I leant over, and read her notebook.

Treasure pleasure:
seize the azure instant!!!

She never forgave me for laughing.

After cocktails at Luigi's Bar, and then The Golden Bowl,
I proposed we play a gig of jazz-inspired rock and roll.
We all thought we'd make the fans cry out for encores every night.
But our schemes were dreams that faded in the morning's ruthless light.

My blue guitar should captivate the people every night.
But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled.
My dream faded out of sight.

Playing keyboards was Patricia. (Never 'Trisha', never 'Pat'.)
She'd a taste for gracious living in her small art deco flat.
She would practice chord progressions, sipping lapsang souchong tea.
Then she played away at weekends with her special friend, Marie.

She trained her dainty fingers to explore new grooves each night.
But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled.
Her dream faded out of sight.

We had Ritchie on electric bass, with tap-and-pull technique.
Such a clever devil — Ritchie almost taught the bass to speak.
Ralph the drummer's backbeat cymbal crashes measured out the bars.
We agreed the speed — then found we could not play like superstars.

Would the crowd be wowed by passion from my lovely blue guitar?
No, the dream crumbled, as the band stumbled.
Our dream faded overnight.

The Blue Guitar Quartet
was as close as we could get
to our vision for the music of today.
But we bumbled and we fumbled,
our aspirations humbled.
So we slowly put our instruments away.

"The Blue Guitar Quartet
is down, but not out yet.
With practice you will crack it," said Marie.
"Let Patricia be your singer;
she's a musical humdinger,
and as soulful as a solo girl can be".

"She can improvise a blues
based on any riff you choose.
Let's have handshakes and embraces —
this quartet is going places!
Here's to jazz-rock, and The Blue Guitar Quartet!"

Just me,
no distractions.
I settle down to work.
A day reserved for poetry --
pure bliss.

I search
for convergence
of meaning and music.
The right word is somewhere nearby.
But where?

Just here --
almost at hand.
Will I reach out and net
the breathtaking flash of brilliance
today?

She seemed like a nice, pretty girl, so I had invited her to dinner in a small Italian restaurant. Over aperitifs (spritzer for her, scotch for me) she told me about herself. She was twenty years old, she came from Baltimore, her name was Lucinda, but her family called her Lulu. She had a passion for poetry, in fact she had just finished writing a poem, that very day: would I like to hear it?

In the circumstances, only one answer was possible.

I tried to look suitably impressed, and when eventually it was over, I applauded. "What imagination," I said, "What talent!" She smiled, reached inside her handbag and brought out a sheaf of dog-eared manuscripts. "Dear God," I thought, "There's more!" Oh well; there was still the possibility that after the liqueurs she might ask me back to her place, for ***. (Or, as she would probably pronounce it, "coffee".)

So on, and on, she went. The little lady had a talent all right: she could recite and eat simultaneously. Neither the pasta puttanesca nor the saltimbocca di vitello could slow down her almost-rhyming couplets. At last, the papers were all returned to the handbag. She looked at me expectantly. "So, do you think I could get my poetry published?" I paused, to consider my answer. But the pause was too long: she looked right into my eyes, sensed my mood, and in that moment knew what the answer had to be.

During the dessert she crumpled; large, heavy tears fell silently into her zabaglione. Poor lamb! I'd never wanted to hurt her. She didn't deserve the destruction of her dreams.

Who does?

Imagine how things used to be: before men and monkeys, before the dinosaurs, before any creature crawled on land, or any fish swam. There was no television in those days, no internet, not even a single shopping mall. And yet, life did exist. Tiny organisms, insignificant, primitive, yes: but life was there, in abundance, and the sea was its home. The sea waited, brooding, biding its time, until it spat out some of its children to dry earth, so they could begin their long adventure: they were to evolve into you and me.

Now imagine how all this must end. Eventually, the Sun will run out of fuel. Long before this happens, life will have become unpleasant, then barely tolerable, then impossible. As the temperature begins its inexorable rise, as carbon dioxide levels fall and photosynthesis slows down and stops, will any sentient creature still be around to contemplate its fate? Any creature that even remotely resembles us?

Here, mid-way between life's watery birth and its fiery death, humankind longs for patterns; hints to give us precious insight. Patterns leading to a hard-won understanding; one that could allow us to predict or modify our mortal destiny.

