Tag Archives: writing

WAYSIDE


WAYSIDE

the worst ones
that fell by the wayside
had to be poets

what other conclusion
can we come to?
what wealth do they bring
unto themselves
and unto all of humanity

with words and lines
well beyond the general reach?

I think about
why this
    should be so, plainly
it seems to resist explanation

this compulsion to
act otherwise, play
in a different key
sing
   a different song

so far beyond my comprehension
I have to reach for
the oddest of all metaphors
to get my head around it

FROZEN

FROZEN

my hands are frozen stiff
and yet
all this sitting
in the cold snow
in vain

nothing here
so
   beneath zero
able to cool the hot
zeal of the words themselves

lust for life no
matter how empty
how inconsequential
this life
       might well prove to be

my demons
marching across the page
demanding their right
to speak
   for themselves, go
the whole way

a wildfire about to happen
whilst I must, logically speaking,
submit to
        their will, to the right
of language to dictate
what it has to,
desires to, needs to

comply with the smart, counter
intuitive, freezing thinking,
with your
     frozen-solid conception 
of creation my dear
Monsieur Michel Foucault

idea
  that author is
the thing the poem itself,
this poem itself
             has issues with

confounding your dreamt of structure
        bringing it all
into one
mesmerizing sequence of
gorgeouslly miraculous fractal moments
       dancing, despoiling, flaunting
seducing, infecting,
                  overpowering

such resonance
birthing in the brain patterns of
wonder
            the world
            has not yet
had the pleasure to
                       discover it owns, it has, as
     has been ruthlessly revealed

and
    still stuck
in the snow

once again, these fingers freezing

BEYOND BELIEF

BEYOND BELIEF

poetry
is carbon footprint

it is my
considered impression
                            that

whichever way
you elect most carefully
to slice
     and dice it

Mr Wordsworth Wordsmith

poetry is truth
            raw heart-
beating truth

and so
     carry on regardless,
living your life of forge-
and-foundrey, lathe
and plane,
hammer and
chisel
       metaphor

I’ll stick to my position
close my ears to your
never
      gets new   no way
open to revision
(with
      surgical aural faith
grace and
precision)

stamping this on
all that I rhyme, all
you
   cannot recall,
still
   fail to see:

poetry is
truth
   
true
    imprint

poetry is that
        thing with

power
beyond belief

NAME OF THE GAME

NAME OF THE GAME

how to write
a poem

how to
not write
a poem

right track
start
from scratch

now here’s a scratch
could work upon it
open
     up

make into something
way bigger than
something your
domestic
    feline
might deliver

leave a scar? there’s
always a
scar
    par for the course,
name of the game

it is what
     it is

your child, your offspring
looking nothing
    like you
      wanted it to look
saying nothing
like
you wanted it to say

you thought it would
stick to you
   like a tatoo

change your voice, your look,
everything
     inside, how

you see
    the world

it’s just a poem, do not
fool yourself, on your way
to Sun, Star, Moon
Magician,
        La Maison Dieu

become
the Tarot Fool

poem is
     last word, final
analysis

          when all
is said
and done: something,
nothing, something and
nothing

everything no one saw
every word you spoke
                   but didn’t see
foresee
           .

MASTERCLASS

MASTERCLASS

I sat in the masterclass
rewriting a haiku
for the ninety
ninth time

when this unkempt lunatic
barged into ths room
hair, spectacles, beard
much like
Allen Ginsberg

he had a can
of spray paint with him
at a
    furious, frenetic pace
did aeorosol poetry

floor to ceiling
all over the walls

and all
I had to save aesthetic rigour
defend high culture

was a tiny
little replica of
an evil Muramasa katana

but I would not dare
to sully that blade.

TWO POEMS (FLOOD; LUMINE)

FLOOD

poetry should
come
in flood

to be
any good

he said, this
bar room
brawler, boozer
of the word
            did

and who am I
to pick
   a fight with him

(what kind of
Charlie would I then be?)

and truth be told
hate the very
thought of once
more into
the rewriting, yet
more drafting

the thing with a mind to
resist, go
   where it secretly insists,
be the
very soul
     of entropy

and here we are
draft five, six, eight
or seven

express elevator down to Hell
it feels, no
             stairwell to
                            melodic heaven

fast and furious
        brain to paper

nothing lost
       perfect tbirty seconds

and me, slaving away to
                                  be
contrapuntal, speak
counter-
    argument

wondering, dear reader,
dear reader

how so many of you
                 so so quick
to come
      to snap judgement

make slick quick poetic love
to the smokey
     soul of this man

who would not have
you touch the poem

until it
    scresms at you

insisting
     on birth
insisting on life

        life on the line
down with an offer you
dare not refuse

****

LUMINE

you wound me
up like
a clockword

gave me
an extra turn

then pushed
me to the limit

harder a taskmastee
more cruel
in your tutelage
than Tarantino’s Pai Mei

but when
    we broke that limit
my limit

brought me back
from a death

that bird sang a song
sweet fluting lyric that

touched
     the firmament