collector of iron and all things metal
carried without slightest lament
by
beautiful brown-and-white nag with overflowing mane
clip-clops up and down
every road there is
and even beyond



1.
little doubt exists
of fine ingenuity
of said collector
who wastes no moment nor chance
to scour every luck’s platform
with sharp intuition and assiduous eyes
          an old stove with absent racks
          a precious copper geyser gutted with no fittings
          pine-planks discarded due to skew-cuts
          aluminium pipes abandoned with twisted ends
          old screws with rusty whorls from an recently bucket-kicked geezer’s garage
          parts of a car . . . an ****** gearbox and ancient exhausts
heaps of junk and piles of crap clang on cart
a veritable dump in some eyes but those of
the cool collector who takes all the sweepings in gracious stride
cast-off penalties and chaffs of society’s unwanted

2.
once a week on Saturdays
these wares are parked near the parking lot
for all to approach
to see
a fine spread of legend and lore
     bric-à-brac and books to browse
so many things of interest
     magazines and manuals with miscellany-topics under the sun
     hipflasks of silver and clear-cut carafes
     unused greeting-cards with dressed-up paper-dolls
     rare literature well-thumbed with care
and things you’d sure chuck out
mechanical entrails and shiny things
yet
quite a spectacle to behold
costing a joke but for you
a fraction of today's ha'penny

3.
nobody knows why the quiet collector takes the time of day
to re-inforce that fixture-presence
a kindly soul with half-smile always flirting round the lips
and greets with old-century warmth o'er book-edge, markedly a poem-spine
walking closer to peep curiosity around
relaxed eyes let one be
          no compulsive sales-talk
          no eager-****** hopping
just sitting back in deep hiker’s green fold-up chair
easy posture and half-drooped eyes with soft drink close at hand

4.
the collector really watches all who pass
     who go by on their daily trails with rituals oft unchanged
     who fuss ever-plaintive over facetious deets like school-tasks
as they return their books long overdue while whistling smasher-hit tunes (never to be heard)
     who rush to catch an ever-noisy taxi with their own raucous guards
     who help heaving housewives cursing under breath climb on board
as their groceries groan and nearly drop from overladen plastic bags
     who ignore for now with studious intent the hobos on the pavement there
     who beg lost coins for empty-belly from the tattered purses in bosoms
while others cry out impatient at peripheral nuisances
     who act as indiscreet ‘car-guards’ ostensibly guarding cars, even with folk in it

yes, he watches
and observes with keen eyes yet never obvious
even those who saunter by
with pondering glance and walking stick
even as years have graciously touched their brow
he sees them *tut-tut the ******* on the wall
like stray-dogs in a pound

5.
once in an often while
this collector who loves a rediscovered hypothesis
to explore the myriad facets of humanity
does an odd turn now and then
when walking to the toilet at the local library
which has parked itself adjacent to this lot
drops a twenty-buck note near the side
and soon joyful sees the utter surprise
when tired high-school kids with sullen backpacks
do a double-take
espy their luck . . . whoo-hoo, look!
their gloomy cloaks of learning plain melts
they take off sure-footed and lighter of heart
and repair to the fish-and-chips shop
they share their vinegary ***** in a finger-licking circle
and amity strong-cemented in a cool memory
that they’d recall with fondness many years later
at their 20th school-reunion
and as grand-dads visiting a dying pal

pangs of hunger satisfied
and
not only by them


next time
that note will be dropped in the park nearby
where effete winos sleep their lives away
     who ken much and give not a care
     a kind long not recognised
educated derelicts debate on war-merits and erstwhile musicians play melodic arpeggios
sitting in the gentle arbour-shade of mutual acceptance
with chess-mad players
working out strategy in rapt blade-moves
which belie and scorn the forgotten titles to their name
along with Ph.D to boot

6.
when night-time hails - all grows still again
and settles, though just for a nibble of time
it’s pack-up time
the listening collector hears the owl-hoot’s call
and knows the time has come to rest a bit
     for when the morrow dawns
     all neatly packaged in a brand-new gift called day
it’s back on the road again
to observe once more
with trusted nag in tow
clip-clop . . . clip-CLOP

