Stern men line a path, to
Doors with plaques stating former occupants:
Chopin, Churchill, Napoleon III.
Overhead flags hang early evening shadows
From ornate golden arms
Across the first of nine or ten marble steps.
And up them walk folk with schmoozing faces
From cars with private drivers
And windows tinted black.
White limestone porticos are
Split by solid black adorned with gold,
And expensive gowns in violent colour.
And I notice the eyes
Fixed on my passing
As I slip into familiar grey.
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 10:05 AM UTC
Bus conversation
Brought rhythm to impeded
Speech like free-est jazz
Be-bop syllables
Legato then staccato
Neither with cadence
It sounded as if
Commas, were, splitting, each, word
Then, each, sy, lla, ble.
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 6:16 AM UTC
(verb) Observe.
1. Notice or perceive (something) and register it as being significant.
1.1. Watch (someone or something) carefully and attentively.
Observe all. See all as significant.
Especially that which seems strikingly not so.
Watch it carefully, attentively, examine the subject, the object, the Thought. Stop and take your thoughts in, then;
Sit and let the words out;
Sit and be quick, for observations are constant;
Sit and you may forget them all, so
Sit, and write.
Observe beauty—or ugliness—in the mundane
And the daily.
The prettiness of flowers is well documented
As is personal love.
Observe feeling without vague subjectiveness
Or dreamt-up narrative.
Observe your surroundings and take in that moment
Five minutes to write it down
(Or ten, if you're lucky).
Cast away your barriers.
Meter and rhyme,
Lines ending with full sto—
—Vocabulary narcissism.
Let everyone understand your words, for
Poetry is not for the well-educated
Or the creative
Or the recluse,
Poetry is for all that observe
And register their sights and sounds significant.
The poet merely watches carefully and attentively
Then marks it down
(noun) Poetry
1. Observation
Jul 13, 2018
Jul 13, 2018 at 8:01 AM UTC
The wind is ripping
From the sound of oscillating
Overhead 'copters
Splitting my vision.
In the peripherals;
A polyester carpet—sleeping bags—breaks the dry monotony of summer grass;
The bicycle courier awakes from said floor, listless;
Important man, suited, takes calls from other men, suited — octopus arms scattering papers, receipts, coffee cups and tie;
Two hard hat builders chain cigarettes and fight visible hangovers, droopy eyes staring down some impending scaffold.
And I almost miss it all,
For the passing,
Of oscillating 'copters.
Jul 13, 2018
Jul 13, 2018 at 5:13 AM UTC
Pinprick morning eyes
See
Through blurry
Films;
A rough sleeper/panhandling hopeful, wide awake, wishing a good morning — in my pocket, a toehold on Everest's side;
A second (a girl), she's taught her dog to hold The Big Issue in between its yellow-black teeth;
A scattering of people staring, smiling (at the pet)—"look, look"—"isn't it cute"—"bless"—;
A flat expression, dead eyes (the girl's), she's ********* a selection of cuts on her arm, invisible;
A tragic scene, in the shadow of London's limestone Everests.
But the toehold leaves
Selfishly
In my rushing, full
Pocket.
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 11:41 AM UTC
A composition, bordered by brown track, white shelter and
yellow line;
off-white, smear-windowed building (background)
hexagonal floors, brutalist mandala;
triangle across the frame, a ***** polluted structure
one half of a red cross logo, boarded windows
- chipboard, corrugation, MDF;
and Southern Rail green is grass in the lower foreground
arrows, words, people.
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 10:34 AM UTC
Rastafarian perches on a BT wiring cab
Slapping dark green metal and screaming
Obscenities in Patois and nonsense
Alone.
Passersby stare; shrieking oldies;
laughing kids;
bewildered Neil;
and I
Sit drinking, taking it all in
Alone.
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 10:21 AM UTC
Spare me your venice.
I know it's beautiful, but
I've four more senses
And a nose
That smells stagnant
Water and ****
Floating with pretty buildings
On the Adriatic.
Spare me: its Doges,
its saints, its Campanile.
Spare me piazzas and
inquisitive xenophiles.
I've got all the water
And **** I desire
Floating in pretty alleys
Beside the black Thames.
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 9:55 AM UTC
I was just in my shower after a long time away from it.
Thoughts scattered and fell over and
I felt like The Dead
fumbling at the start of Morning—
—Dew in the Lyceum
in London, not Athens, before
it all makes sense again
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 7:20 AM UTC
You weren't the poetic one, but I just read Kaddish
and thought of you;
of 1998 beach photo, Sussex somewhere - as I
remember you, perhaps a bit younger;
of sweet peroxide blonde, hiding brunette. I was
naive to the dye 'til I saw 'the Hepburn shot' - that 1950
something print, you in Rembrandt light,
or the black beehive wig in family portrait—
1970ish— dicky bows and cocktail dresses - Dad, aged
seven, in a shirt and trousers;
of youthful snapshots: Portobello Beach, Edinburgh
(4), with parents in Kent (8), your gang of girls some snowy
place (14), painting the house with Raymond in Croydon (20);
of latter digital images, 2012, more gaunt and wrinkled,
but ever-beautiful - seemingly ageless, as you wished;
of care and trust and overdone vegetables, thin gravy,
brussel sprout production lines - beautiful, mundane memories
at Cowfold breakfast bar or Langley Green kitchen tops;
of seaside trips to Shoreham, Portsmouth, Brighton, dogs
homes and holding my hand past the loud ones;
of picking roses from the garden for 'perfume' - sticky
hands, wet floors and beautiful smells;
of early morning rude awakenings, met only with cheer
and offers of tea and toast - I still have your butter tray
(hospitable even in death);
of my brother's wedding, taking time to jive and seem
alive whilst everyone else was dying inside, despite the fact
that it was you, and you only, who should care the most (and
thus, if you didn't, why should we have);
and of that very temperament, infamous tempers never
shown—at least to us—just pure, kind acceptance and
forgiveness.
You weren't the poetic one.
You were; the ninth child of a ****** and his wife
the girl with the Scottish accent
the wife of an engineer from Mitcham
the mother of three, the loser of one
the stern face of discipline
the BT telephone operator, the masseuse
the grandmother of three boys
the ageless face of beauty
the one I remember best
You told me you couldn't recall your siblings' names -
I've looked into it. Ada, Jack, Edie, Emmie, Mabel, Joyce,
Raymond, Terence.
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 11:19 AM UTC