples out

in hopeful rings;

crying, dying through

one pumping heart.

Rain in my Brain

Rain

plummets

and spatters

consistently

the top of our tent.

North wind pushes

wavering walls,

rumbling,

and then

stops.

Camping

Morning mayhem. The tent’s buffeting

like a mountain lion. Truer than words, it rumbles.  And up

in the sky a huge grey brushstroke stands with light behind.

Today has begun.

Andrew’s asleep and dreaming, snoring,

but smiling. He stirs; begins to dream awake another few hours,

reaching for essences dancing with clay.

Hungry for magic, a boy.

RAGE

Page 1

I need a flashy headline – like RAGE!

Pictures of some naked breasts, a star

a girl, a funny caption, someone brave.

Need a colour scheme to catch the eye.

Centre

Page two is everything – a little story -

then my adverts – don’t be shy –

in a war of glances I need you!

Here you’ll find excitement – no thing too!

Page 3

Now you’re screwed and hammered-in to gaze;

caught within the noose of every thing

but if you want to feel the air and fly

wild and free and laughing, get RAGE.

Life

Coffee, black as a final No

vibrant potential cries out – go!

Milk, mysterious as falling snow,

tipped and turning, says – hello!

Up to my mouth, a steaming brew;

lippy little liquid  - suck, suck, thank you!

Turning away, I look at the sky;

old kitchen table, doorway, goodbye!

Lively as a hare, I plant three trees:

omelet, a little plate, yes, yes, please.

Terrible, the pathway from kitchen to lake;

fall down a pothole, my mistake!

Down on my knees, I clean up the mess,

cross another river with a great big Yes!

Rabbit, Rabbit

on ears and lips, tongues.

I’m way-word-weary today,

longing for real language

lilting a runabout between all the dots,

making my way through soft, soggy rain.

The undomesticated have no words.

The butterfly’s page is the wild, wild world

lilting a runabout between all the dots.

I walk, leaving footprints, a muddy trail.

Language, not words.

Mind

I went for a wander to listen

out for natural song;

sheep with their backs to the wind,

a worm on its way to the west,

a horse who stands and, staring,

no longer feels for saddle,

or bit, or foot in a stirrup.

Still as a toad,

I’m aching for

my bubble brain

to stop all words.

Stop

the world.

Dreamer

When daylight hits the dreamer’s face,

kaleidoscope’s fading and mingling.

He does not wake.

When darkness hits the dreamer’s face;

deep into longing he enters

his lonely truth.

When music hits the dreamer’s face

and sings in accord with heartbeat,

he dances

up into sunlight (stronger than puppets)

hungry for mischief today.

Today

Waking is a hard attempt to grace a dream,

free from hazy traveling

and, out from the blue-gray sky of morning,

Andrew shouts. (Far away like a lark)

- fibres of sound grab my ears,

swing my flickering eyes. He’s outside,

been for an adventure, saying hello,

holds his hands out to the world.

Good Morning!

                                    I’m tired

and tempted to stay underground,

ignore that green shout

and his trembling cry of intensity.

But I do decide to move up - in one choice moment -

and spread my arms away from dreaming.

He trumpets

a few notes :

dreamscape, magic waking.

Andrew

He simply wants your spirit

as he fumbles for the key,

with a little song that turns a smile

(he stalks you by degree);

attacks your arrogant nature

with questions in a blow

‘are you Jesus, happy, married?;

‘why not?’ he’ll want to know!

He wants your neck to straighten,

to stop you being ‘cool’

with a smile wrapped round a thunderbolt

- he wants to touch your soul;

there’s magic in a reach of hands;

and then the hugging – love –

Count a birth

Once I was foolish enough

to direct magic at the

threshold of a simple fate.

Fortune swam a mother’s womb

(vivacity of random order)

sex’s creativity.

Heavenly lightning bolted

- heat and helix were guided

nonplussed by crazy harmony

- then a single cry was born.

Shoot

I pulled

an air gun

and (at the speed of sound)

another

word flew.

Ghost

At my Aunt’s funeral

the relatives were looking at knees and toecaps

in those little moments where words

feel not quite right – less conditioned

spots of vacancy and mystery

made empty by the undertaker screwing down a lid’s

four corners with a practical turn of his wrist.

Next day we caught sunnier weather

and my Uncle, face alight, skeleton moving,

screwed the top off a whiskey bottle

he’d had his beady-eye on for 21 years

‘You can only drink it when I’m gone’

she’d said;

and the liquid winked in the light.

To be, or not

It’s not a dilemma

when I ask of Andrew,

‘Are you loving your dinner?’

Simple and true

‘I am,’ he says

‘I do!’

Today

Of this world

- how come that boy in front is grinning?

I mean this boy – the one we label ‘Down’s’;

the one delighted seeing us here,

who loves to chew more coupled to his food,

who closes eyes when feeling-fully a taste,

who smiles at every folly

with eyes more soft and clear than tears.

Now, as he starts to sing - a hymn -

I’m not sure of the point of any prayer

and I seldom taste my food

or stroll along for the hell-of-it

or stare in wonder any more.

I long to tell you what to do

and long to be told what-to-do by you

- so please instruct intensity!

Shall we chew? Shall we chew? Shall we chew?