My Poetry: The Horizon (The myth of Salvation Island)

The Horizon (The Myth of Salvation Island)

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On bleak shore I stand
imagine swimming to horizon
to see if cold sea can dilute
salt water crusting on crimson cheek.
Maybe make friends with the lost
cast away, ugly ducklings, on the way;
swap stories and jokes
till punch-lines run dry
and sirens beckon us back
with swan song melodies
full of promises of melancholy wishes
played on pipes of indifference.

But those exotic songs, do not beckon I,
so to horizon I’ll keep a heading,
to where sun setting
turns brine to ink so I can pen
a verse or two titled ‘Sea of Tears’
and/or ‘When salt waters collide’
and sing it to my new duck friend
who asks why
I want to reach the horizon.
I answer only: ‘Because it’s not shore.’
and he pretends
to know, but he does not
as he leaves me for sand sanctuary.

Then as day gets older
setting sun sits lower, glowing orange,
like it’s set fire to the horizon,
a ceremonial cremation
for the death rattle of dying day.
but no elegy or pyre
could entice me more
than hearing its crackling promises
to dry the salt waters, which punish I,
like sea-sick sailor
craving home and the bosom
that awaits he
with ember hearth and warm rum.

But shore is neither home
nor happiness to I, now I know
the burning kingdom of eternal rest
lays just beyond the distance;
the esoteric myths of poetic fools
and holy men, enough for me
to continue to believe
in the rumoured uncharted island
nicknamed salvation.

When alongside I, a whale,
the size of France, appears
with a sickle shaped smile
and bloated promises
claiming: “I know a place that is neither
‘shore nor horizon,
‘where poetic verse is pointless
‘because pain and happiness
‘is but the same within its ephemeral walls.”
I sighed, and started to backstroke
so to better view, that big blue
promiser of heaven, or hell.
‘But what care I for such a place
‘where the sun is the same as the moon
‘and folk like my friend the duck
‘have no shore to call a home?’ said I.
‘But its beauty is unsurpassed:
‘rolling hills and poppy fields
‘sit like lakes of blood in mint green sea,”
Said she, as if my history was writ
on jetsam floating by.

‘Alas, madam,’ said I.
‘I cannot contend its beauty,
‘and if it’s as great as yours
‘I would surely be happy there,
‘but I must reach the horizon,
‘so I can write the duck
‘to confirm the ugly and unwanted
‘are at least, welcome there.
‘So, Fair thee well, my tres belle femme,
fair thee well.’
I said, with practiced apathy.

But days, turned to months,
and years snuck up
till thoughts of horizon promises
began to fade, and I forgot
what crimson cheek was like
without salt water.
I begun to think holy horizon
was beyond this swimmers reach,
I sighed to raging sky and confessed
my love for it and for thee,
before solemnly taking grave
on ocean floor
beside starfish and octopi.

 

 

Edvard Munch (1863-1944), The Scream Signed E. Munch and dated 1895

 

This is a poem about depression and the overwelming need to escape which can take over the day.
I used the horizon as a metaphor of never reaching your goal of happiness (because the horizon is always in sight but never reachable by definition).
For some reason I liked the surrel charactors in there - the duck, someone who is also depressed but finds happiness; the whale, a drug dealer offering a respite from the sadness.
The final stanza, is the protaganist giving up after too many years of swimming for happiness ('I forgot, what crimson cheek was like, without salt water.' i.e tears).

My Poetry: We Used to Pretend

We Used to Pretend

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We used to pretend
Eros scattered the stars,
like diamond confetti
to mark the marriage of our hearts.
But they seem dimmer,
now pretending is of no use.

I used to recite you verse
under observant moon,
soft words conjured up
to honour your magical beauty.
But all nouns are useless,
now words are of no use.

Now all I see is light
reflected from rocks,
when my heart softens
to words aimed at heavens above.
Your gentle headstone
in the graveyard of my soul.

My Poetry: The Seagull

The Seagull

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Cries from solitary seagull
break the still Autumn air,

maybe it calls to the lovers,
the losers, the ghosts
who speckle the seafront,
maybe to no-one,
as nobody echoes its call.

