That Awkward Second Album

Well, I’m a published  poet …..thanks to Valley Press …..I’ve had the launch….and I’m  only 16,893  in the Amazon poetry charts…not that I check them every morning…perish the thought.  I’ve got my name on the front of a book and I’ve had some great reviews as well. The question is:

What happens now ?

Do I sit around waiting for an email of congratulation from Carol Ann or Andy Motion, or maybe  a jokey tweet from Si Armitage ? Of course not. I spend a week worrying that I might never write a decent poem again. I’m too old… .It was a fluke, an accident.  It’s time to take up knitting, or collecting bus numbers.

And then I dare to look at the poems which didn’t quite make it into the final selection. Hmm… that one’s not too bad… needs tweaking, though. I move on. and discover  why those poems I wrote ten years ago  had been rejected, on average, eleven times. Delete them ? …taking up too much disc space ? Ye…NO…a couple of lines here stand up…keep them and cannibalise the  best later.

It’s not proper writing, of course. I’m not  ready for that yet. It’s just stripping out a line here, a metaphor there….a tiny glimmer in the dark. While I’m doing this, an idea the size of a small mouse is scratching away in a corner of my mind., What about…eek ..eek…you could try it, honestly…just jot down a line or two…fountain pen’s empty…the  Parker isn’t…it’s loaded and ready to go…you like writing with the Parker…you know you want to…..

So I do.

Quantum Theory for Cats

The Ghost Guide’s Tale

Outside the Minster, every eventide,
You’ll see him wait- the smiling Ghostly Guide.
Top hat on head, dressed in Victorian fashion,
He’ll tell you stories full of gore and passion.
“For just three pounds I’ll chill your blood,” he cries.
And people pay him, though they know he lies.
At half past seven by the Minster clock
He’ll gather them to him, like a dog his flock
And fleece them.Then when all have paid him money,
He’ll charm them with a voice as sweet as honey.
Dead Romans,phantoms, corpses limp and gory
Drag bloodstained footprints through each shocking story.
From Minster on to Bedern and the Shambles
He’ll lead his nightly paranormal rambles.
Then, at the end, he’ll finish with a joke-
A jolly ,cheerful, normal sort of bloke.

But take him to the pub and buy him ale-
A pint or three- he’ll tell a different tale.
“Twas late last year if I remember right-
A windy, drizzling, miserable night
In late December. Misty drifts of rain
Shrouded the city from Walmgate to Lop Lane.
I had a party booking- thirty one
Retired teachers from South Hillingdon,
All dressed in anoraks and sturdy shoes.
“Come on !” I said, “There is no time to lose.”
“Just wait a moment more- there is no hurry,”
Their leader said, “We’re still one short- where’s Murray ?”

Chubby and pert, a dapper little chap,
Round as a Christmas pudding, woollen cap
Upon his head, came trotting up and smiled.
“Sorry I”m late.It was a pint of mild
Detained me at the pub.I feel so foolish.
I’m dying to hear of ghosts and all things ghoulish.
Please start at once.” And so the tour began.

Along the Minster’s length to College Green
We trudged.I pointed out the ghastly scene
Where once a man, weighed down with murderous knowledge,
Paced up and down inside St William’s College.
And then to Bedern where the children haunt,
Lurking in shadows, wild-eyed ,pale and gaunt.

For every storyteller it makes sense
To keep a sharp eye on your audience.
To check if they are listening or no.
So as I talked my glance flicked to and fro.
I looked at Murray; terror numbed my mind-
He stood wide-eyed and smiling but behind
Him stood another, shadowy and dim.
His robes were all of black,his face was grim
And corpse-pale, but his eyes were black as coals.
I knew that he was Death, who steals mens’ souls.
I looked round at the others, wond’ring why
No-one saw the horror, only I
And then I knew- their faces blank and blind
Saw nothing of the ghoul that stood behind
them. Spreading wide the folds of his black cloak
He wrapped them round the jolly little bloke,
Who fell down to the ground and gasped for breath,
Twitched and lay still, for he had found his death.

The tour broke up; there was no more to say.
An ambulance arrived to take away
his mortal remnants.Someone phoned his wife.
“He was so happy ! Always full of life !”
The leader said,”He wanted to find out
Within this hour what phantoms were about.
And now he knows.Our souls are full of sorrow.
Just thirty of us will return tomorrow.”

For ten long years I’ve walked the alleyways
Where echoes of the past seek to amaze
and frighten the unwary.But that night
Destroyed my courage and unnerved me quite.
And now when I go out upon a tour
I keep on looking round me to make sure
There’s no-one at my shoulder. Yet I know
When my time comes to leave the world and go
into the unknown, there’ll be no ghost
With ash-white face and graveyard breath to tap
me on the shoulder. He I fear the most
Is plump, and smiles , and wears a woollen cap.

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Jewels

I live in a city two thousand years old. If you live in York, the past is always looking over your shoulder.  In the seventies, a archeological team came across a stone tunnel. It was the drain for a Roman bath. I took this as the basis for the poem below:

Jewels

Ten feet below the ground
they found a tunnel
arched and lined with stone,
the trapped air tainted
by twenty centuries of cold
and silence.

There lay in the dust
all the detritus of daily life –
gaming counters, pocket change
and jewels.

Chalcedony, carved with a crescent moon
and six stars for the dead.
Cornelian, grey and shifting,
uncertain as a drop of water,
and jasper, marble cold,
a scarlet bead of blood inscribed
with the figure of a man
helmeted and holding up his sword.

Resting in the exhibition case they split
the sunlight into rainbows,
make the six stars shine again,
give a bright edge to the soldier’s sword.