And so, my sweet love, from this dizzying perspective, consider with me if you will, the deepest mystery of all life's mysteries. Sprinkle enlightenment, if you can. Tell me now, and tell me true: why does it matter so much if I leave the ****** toilet seat up or down?

The law says: every action must be accompanied by a reaction.
So when I slipped out of bra and ******* and spread myself open on the kitchen floor,
I expected that he would at least put down the crossword puzzle. No response, though.
I rose up and emptied the saucepan over him.

I went on a course: 'Poetry-writing for beginners'.
I made my similes illuminate the dark, like phosphorus flares.
My metaphors danced the can-can, naked, around the market square.
The teacher said: "Yes, very clever dear. But your imagery clothes a void,
Where the poet's deepest thoughts and feelings should be".
That was when I unstoppered the nitric acid bottle. She will probably keep the sight in one eye.

I joined my local writers' discussion group. At the last meeting, this was the consensus:
Music was subordinating sense; my attempt at profundity was just a lazy mysticism.
They suggested flushing out the drivel from the windmills of my mind.
I added bleach to their cappuccinos. They were left speechless.

I looked in Yellow Pages, and found a personal poetry trainer.
He said, "From now on, you let other people see your poetry only when I say you may.
I shall hold you back until every cadence convinces;
Until I hear the extraordinary, the important and the authentic sing from the bedside table."

Eventually, we were both satisfied.

Once, in the time of plenty, we were great hunters.
Quick, brave, artful -- we deserved our feasting.

Now, each day the prey becomes scarcer.
We explore ever further, and walk back, weary.
Lately, our children have come to  know hunger.

Why, though we perform the sacred ceremonies,
do the gods not hear us?

"Never mind," said my muse. "This often happens. Over-eager is better than overwhelmed. Next time, you will improve."

I did, but my performance was still lackluster.  Gamma plus/beta minus(?).

"Never mind," she said. " Before we can make an assault on the peak, we must conquer the foothills. Slowly does it."

Next time, she didn't bother to hide her yawn.

"Never mind," she said. "Patience is a virtue. Here are some specialist magazines -- read them, and see what can be achieved by the experienced."

"Will I see you again?", I asked.

She pressed my hand, and walked silently away.

From the hill-top, I can see everything:
rocky outcrops, stone wall-divided fields,
impatient streams eager to join mother river in the valley.
I graciously declare the scene satisfactory.

When I get home, it is nearing time for the evening meal.
Ruth is making apple pie, Maeve is talking politics (again!).
The grandchildren are running from room to room.

Shush, Maeve; listen to the earth breathe.
Don't fuss, Ruth — I'm just pleasantly tired.

Contentment, like an affectionate pet, is nuzzling into me.

Who is this impostor,
glimpsed with horror
in the department store window?
He apes my movements
but fails to capture
their athleticism,
spring-loaded inside an easy grace.

Ladies and gentlemen, do not be deceived.
Disregard those who think they know me.
This shambling simulacrum
is not me.

Perhaps my Nobel prize
is just a might-have-been,
my endowments only imagined.
But I am who I want me to be.

All aboard for the unguided tour!
Already begun, pre-planned
by an unknown administrator,
its detailed itinerary remains unpublished.
The last stage is, they say, less delightful than the others.
It passes through the poorer districts;
one sees industrial squalor and boarded-up lives.

I can leave the tour at any time.
I am who I want me to be.

Discomfort and dissolution do not belong in my world.
I am not the kind of person to ever be distraught.
So oblivion shall not swallow my love's soul.
Not all at once,
not piece by piece.
Not even a little.
Her identity must not be corrupted.

We are who I want us to be.

The road continues to its vanishing point on the horizon —
where over-ambition falls to earth as delusion
and toil is sublimated into wonder.

Will you travel with me?
Will you relinquish the almost right and the fairly good?
Can you scrape away the detail from the essence?

Navigation may be difficult.
There is a route to perfection, but it is not signposted.
Sometimes tarmac gives way to dirt and mud.

The light is fading, now.
Eventually, sleep will be unavoidable.
Tomorrow, we can steal the lightening.

A girl.
A cute girl,
Starting the journey to
Her prime.
A smile.
A broad smile,
Mixing benevolence
With joy.

Who will be your special person?
Who will spur you from proposal to accomplishment,
Or exorcise an unworthy stratagem?
There will be many offers.