7.
and the collector is the one
the housewives invite with alacrity to Xmas-lunch
the taxi-drivers offer gifts of goodwill
the school-kids give their chips and last treats
the vagrants seek out to share a ciggie and sympa-chat
the grown men visit for esoteric slim-tomes and philosophical advice
the shopkeepers welcome reassuring presence of

yes, this quiet collector
is the inadvertent guest
to shores of the lonely
the too-busy and life-ridden folk
who seek a sweet smile
just once in a while
in a world
where compassion is not justified by its deep-touches of poverty





no fruitless labour
in one who sees little detriment
but senses the full value of
every item’s moment in vanilla-time
while trying always
to catch
the finest one can be


supreme harvest, indeed
yes :)
love . . . love . . . love . . .





S T, 1 September

We decided to take a walk.
If the moon and stars still existed,
they were hidden behind clouds.

Then a fog hit us like a wave, a cloud
that had run out of gas and crashed on us,
to further shrink the perceptible world.

Ordinary, walking people became vague
phantoms that could loom, in film noir
black and white out of the fog,
suddenly sharpen and colorize,
only to disappear again in moments.

Sounds, out of sync, or garbled, came sharply
from odd angles, turning that fifth sense unreliable.
Noises, at first muted, were abruptly amplified as
if the hand of that ghostly vapor ran a soundboard.

A man, moving in stalker-like silence, clops,
like a clydesdale on cobblestone as he passes close.

I half expected a distant fog horn to announce
the passing of a ghost ship where all be welcome.

My night, marish, clops through
a mirror life
some mad scientist might
have coaxed to self-replicate
into an intemperate ooze.

I’m standing there,
and then I’m not,
lost in its reflection
and aflutter with a flabbergasting abandon
at having met you
after a bushel of now grainy,
barren years.

It is me, and it’s not
or it’s both, I can’t say
who it is, who turns away
panicked by the befuddling
indifference in your voice
before it trails off
and tumbles into a cruel muddle
of swallowed gruel,
where I’m unable to skim out
the love I loved in you,
once, or spoon
one meager goodbye.

the din of one thousand plus
audience members is displaced
as the concertmaster clip-clops
from stage right to center

a fusion of brass and strings
begins its call-to-order by
the woman charged with
bringing chaos to hundreds

of orchestral voices -
a boisterous parade of
timpani vs. flute vs.
bassoon vs. viola

then - silence - then
a moment of expectation -
she enters smiling with
baton under her arm

applause from the low
seats of the orchestra to
the heights of the highest
balconies

she mounts the rostrum -
a penguinesque black-
striped uniform topped
by a bob of dark curls

a moment of silence from
the musicians - her hand
points the baton to the
sky - and strikes the air

with the sweep of authority -
a blend of sounds causing
heartbeats to still -
allegro ma non troppo


© Lewis Bosworth, 2018

‘A tribute to my lost friend, the wonderful artist Alex Pointer, who chose to illustrate one of my poems, and who has sadly left this realm last year.’

Lost to the secret valley…

Time now is vast, all over for you, leaving so fast
   Drifting, twirling, to find a home on the grass
Ground soft beneath your feet, sky above blue
   Standing quietly, focus , take in all of the view
This place, this beauty, it’s where your Pan lives
   Then a tiny touch from behind, now you draw breath

Not turning, but you can feel his warmth on your nape
   Clops, as he moves off jingling, his big toes scrape
A horn blows quiet at first, then strident as he passes
   Here now, you’re left far behind, feet in cool grasses
Just staring over this place of which you’ve just read
   Wonderful land, where now you lie, with all you need

Before and below, an amazing valley with small stream
   Gazing down, seeing this languid water, seems a dream
First step tentative, but you have confidence in this gorge
   Over the edge, slipping slightly, yet downward you forge
In grass underfoot, rustles abound, there tiny creatures run
   Further down, birds lift to the sky, all gone, one by one