Drifting creature - falling
in circles ever-decreasing,
white wings silhouetted
against a mackerel sky -
lost to instinct in need
of any warm nest
on this cold November 'noon.

It drifts inside greying shroud
of the pier's half-light,
as day trades blows with night ,
desperate flicker of lights,
flash and urge fractured souls
from slate sea to safe shore.

Lovers, losers and ghosts now hidden
in street lamp shadows ,
which grow taller,as night creeps.
Some days the sun ignores
this corner of England,
where no-one hears the silence
when the bells of loneliness peel. 

Brighton Pier 18-11-2013

A clip of me reading the poem: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T1oAfcZqqv0

My Poetry: Emotional Sand Castles

Emotional Sand Castles

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**NB, for those not in the UK - 'the dole' is the welfare system for those out of work and Primark is a chain of cheap clothing stores. 'shrapnel' is a slang term for coins**

I hit the street
a handful of shrapnel
in a old leather wallet
tucked inside the pocket
of a second hand jacket.
Today the rain feels colder,
my bones heavier, the lines on my face deeper;
and as the metalic sky starts to pour
flushing hope down the drain
I stop to sign on the dole, again.


Inside officers guard the office
in case poverty frustrations boil over;
a thinning man in cheap red jumper
sits in a booth, head hung
to hide the tears he dries,
as if the rug of self-esteem
was pulled beneath him when
a man the same age as his son
ended his career with a faked smile
and an attempt at empathy.
I know this man,
from my midnight fears
when the ghost of sleep haunts
me from the end of my bed.


I take instruction from logoed suit
and step inside the drizzle.
50 yards down the road,
outside the law courts,
jobseekers in their newest hoodies
and Primark slacks blow smoke
into the air like chimney stacks,
but no one notices the irony
and it’s too depressing
for me to point out or write
in an email to the town's planners
sat in their ivory towers
sipping at cups of instant coffee.


I stop for a brew,
sit in window seat, watch the world
walking by: the umbrellas, prams and wool coats
of shoppers and office workers.
Suddenly I realise all this movement
is about money - make, covet, spend -
as if the paper chase will buy back a smile.
I want to tell them they are free
to those who know where to look,
I knew a place once, but know if they ask
I wouldn’t remember the way
because the map was lost
in the modern day divorce,
the only souvenir from two years
was the one stolen from a Marrakech hotel
the last morning of our first holiday togther
when rain flooded our bedroom.
This makes me think of you,
but I kill the memories,
because these streets are no a place
to build emotional sandcastles,
'cus no one would care
If they kicked them over.

                                 
My recital of this poem: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1W-C2NpFQHY&feature=youtu.be

My POetry: Getting Older

Getting Older

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Getting older,
Is knowing for sure
Which brand of jam
You prefer.

Or having to google
Twerking AND the celeb
Splashed across the Sunday papers
As you relax
With camomile tea and toast.

Then after turning on the lap-top
Ignoring porn
As the hunt for the perfect
Moccasin moves
onto day four.

It's celebrating birthdays
With grub rather than pubs
and exotic other stuff,
'Cus you're worried
about the morning after.

But best of all
Getting older
Is knowing the difference
Between what matters
and those little silly things
That really don't.

My Poetry: St James' Street

St James' Street

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**For reference, St James' St is the main street from Brighton to Kemp Town and is renown as the gay area of the town**

Before first coffee remedy
refreshes hungover head
sirens pierce the silence
of humming Autumn streets,
another city dweller
fighting
for the chance
to see another day.
Armed with muddy lexicon,
the complexion
of rural england
still on his boots,
the country boy hits St James' Street,
senses pricked
by prevailing street life echoes
from Tranny-oke bars,
or, gay dads strung outside
dinner time Bulldog bars,
or, students blowing grants
on a black hooker
opening her knees
to close a coke deal,
or, colour blind hobos begging
for pink pounds
from degree level
call centre employees,
learning to cope
with careers
of between job jobs
stuck on two rung stairways
to petit-bourgeois heaven,
optimistic the storms
will stay at sea
and not rock
an urban ideal
in which the fight
or flee instinct
is nullified with beer and preening.
The north-Norfolk lad pulls into a pub
furnished with quiffs
and hipsters,
five quid jean shirts
bought from curbside racks
line the bar;
one becomes two
before midnight leaving
with a quick-witted Irish girl
he shares lines and kisses,
but not numbers, with.
Then before he knows
the orange street lamp
light thrown through
the bedroom window,
which cast shadows
on the off-white walls,
dissapates,
as a new day dawns,
with all its promises.