Step boldly, my precious.
When the time comes, you will choose wisely.

Last night, I slept with Ludwig; the night before, Wolfgang.
Tomorrow, Johannes has promised me a vigorous work-out.
Not for me the ascetic pilgrimage to the gates of good taste.
I must have passion, for that will point me to truth.

Last night I slept with Ludwig, so now I am ready.
Music-lovers of Chicago: watch me walk onto the platform,
shimmering but dignified in midnight blue diamanté.
Prepare to hear my translation of feelings into sound.

Ludwig's feelings.
Everyone's feelings.

Last night I slept with Ludwig.
Now, I claim my reward. After the final chord,
applause is compulsory. Louder! Louder! Stand up and cheer!
You are my people. Love me! Love me, why don't you?

When Princess Lemon went to bed that night
she knew for sure that everything had changed.
She knew the pounding hoofbeats would pursue
the quivering night-time body of her dreams,
would shake her upside-down and inside-out,
would set the tempo of her shuddering sleep.

The horseman spurs the horseflesh to obey
his strict command: "Up now, and clear the hedge!"
Together, man and beast perform as one,
combining will and power; and at speed.

The huntsman and the Princess are a pair.
They dance to Pan as only lovers can
and twine their bodies in the open air.

Outdoor life is oppressive in this city of the plains.
Dawn shines weakly on those few below.
Hot and humid will be here soon.

Marsha stumbles to the bathroom.
One last test: mid-stream *** into the container.
Still positive.

Dr Screwell's services are much sought after.
His fragrant personal assistant cannot always guarantee
a timely consultation; Marsha was one of the lucky ones.

Shower, dress carefully — understated elegance is what's wanted.
Breakfast without savor.
Prepare for the visit. No drama;
just a preliminary informal discussion, you know.

Marsha walks from street to street, distracted.
No use now saying "I wish ...".
Two alternatives, both unacceptable.
Who can she approach for guidance?

Herself, only.

He may be smooth, Anneliese; he may be charming to your Mom.
He may treat you to champagne and caviar.
He may think he knows what's best for you, and how he could refine
The essence of who he thinks you are.

But does he make you smile, in your bed, in the morning?
Is he as good as me, Anneliese?
Does he strike the spark, fan the flame, stoke the fire?
Only I'm your naughty lover, Anneliese.

Him or me, Anneliese?
Only one of us can save you.
You must choose between the sinner and the saint.
So decide, Anneliese - project manager or poet?
Who can stay? Who must leave, without complaint?

Stay with me, Anneliese.
Soar with me, my pale pink angel!
Let us run to the chapel in the middle of the village.
Let us vow to be together, till the end.

From fingertip to tiptoe, you will always be my canvas
As my words attempt a portrait of a woman like no other.

Come to me, Anneliese!
Don't you see, Anneliese?
You're my dream, you're my life, you're the beating of my heart.
You are all that I could pray for, Anneliese, Anneliese.
You have brought me to my knees, sweet Anneliese.

I am a thirteen-year-old girl, and my parents hate me.
Boo-hoo! What shall I do?

Your parents think you are one big sulking pile of ****; and so do I.
But they also love every last bit of you (even the ****), more deeply than you can know; always have, always will.
Write to me again when you have discovered free verse.

I am a twenty-something new mother. I love this little stranger so much I could burst!
Help me find the words to tell every in and out, every fold and pulse of this tiny life.

Oh sweetie, does it never occur to you that this has all been done before, many times?
Would you like to examine volume seven of my vacation photo album? (Look -- here's another one of me, in front of the Eiffel Tower, eating an ice cream.)
No? So learn a lesson, sweetie -- live your love, don't write it.

I am a sixty-year-old male, past the best but not yet ready for the worst.
What does it all mean?

*My friend, here's a to-do list: observe, record, imagine, record, wonder, record. Revise, condense, select, re-shape, re-start. Repeat until sick; then beyond, as best you can.
It all means hard work.
But of course, you knew that, didn't you? After all, you are me.

Let love be performed, as required.

Let desire flow, as it will.
Let excitement mount, as it must.

Let synchronized pleasure commence.

Let the hydraulic imperative be obeyed!

Now is the moment of peak sensation.



Let rhyme be used where it helps.

Let rhythm bounce when it can.

Let words speak to the heart.