Turn to look back, your face saddens, torn by lost faces  
   Tears ***** your eyes, remembering husband, heart races
In your mind, children, pictures, paintings, now sadly bygone
   A scant breeze kisses, cleaning your cheeks of love forlorn
Here in this valley, a halfway place, memories of your reading
  An intense desire to paint pictures of another’s life bleeding

Foot follows foot as you slowly descend into this other’s story
   Gazing in wonder at this real scene, know that this is Lordly
Awareness of toes firm in ground, experiencing grass growth
   Then near tiny river before you, waiting something you hate
Dark, black, bad, and evil, something affecting your life’s fate
   But as you approach, there before you in glory, bright Pan

Brown face, shows both love and sadness, looks to your eyes
   Then standing proudly, lifts arm, killing it, watching as it dies
Turns to you, tears on his face, quietly tells of his affection
   For you, for your spouse, your family, your life, its perfection
With hands he reaches, your fingers he grips, you feel love
   Then you know his warmth, and you stare into the sky above

Pan leads you slowly to the flowing water, there swim fish
   Flashing many magical colours, waters stirring, tails swish
Rustles from behind, tell of much life abounding, if unseen
   Pan then points downstream towards the sea, land between
You let go his hand, walk then beneath the overhanging trees
   Scented flowers assault your nostrils, plants you squeeze

Turn to gaze back, in the distance, you now hear Pan’s trill
   That pain, the loss you felt, now lost, river running, ears fill
Clutching branches, feel their roughness, experience their life
   Happiness fills your heart, all sadness trimmed by Pan’s knife
No more pain, no sense of loss, for you know all will join you
   Husband, family, friends, not lost, just delayed, this be true

Here now, you remember a story you read, one of this very land
   How you’d loved, drawn and painted, led by his writing hand
You’d wished for his wisdom to be real, and here you finally are
   Free at last to live amongst flowers, existing as if a bright star
This chapter in his story written for you to read, gives solace
   Moving forward along the river, you seek your now final place

Bees buzzing, birds flit, over the clear blue water insects fly
   Bright yellow daffodils on the grass, iris by water flowing by
Red wild roses climb the trees, rapidly rapping their branches
   Vividly coloured damsels whirring, hunting things dancing
All this, and much more, the further you progress towards sea
   Slowly, one sight to another, you know sea will set you free

Always pushing forwards, closer, looking to that shining sea
   Buds, flowers, fruits, together now appear here, all three
You pluck a fruit you’ve never seen before, of various colours
   Tastes so sweet, flavour unknown, stopping by wild flowers
Here momentarily you feel the need to take a long, long rest
   Yet suddenly feel that moving would best, as just a guest

Fruit juice drips from your chin, on hitting ground, grows on
   Here everything seems so alive, constant death then birth
Seemingly this is the Goddesses halfway house to reality
   By the green sea, you somehow know she awaits with vitality
Onward you press, to see a young woman who awaits you
   Dressed in silvery blue, stands out, yet is a beautiful view

Saying nothing, she lets you pass, closer you feel a freeze
   Temperature continues to drop, made worse by breeze
And then she’s far behind, winter now long far away and gone
   Through the still waving branches, there appears another
This woman dressed as spring, has come, wears bright greens
   Approaching, she smiles, waves arm, sends warmer scenes

Onwards past, now ahead by the trees, appearing, another
   This one dazzling like summer, you pass, she’s like a mother
Smells of love, hope, and forever after, reminds of happy days
   Here now the trees branches thin, into sight, red, brown blaze
Closer, another woman, stunning beauty, she now awaits, you
   Her arms outstretched, you grasp her hands, leads to sea

Impending final ending, you are led to the one true Goddess
   Here her daughter Autumn stops before her beloved mistress
You feel warm, loved, as your life before you, suddenly flashes
   This higher power, touches you, behind her the sea crashes
Home you feel, all painful essences revealed, but gone forever
   Brightest of purest hope, as here, now you finally surrender

