West Greenwich Library, New Year

Chops II

Less chops than scraps, and scraps of thought at that, the least part of reactions this last day or two to my haul of books – in any bookshop's poetry section I'll snap up Mandelstam – the series does not work. 

Notebooks keep the random lines one wouldn’t want to throw away in case they turn to something more, and if they did exceed their start then still they fail to be word exercise equivalent to the musician’s daily chops, even wishing to suggest it, suggests too much. There will be no trays of snacks in rhyme for this perpetually hungry blog.  Comments…  ach.

The plash and Walkman
                   of the perennial Redgrove
                                      groping with lingam and yonii
in ancient, undoubtedly beautiful caverns
                   wet in the ever so slow movements
                                      of his latest book was penned in
somewhere near Kingston on Thames
                   where I also lived sometimes
                                      fifteen years ago.

In English twice translated, more,
from initial thought, completed
to conversations with his wife;
the resultant verse on paper
was inevitably half opaque
but Osip shines, he shines.

The Writers' Room

The Writers Room,  with Dom, Kim and Eley recorded last Thursday. The programmes will be broadcast on Corinium Radio website for two weeks commencing 23.10.17 Mon, Wed, Fri. 2pm on the first week and 2.30pm the second week.  CORINIUM RADIO 

Two poems uploaded on Facebook page, and YouTube: "A Kiss" and "Landing" all a bit gravelly, but okay!

Chops I



Self Portrait as a Werewolf Talking to his Human Self

Struck to the core, the heart’s red core again by Liardet’s
Self Portrait as Shamdeo – misread as Shenandoah – Talking 

to his Future Self as if facing two antagonists: Ferocity and Sorrow.
I comb the jasmine, waterlily in my hair, rub bristles on my jaw. 

Removed from this apparent world, pursued by gods of earth
and air, setterragic a ssalc my demon pack of backward-hunting 

carnivores, smoky spirits of the claw, jacketed in ash,
foul-breathed in wide, extraordinary yawning, we lick our paws. 

Tormented by a yap of Alpha Dog or Sophia’s dream –
sweet reason that devolves from dust, the twisters of thrilled air 

tunnelling through Roman gardens, Parthenon, theatres empty
of the dead, long gone but in their stead a debt of anguish 

and self-loathing. How wearisome you are. Raised up on all fours
now again, back on two naked feet, you make such shaky progress 

to your clothes lines on the brink, the water's edge where hangs
a scarecrow’s skin, your battered coat removed so long ago 

you struggle to adorn yourself with human clothes again.
Contemplate your place with men. I whine and fawn, nip your heels.

You draw me back and hold me down. Struggling twin entities
squabble over worry bones, our painted knuckles on dirt floors 

scattering our grammar from the first recorded text. Let me
write it slant-wise in the mirror sweat: Red in tooth and claw, 

the neighbour at the door, the baying dog who knows you well,
can only be your own reflection.



I doubt Tim Liardet would bat an eyelid at my using a poem from his recent volume The World Before Snow as a kickoff point for a practice piece – Chops: good for a blog that needs feeding. I was struck by Liardet’s earlier collection, The Storm House: serious and disturbing. He is an examplar of the craft.  The lines above may gradually become a kind of shallow imitation - which suits the subject rather well.

Sigurd and the nuthatch

Sigurd and the nuthatch, an extravagant take on the Norse Myths, wins second place in the annual competition at the Festival of Firsts  in the Wirral – prize giving on Sunday afternoon, 09 July. I am pleased to have an affirmation of this poem, besides stretching the limits, it also includes everything it can from the original tale.  Perhaps there is a bent for the old stories at the Festival, I hope so. Anyway, I'll be reading, one kenning included.  
Also this week:  a poem included in the Ver Poets Comp. Anthology 2017, out in July
AND a poem on the theme of shoes, to be included in the inaugural edition of the Northampton Poetry Review to be launched this summer by poet, Tom Harding.   The day's so hot right now.

Illustrated man

First of three illustrations of poems from Pilgrim Station in ink, by Dan Jackson.

There is a man in the tub

    the taps are running
    the tears are running
he's pouring water on his head
like an animal that burrows,
like a savage in the dirt
escaping from the world,
crouched, rocking back and forth,
scooping soil loose enough
to pull the earth above him
or like the flightless, desert bird,
    burying his head
    wishing he were dead.

Interview with Rosie

Paxos - Dom & Geranium

Sentinel Quarterly have printed my recent interview with Rosie Johnston.  It doesn’t include several of Rosie’s more searching questions, generally in the form, “& what does that mean, exactly?” those have all been ironed out: the piece is, in fact, coherent.  Please give it a go online or the magazine is now available in print from the SPM Shop. 

Home yesterday, kittens in the cupboard and England green.  May is lush after a week away. Here's a photo of the poet banging on: making a din in splendid surroundings. I think, more poetry in these posts, endless self-promotion is not my first order of business.  Comments welcome.