Poems are not films

Poems are not like films
They are the rare flowers
Seen in urban cinematography
The bodies of butterflies with plucked wings
Thrown into the sewer wind
Of the cutting room floor

editing a film frame by frame
You stop the sequence of stills
And zoom into a dark corner by a dustbin
There’s one of the little blighters, quick
Edit it out

If you waited to make a film from poems
You would keep a Hollywood studio
Working overtime
You would need a Nazi factory full of slaves working overtime
In a pyramid epic
And still your film would look like
The tracks of a yeti disappearing into the snowdrift

Penguin European poetry

It has taken a lifetime
To obtain nearly all
Of the Penguin Modern
European Poets series

I started in 1970
Buying one or two
From Hudson’s bookshop
In Birmingham
Pesoa, Rilke, Blok

With their portraits
In photo or sketch
On the front cover
They are the shadows
That walk in foreign languages

There are a few left
That I have not read
That by now
Penguin has forgotten

I used to read the list of poets
Printed on the back cover
With hunger
Wondering
Will I ever get to read
All of them

The list is now like
A memorial
To those fallen
In battle

My latest acquisition
In penguin
Modern European poetry
Is Guillivac, selected poems
Published 1974

These books of poems
Scatter
The road behind
Like the dead bodies of friends

Not forgetting
The translators
A calibre of men
As rare as the Greek heroes
That fell at the wall of Troy

Stamped inside
On the title page
In big bold lettering
This book belongs
To the British
Broadcasting corporation
Library
It’s all right for some

Poetry workshop time

Here we are
In poetry workshop territory

Write a poem about a cat
In quarto quotro tetro rhyme

Yes, go on reduce yourself
Its stupid child knows less than them
Time

Write as you may
Even a masterpiece
Of childlike imaginativeness

You will be neighed upon
As you recite your piece
Like a lame horse
That talks to geese

Translation is

Translation is treacherous
In the hands of those
Who do not trust their own ears
Who like to impress
With their education

While the ordinary man
speaks with more
Than one garden of words
Whose everyday ingredients
Are imported into speech
From the world around him

Translational architectures
That build structures
Out of plain sentences
Spoken by forthright speakers
Who were speaking in plain terms
Have created new conversation
Out of other people’s minds

Oh Lucky Poet

Oh lucky poet
With your good looks
And your good health

Some of us
Were Beatles
Some of us were
Stones

One of us
Was an ugly gnome

Oh lucky poets
Sitting on the floor
Of the assay office
Raking in
Armfuls of gold dust
To critical acclaim
And adoration
Did you not hear
The voice
Out of the wilderness
Asking
For nothing more
Than water

I tried too hard to give you my heart

I tried too hard to give you my heart
The remembered days that live in there
The delusions that seem so real to me
The truth that seems a lie to you

I’ve preserved my sanity in a memorial dream
I sent it by spacecraft into my hearts endless space
In a metal safe box as hard as titanium
In a container as small and soft as a bird

I’ve tried to give my heart to you
Its dusty dark streets where children play till late
Its realisations about my cherished beliefs

Its trust in giants, in gods, and heroes
Though some of the blood was poured away
Thick and hot onto the sacrificial floor
This I did when I knew you too well

I’ve tried to give you my heart
To you who exist in thousands of disguises
I try my desires on you
You flicker, flicker, flicker

In and out of reality
Back and forth from your book to your overcoat
You’ve walked out the door
Before I’ve even finished and you’re gone

I’ve tried to speak truly of paradise
Though but a single candle flame of it exists
In all the world in its time and its space
I’ve known it, I’ve known it, I’ve known it

There are 800 million people in the world

There are eight hundred million people in the world
They live in 800 million houses
There are 800 million living rooms with 800 million cupboards
There are 800 million rusty biscuit tins with 800 million forgotten poems

I have eight folders
They are crammed with poems and songs
And I am the author of eight folders
Crammed with poems and songs
The only response I ever get
Is ridicule, rejection and the put-down

What I want to know is
What am I to do with my life?
In such a hopeless world

2007

The college photocopier

The college photocopier

The college photocopier opened its green blinking eye
On its back was a ton of photocopier paper
Bowed under the weight it ate but it did not digest
All its lifeblood was spread across those pages

The college photocopier
Bolted through the doors into the night
It ran with rats through the city drains
It followed foxes through the woodlands

A posse of teachers ran after it brandishing staple guns
The college was in uproar
Students demanded handouts
The engineer came but knew nothing of photocopiers in the wild

Now it would live the rest of its life
Concealed in the undergrowth like a small deer

If I live to be a thousand

If I live to be a thousand I’ll never understand the hollow people
The ones you see right through; the ones camouflaged with normality.
They talk about themselves and it all seems fine
But their words are like spades digging out you soul

A loved one in need

A loved one in need feeds on your blood
Leaves you anaemic, your marrow like mud.
The one you love best, sweet anarchic child
She’s drunk on your blood; it makes her go wild.

The more that you give her, the wilder she gets
Her teeth cut deeper…. into your neck.
It’s daytime at last, you sit by her grave
Your tears fall like rain – for a love – you can’t save.

Song: Neglected Boy

The neglected boy

He really doesn’t know
Is there
Love across the ocean
Love across the sea
Doesn’t seem to be waiting
Anywhere near me

You really don’t know
What you’re doing
Do you?
I mean
You’ve got your orders
You’ve got your papers
To complete

But after spending
All day at your desk
You get out into the street
And there’s something
In the sunshine
That overwhelms you

The neglected boy

Love
It has no north or south
No sun or moon
Love
It has no eyes or mouth
And it thinks outside
Of its balloon

That’s all you know

Neglected boy

 

AN UNFINISHED VERSION 1



A partial Music sheet in PDF
Neglected Boy 1

 

AN UNFINISHED VERSION 2



A partial music sheet in PDF
Neglected Boy 2