Let form magnify sense.

Let the poem take flight!

Now is the moment of inspiration.



Let love grow stronger with age.

Let friends share our happiness.

Let thought guide us to wisdom.

Let our children be our epitaphs.

Let life be savored.

Now is a moment of reflection.

But ...

... Affection outlives passion.
... A good poem needs time to be born.
... Life might not ever make its meaning manifest.

Now is a moment of partial understanding.

I'd like you all to be happy.
If I could erase your secret apprehensions,
and kiss your lives better,
I would.

It's not that easy.
When my needs conflict with the general good,
and require me to offend,
I do.

I cannot be a prisoner of your expectations.
When my limited stocks of bonhomie are exhausted,
and contempt suggests I scream,
I will.

Oh barman, fill my glass right up.
Fill it so it overflows.
I will try to drink you dry.
Keep it coming, till you close.
I'll drink until my sorrow goes,
Until I feel repose.

Oh jazzman, play that thing for me.
Play it slow and play it sweet.
Don't know why it makes me cry.
Swing the tune and scrunch the beat.
Send me crying to the street.
I'll cry along the street.

Oh pretty lady, take me in.
Take me in your loving arms.
I know you're tired, but I'm inspired
To taste your fluffy female charms.
Cushion me from life's alarms.
Please soothe my night alarms.

Even a witch has to be trained.
The broomstick needs skill to operate,
so pay attention.

Advanced students can use the high-performance stick.
They urge on the cylindrical thruster;
it accelerates rapidly to the treetops.

But usually, time is available for a gentler ride.
Aim to thread a path through the trees.
Focus your thoughts on the ideal route — the stick will obey.

Quiet concentration and subtlety are requirements.
Listen carefully to the night and the forest;
adjust your controls accordingly.

At the end of the journey, review your progress.
If you steer correctly, contentment will be your pillow.
Otherwise, you should refine your strategy.

Remember: you will be held accountable.

Dear Sir,
It has come to our attention.
Our records clearly show. There can be no doubt.
I cannot emphasize too strongly that these activities
are completely unacceptable to us.

We would of course prefer to settle this matter amicably.
However, I must inform you that, should you continue to,
we cannot rule out the imposition of severe.

I therefore enclose for your consideration.
You should carefully note the wording of paragraph, sub-section.
Previously, some people in your position have assumed that this simply meant.
They were unpleasantly surprised when they realized too late that it does not.

I politely suggest that, at your earliest convenience, you should.
The options open to you at this point are limited, and will all be unwelcome.
Nevertheless, you would be ill-advised to consider non-compliance.
Our Enforcement department is large and enthusiastic.
They would relish the opportunity to.

Words can bite.
Mostly just a nip — easily forgotten.
But sometimes an injection of neurotoxin,
whereby you lose your nerve.

In the night-time woods, small life scurries in the undergrowth,
mostly unseen by human eyes.
But sometimes moonlight is revelatory,
striking a shaft of momentary wonder.

Do not give in, fellow scribbler.
There is something extraordinary to see.
You are in the best position to see it,
and make others wish they had seen it, too.

Re-assess your wound, and its author.
Probably just a *****; best ignored.

Between tree line and snow line, the alpine plants survive.
Cold and desiccation are enemies, but there is no surrender.
Clonal propagation is adequate: *** is often dispensed with.

Between fame and indifference, the quiet people settle.
Ice is melted by family life.
Coupling does occur: but surreptitiously.

Between the eccentric and the outrageous, my love lives.
No-one is ever oblivious to her presence.
An immediate outflow of passion is always an option.

Time to go upstairs, dearest one.
Time for a re-enactment of the big bang.
Time to roar.

My! Where did you learn to do that, Cynthia?

At midnight, today slides comfortably into yesterday.
Our bodies come together, and begin the long dance
That they now know by heart.
Slow at first, then faster; it is over all too soon.
We smile, kiss, and wait for sleep to take us to tomorrow.

At 4 a.m., I am suddenly awake.
A storm is throwing itself at the window.
I imagine the heavens weeping, and the air sighing,
At the passing of pleasure.
I shiver, and the moon whispers:
"This is how you would feel, were you ever to lose her".

When you're with me it's easy to pretend
That life and love will stay forever green.
When I'm alone, I feel a fear descend.