 

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Something to get your teeth into

My dentist has retired after twenty five years faithful service.  He is a gentle, slightly lugubrious man, who has poked and prodded at my gnashers, like some archaologist  exploring one of the duller bits of Hadrian’s Wall, on about sixty occasions. Our meetings always follow a strict protocol. After exchanging family news I get into the chair, he  swings down the floodlight, and begins to explore  my dental kit with what looks like a billhook.

There will be blood. I’m good with teeth. I clean them twice a day. I even use those nasty, rubber -tipped spears you use to pick out food debris. But I always miss something – something which requires him to scrape and poke with the billhook.

” OK ?” he  says.”

“Orarrgh !” I reply, feeling the blood trickling out of a  corner of my mouth.

When all is done, I rinse my mouth with something that tastes like turps while he writes up the morning’s work.

” Not bad,” he said on our final meeting, “You’re winning”

And as we shook hands, I wondered how many tens of thousands of mouths he’d  protected and preserved over the years, how many frightened kids he had reassured.

” Enjoy your retirement ” I said , ” What are you going to do ?’

” I’m going out to Africa,” he said, ” To give them a hand over there.”

What a man. Thank you, Robert.

 

Buy “Quantum Theory for Cats” here

 

 

Would you like that poem with print or audio, sir ?

It’s an argument that’s been carrying on for years. Which is the most powerful medium for poetry ? The voice, or the printed page ?

It’s a matter of horses for courses. When I was doing my A levels we were treated to an Argo recording of TS Eliot reading “ The Waste Land.” It was an old 78 record and it sounded as though TS was whispering his masterpiece down a tuba. He read it in a quavery, dry as dust voice which gave nothing to the poem, and took everything from it. Eliot was one of the first to use “ The Poetry Voice” – a kind of pretentious whine, portentous and off -putting.

Although it has been largely superseded by the cheerfully loud performance poets, you’ll still catch a whiff of it from time to time. Nowadays spoken poetry mean Performance Poets. My knowledge is a bit thin here, but I’ve heard John Cooper Clarke ( grittily and convincingly northern) and Kate Tempest who has the ability, both to write some rich, thoughtful work, and the stage presence to carry it over. It’s broad-brush poetry- passionate, hectoring, cheering – it’s a communal experience.

Not every poem can stand up in front of an audience. A lot of poetry happens inside your head. Look at Shakespeare’s sonnets. Everyone gives them passing respect – but who actually reads them ? Try one. It’s like taking a Swiss watch apart and then putting it back together.

The poem is a link between poet and audience – something you create using the words on the page. And it’s a secret between the two of you. Or would you prefer an actor whispering the text in your ear ? You could argue that an actor’s voice is a barrier to understanding, but on the other hand, it could open up areas of the poem you missed.

Of course – you don’t have to choose. I’ve had a go at both text and talking with my book “ Quantum Theory for Cats” It’s available in both paperback and audio versions – and you can find both here.

Quantum Theory for Cats

 

When you can’t think of anything to write

If you can’t think of anything to write about – listen to some music. It doesn’t matter what it is – blues, classical- it will trigger ideas, sometimes tangential, sometimes direct. It’s never failed for me. I wrote this poem a few years ago, wasn’t quite happy about it and dumped it in the ” Maybe” file. I was listening to the music the other day, remembered the poem, and gave it a tiny tweak. And here it is

 

Funeral Music for Queen Mary- Purcell

Four muted trumpet notes, the sound
of darkness. Out of shadows come
the booted feet, the banners and the drum
driving them to the graveʼs edge.

Black clad choirboys give a voice to pain.

Torchlight can touch a cheek, trace
Fear and pity in a public face,
but echoes fade to silence, and the night
takes mourners and the mourned in its embrace.

The junkyard

What do you do when a poem isn’t working ? You know, when you’ve got the start of something which looks as though it’s going to work…and then suddenly…you’re stuck. You can keep banging your head on a brick wall, of course, or you can select ” delete” and  send the whole thing down the tubes.

Or you can dump it in the junkyard. I actually have a folder on my computer labelled ” Junkyard” – and it’s full of …well …junk. Sometimes, when I’m stuck for ideas, I’ll open it up and wander round. At the very least you can look at the  unfinished gem from a couple of years ago, and take pride in the knowledge that you’d never write anything as awful as that now. But now and then you come across a phrase, a couple of lines which make you pause. You copy it, paste it on a clean screen …and you’re off again.

This poem is about…just that.

 

Recycling

Down the dusty, data-blown back streets

of my computer’s hard drive lies
the dumping ground —

the place where failed poems go to die,

and fragments too, which make me feel embarrassed or ashamed –
lines leading nowhere, overgrown
with lush, excessive, choking adjectives;
a rusting heap of mis-matched metaphors;
a rhyme scheme spray-canned on a concrete wall.

And that’s not all

that festers here –
a ballad that would put a saint to sleep;

a cinquaine that’s correct, but deadly dull.

The place is full of junk.

Yet often when I’m stuck
I wander here
to browse the trash
(it’s happened many a time.)
I pick up some soiled phrase and rub it on my sleeve

and sometimes -– you won’t believe this —
I can see a gleam of gold beneath the grime.

 

 

 

 

Author Central

 

 

 

Six swans and Author Central

The six swans first. They were on the lake this morning – three adults, two juveniles and a cygnet. It was really cold,a sharp wind whipping off the lake, and I wondered why they had come up from the middle of town, where there is more shelter. On the other hand, there’s been a singleton swan on the lake all week, tucked in to the bank. I wonder  how they make the decision to come here- and how they navigate there.

Geese have had it worked out for years. For long range flights they follow the motorways.

Now for Author Central. Amazon have launched a kind of directory of writers. If you’ve written something in the Amazon bookstore, then you can have a free page to sell your wares- and it’s free.

This is my link

 

Amazon Author Central Page