Friday, 22 March 2013


A train heads west, full up:
Andrew sits by strangers at a window
table. Further back, I rest and so he
chats, twinkles like the sun to
folk who sparkle back. He turns and yells out
‘Daddy!’ every minute, down the aisle, announces
me, my birthday, name, my age, my job, even though
I’m the one supposed to only know my journey’s name
within the secret wrapper of a western face.

Urchin, on a train, has lit up strangers with song
and smile; calls out to his invisible father sitting there
in a rattling carriage – starting to feel warmer -
like a log’s afterglow, like a dozen flames entwined
around a simple prayer to a father from his firstborn son.

Tuesday, 19 March 2013


Beethoven bawdily twists, as only he can,
beneath a sparkling chandelier in a
central Bruges concert hall – sweet and clear

when a man and his girl start giggling,
taking photos, yelling like fishwives
intertwined with four-stringed instruments

and I feel strong emotion – ‘Shall I, shan’t I?’ urges – you know;
dare I, well, mention it, ask them to shush? When I do lean over,
say ‘scuse me , would you mind being quiet?’ and the man simply

nods, I turn accusing, burning eyes, ‘Are you sure?’ and he
looks away, a little scared. I sit back, indignant now,
fired by inner anger. ‘What if he thumps me

as we leave?’ I say to myself, completely ruining
Ludwig’s capacity. I know this idea – do you have the anger
or does the anger have you? And the string part seethes higher, more

vibrato than ever. Sitting back, eyes closed, I enter the sound
with hundreds around, transported by melody,
letting it go; letting myself; letting my dissonance go.