On a moving train I can’t rest
on the ground any more, unsettling
and flying on backwards through air
so the earth flows like water
in blue and old grey.
Trees and green fields, even houses and sheep
don’t wander but flow,
turn to liquid and stream.
No rain, only membranes of glass
from a train and a trembling of torso
so fluid and flowing like blood or a lymph,
amoeba or nymph, on an engine
vibrating my feet and my bum
‘til we stop, ‘til we stop, moving on.
Pull up a Bard from the deep well of time:
he’ll upset a market stall – end to end –
face like an apple and eyeballs that swim
with a love for the sea, and song, and land.
Let’s pray he’ll unearth our divinities,
vibrate with truthfulness, word made flesh
and we’ll laugh at the Fool’s juggling throws;
troubadour, genie, granting a wish
but keep (under wrapping) your silences;
don’t let him question your deeper passion;
don’t let his eyeballs poke out your sadnesses,
panning for gold at the edge of the sun.
His weirdness is love - more heaven than hell
and a jester’s a sage and - so - all will be well.
| The day when he decides to do some washing is like the previous week - it’s on a Monday
and, when he reads a book into the evening, it’s recommended by his friendly book club
and, when he goes to meet his mates on Friday, he starts to feel so pissed that he falls over.
On Saturday he swears he won’t repeat that; he’s had enough of boozing and hangovers
deciding that it’s time to go teetotal - a vision of a man who’s dry and sober –
until he hears from Geoff that last night’s party was diamond – that they need to meet more often;
he hangs his head and prays for help, surrenders, on Sunday when his week starts up again. |
Sometimes he startles when the radio’s on
across the landing or another room
and now he cocks his head to hear a tone
of music playing from an open window
or Andy, hobo, whistling so his breath
steams and echoes up the viaduct
on cold and bitter evenings in late fall.
A big one’s when his lady suddenly
(opening doors or putting trainers on)
blows away the mortgage, bills and train
with music more than any string or pipe
could voice a childhood feeling with a jolt:
that stopping now of everything that seems
- human breath transforming in a song.
| Shall I tell yer a story of grandma, a bonnet; shall I tell yer a tale of a pig and her brood?
Look out at that beanstalk, a bridge and a billy goat, ancestors of bears and uncountable wolves.
Around they go baby - old stories like fountains - and, after all the axes and giants returnin’, shall I tell yer a story and make it anew? |
There’s nothing there at first;
nowt at all,
until the start of a small bubble
expanding sound,
growing up rapid
like a seed of beginnings
swimming in softness
ready to birth
out from the lung wrench,
in-breath, then out-breath
- crucial in moments -
touting a burp from
intent - and a climax;
‘Send out the dove’