Lift, fly far away, safe from all man’s wrath and harm, now hope
   Behind those you love so much, but know be with you soon
And as the sun fades on another day, shining bright you alight
   Travel distant stars, ride upon different skies, live with delight
Behind husband mourns and cry’s with family and friends near
   But know this, only the bright stars die young, this sadly clear

I stumble home
a drunken drone
a woman walks beside me

she overtakes
I slow my pace
she clip clops
down a sideway

I turn to
I wet my shoe
I here the sound of trickling

There she squats
in ripped pop socks
on my doorstep she is *******

A day will come, young traveler,
When a noble king and his sickly queen
Seek your wisdom
And your guidance.
But you have none to give.

You are no hero, you are just a boy
With a satchel and a walking stick.
But you are beautiful and kind
So a hero you are dubbed
By a noble king and his sickly queen.

They dress you as a knight,
Drape their sigil on your back,
And the horse clops away.
You ride tall
Until you’re out of sight.

You are no hero, you are just a boy
With a horse and a sword.
But a crest blows behind you
So you become a hope
And the children learn your name.

How can you see what’s at your back
In the wilderness without a mirror?
Use your shield, young knight,
You’ll be stone before long
So draw your sword or face the dirt.

Your armor is much heavier than before
Or perhaps you are weaker
And your sword is aching and twitching
Against your side, writhing in its
New, painful sheen.

How can you sleep
Under the gods and the stars
When both have seen what you’ve done?
Both have heard the scream
And smelled the reek of iron on your breath.

No, you cannot face them
So you look down. You sell your horse
To a man on a farm.
You leave your armor
On the banks of a river.

For you are no hero, you are just a boy
With a satchel and a walking stick
And stains on your hands.
And the king and queen say you are lost
So they light a candle for you.

You are no hero, but you are no boy.
Your feet are weathered
And your eyes are warm with the sun.
You are not lost, young traveler,
You are exactly where you are.

the white knight did not make eye contact
when he left
simply, he picked up his sword
and walked out to a starless evening sky

he left the fireplace lit
clinging to the remnants of blackened, ashy fire wood
as his heavy metal boots clanged
every step of the way

i watched him climb atop his neighing stead
and heard the clip-clops of hooves fade in the night

i told him to stay
he didn't

soon after
he returned
but only what was left of him.

this heart throws itself into an architecture that
once was...
whatever it may have been:
now... a "slacking" off-shoot of a pyramid:
piled up as such... but: a stagnant heap
of rubble...

                    i have to dare to call it a heart...
a heart will be content with such matters...
a hill of rubble or a glistening pyramid / sun-dail...
but the mind:
    if it's a cube... and it is a kabaah...
                               would the ottoman mind it
being precious... when he sights his envy
of the hagia sophia?
                       the mind couldn't possibly be made
inclined to revel in a heap of rubble...
this... what would be called:
the revisionism of Samson... begin! once more...
oh but i can be permitted...
having burdened myself with over 10 years
and 20 of these torpedos smoked each day...
i can... relax... enjoy the: leftover days...
give a hard tug at the reins... refrain from...
excesses...

       wait with the annoying patience
of a spider...
                  for the ritual... a packet of cigarettes...
how many rubber bands enclose it?
ten... perhaps eight... i take them off...
and satisfy myself with putting them around
a wine cork... i light up...
i'm 18 years old again: getting drunk for
the very first time...
there's the disorientation... there is that
great stone in my stomach...
   such a brief interlude...
            i feel my limbs failing me...
         such a brief interlude with...
   allusions to: crack-*******... the ****** hit...
this whole plethora of stepping up
the gateway "drug"...
                     at best metaphors...