A feeling that I barely comprehend,
A shudder that I try to keep unseen.
When you're with me, I easily pretend.

If you weren't here, on whom could I depend
To lift me to the heights, from my ravine?
When I'm alone, I feel the fear descend.

I talk too much, much more than  I intend,
As if words might avert the unforeseen.
When you're with me, I cheerfully pretend.

Our term is fixed. How far does it extend?
Will you or I be first to leave the scene?
When I'm alone, I feel the dread descend.

What hammer blows await, before the end?
Our fate is settled; none can intervene.
With you, dear, joy is easy to pretend.
Alone, I feel the clouds of doom descend.

Anger? No, that would be inappropriate.
This is the twenty-first century after all;
these days, such things happen.
And when they do, nobody thinks twice,

except, in this case, me. Sadness? Yes,
but more than that. Thoughts arise unbidden:
my mind displays your key life moments,
each one a pearl in my memory.

"Pretty as a picture", "bright as a button", people say.
I have to say it too: that is how you were, for me.
You were the small and vulnerable one,
who had to be loved, no matter what.

Nausea? Indeed, that is the heart of it.
Frank Sinatra and seduction are passé, I understand.
But did it have to be squalid?
With a man like that, in the shopping mall car park?

Now I must get to know a stranger:
my daughter, the easy lay.

Speak to me softly, my sweet lover.
Cuddle me close, at close of day.
Outside, there is stress and conflict;
Here, your kisses send sadness away.

Help me to share your tears and triumphs.
Lay your fragile feelings bare.
I'm the one who'll always love you;
I'm the one who'll always care.

Slip your clothes off, stroke my body,
Play your music, drink some wine.
Tell me again that I'm your sweetheart;
Now and forever, you are mine.

Words can do wonders —
Ink in your hesitant insight,
Chart the peaks and boundary of your sprawling mood,
Assemble arc-lights
Around the moment when everything changed.

Words will help, but you cannot command them.
Show them a specification and they will smile, and turn away.


So be gentle; invite them to roam through your estate.
Do not cry out if, in the small hours, you hear them,
Padding along, in the secret places.
Wait patiently for their final recommendations.
(Yes, truly, definitely final, this time.)

Then learn at last how to sing your past to sleep
And celebrate the person you might yet be.

Welcome, traveller, to the island of despair.

Every morning, my staff will insinuate
into your skull what you already know:
you were born useless, and will forever remain so.
Most of your colleagues find you laughable; the rest, despicable.
You are shamefully inadequate, and fail to qualify
as a human being. ****, yes. Sapiens, no.

Do not hope for redemption:
this is the land of infinite regret.

Somewhere,
every evening,
someone is playing Beethoven.

Who, today,
will deliver solace,
two centuries hence?

I never said I loved you.
Though I told you that I really liked your company;
which I did, and do.

Amanda is my sweetheart.
As your oldest and most trusted friend, she's there for you.
Yes she was, and is.

I never mentioned marriage.
Though your bedroom's witnessed many scenes of *******.
Just good fun, I thought.

Just one of many bedrooms.
All those in-and-out exertions in the cotton sheets?
They were commonplace.

I never said I'd cure you
of your hang-ups and your frequent trips to la-la land.
You were too far gone.

Abandon the placebo.
Just take stock of who you are, and who you want to be.
Look for someone else.

Captured by sleep, I fall into fog.

The bugle sounds, and I am on parade.
I read out my plans for the day.

They do not impress the fearful sergeant major of my conscience.

They prove to be inadequate.
As ever.

"Please consider an alternative," they said.
"Imagine the delights of Venus,
from tentative rising to satisfied sigh;
the shared warmth in solemn darkness".

"For others, such journeys are permissible," I said.
"But they do not reveal the bloodied peaks of the martial way.
These are my challenges to myself:
— to meet danger, and shake hands with it;
— to be there, where heroes struggle, and suffer, and struggle again;
— to make a difference."

Love is not true love,
without a willingness to sacrifice.

Catastrophe is inevitable;
nice people like us are not exempt.

No use to claim we did not realize.
We know now.

Do not expect help from our elected officials;
their long-planned exit strategy has been withdrawn from public use.

As for the charismatic leaders and the Town Hall ranters —
how could we have let them impress us?

Catastrophe is imminent.
Have you soiled your white cotton underwear?
You might as well do that now — it will save time later.