My Poetry: Love as a Rainbow

Love as a Rainbow

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One more birthday
further from the need
to chase rainbows
and all those pretty things,
like pots of gold
and tails,
which promise happiness
and distraction
from the formless
monotonous days,
but it's a fools gold,
if ever found at all,
that drove many a man mad
in their hunt
for love's Eldorado.

Men drunk

on the ephemeral promise
fostered by myth
and hope
that when its mirage appears
it will draw

smiles on the faces
of the most violent of heart,
before....
the dark clouds gallop,
once again,
to fill the horizon
like apocalypse Horsemen
of Winter long, waking nightmares
arms bared, ready
to kill such rainbow thoughts
of love's distraction.

My Poetry: Too Late

Too late

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As the needle hits
old worn tracks
I feel it in my bones,
I was born
a disciple of a decade
I cannot understand
so with practiced patience
the needle drops one more time
onto charity shop vinyl
from three decades past.
The opening chords
from a whiskey soaked
bar-room performer
warms the blood,
envy of those heady days
when powdered exotic bodies
elegantly wasted
in seedy hotels
created folk lore
stories to inspire
future guitar generations.
It nullifies this week's
radio 1 playlist
'hits’ no better than bum notes
begging to be forgot
digital dial moving
from bland to pointless
promoting pop stars
who don't fizz
while DJs younger
than my favourite shirt
jostle for prime time TV slots
and photo shoots
in Heat
next to a grinding Miley
proving it’s porn
before consciousness
no place for a modern day
Janis or Joni
just R+B singers
with no sex appeal,
chart toppers devoid of substance
but oh so stylish
in the lifestyle mags
full of so so celebs
preoccupied with themselves
but oh so in tune
with the national trend
for an adolescent culture
Champagne updates and followers
on social media,
idolising Twerk teens
and pricks acting like role models
only proving school
doesn't necessarily pay.
When the needle hits
I know I was born
three decades too late.

My Poetry: I Read the News Today

I Read the News Today

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I read the news today,
oh boy...
pages plump
with sex crime soap stars
and the nightlives
of designer idols
from football estates,
column inches aimed
at doping wage slaves
with tits and tattle
businessmen disguised
as politicians engage
in press manipulation,
planning conflicts
propagating fear
to justify death
to line their pockets,
while the brainwashed masses
skip sanitised snippets
of foreign babies dying
in the arms of siblings;
bleached words
for prole consumption
so they don't choke on reality
while munching bacon n egg
weekend breakfasts
cus they prefer to escape
bank statements
client facing nowhere careers
zero hour contracts
multi-coloured foes
with TV set gossip
of false characters
and all the while
Cameron's Blairite smile
looks down on his puppets
as he continues his mission
to break a broken Britain
under the guise
of a united Queendom
while removing everything
that made it great.

My Poetry: When the Show's Over

When the Show's Over

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Come, sit beside me
you look lonely,
we can share a table
split a bottle,
no need to talk
just act as if
we do this all the time,
pretend we know
each others name,
tap our fingers
on the glass
ignore the silence
watch the band
flirt
with the boy/girl paradigm,
then part
without the need
to swap numbers
or saliva,
just a neat goodbye
to acknowledge
the show's over.

Pic: Bill Murray and Scarlett Johansson from a still of Lost in Translation. buy it here: http://amzn.to/HxFIJs

My Poetry: A Monochrome Rainbow

A Monochrome Rainbow

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Alone but for a beer,
the static glow
from a dull TV show
casts the couch’s shadow
across the room,
but the only
thing worth watching
is the rain
clouding my window.
Where are you tonight?
Why did you take the sun?
Was it so I could
use the grieving sky
as a canvass
to project your image
across the horizon
so loneliness
would not fill my evening
like a monochrome rainbow.