cutting down from 20 cigarettes to just 2...
             it will: reveal so much...
                          that was otherwise...
a blunt reading of the whole "affair"...
                             and this is just before going
to bed... more like: falling asleep on the floor...
then jumping into bed...
such the tremors... now i can't imagine myself
having smoked: 20 in a day...
if it is supposed to be ritual...
               it couldn't ever be coupled
with a coffee and a cigarette: first thing in the morning...
that... jack daniels has aftertastes
of blueberry bubblegum...
and that jim beam doesn't...
and that... after drinking any bourbon...
even the more tame: middle of the road scotch
is... overtly smokey...

              even if you... shove it into a fridge-freezer
and wait for... the gomme syrop consistency...
did anyone write... a poo'em about tobacco?
well... whoever said -
a cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure.
it is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied.
what more can one want?
that must have been oscar wilde...
then... what cigarettes am i smoking?!
my sense of taste is sharpened...
the fog has lifted... two days ago i killed
a man in my sleep and was known as
the zodiac killer... on the stairs someone mentioned:
a truly literary invention of genius:
the ******...
      i draw blanks on the ******...
but... now i can enjoy the alcohol...
more... since... and the smoke has lifted...
and i no longer fall into the chasm of sleep
with a mirror... i fall into it with rubble and broken
glass...
the universe can finally **** my head
in with a dream!

            and once the ritual one is smoked...
i wait for about an hour before smoking
the second... and close the chapter - a day -
   perhaps mr. wilde wasn't referring to smoking
a cigarette... within the frame of mind of...
"sobering" up... or going cold-turkey for a day...
my third day of quitting...
on the third day: pangs of conscience...
why am i deriving so much pleasure from...
well... lucky me... tobacco is taxed...
it's not ******... but... i have allowed myself
to elevate it to: status...
of being 16 again and getting busy-buzzing
from the froth of cheap white-lightning cider
in a youth-club with a snooker table and sleepover
permission...

to hell with chewing gum and:
synthetic approached of nicotine patches...
imagine it: a priori...
  fake it... whatever... the analytical approach
says: curb your "enthusiasm"...
from 20 down to 2... and these 2... at the end
of the day...
                   that's the analytical approach...
the synthetic approach is:
run to the pharmacist! be weak willed!
slap on a nicotine patch... chew some gum...
forget the original smokers of tobacco...
calls them apache: high for five minutes...
no time for herr-schtyg 30 minute marijuana
"menopause"... and laughter...
for the full seance of gravity... of drowning
while breathing air...
please! don't mention the choco-bytes of peru
or: whatever came from that...
splinter continent...
            
       departure points...
   capitalists... neo-capitalists...
youtube... video making...
  sponsor hustling - ad-revenue 'clops' -
capitalists...
            the capitalists...
that were the engineers that made...
video-streaming...
         not all...
   a capitalists... by... 19th century standards
and: prior...
KRUPP... the krupp family...
                  em... ford...
                        a snap-chat... twitch streamer:
capitalist... venture...
                  venture-capitalist...
roy orbison: robinson crusoe capitalism...
magic strings and usb-oyster insert:
button...
        i like the old capitalists...
the power brokers...
the... mean-toddlers...
                  capitalism for the sake of money...

no... wait... geoffrey faber - 1929...
publisher... publishes... sub-contracts
authors...
capitalist... well thank god...
ultra-pseudo-capitalist: platform...
             content is free: no... wait...
you have to invest in the platform...
                  drug-addict: the best piece of ***
in the world... froth-at-the-mouth...
content... it's not legit: no paper...
              capitalist...
a capitalist that: gives work to...
200 engineers... 2,000 metallurgy workers...
or... 20,000 homeless poets and "poets"...
in waiting... capitalist: ask.fm: capitalist...
spotify... £0.002 for each song streamed...
capitalist!
                neu-band-windth...
                        pimpin'-******...
               neu-brave... neu...
                    the logistic of the enterprise
of: optics... would... ah... never mind...
what isn't solved by £130 once a year... or two...
in an hour in a brothel...
than... otherwise... renting a flat...
having a loan on a car...
     spending too much money on clothes...
perfumes... drinks...
for a what otherwise becomes...
a gambling addiction...
             ******* to that... sign me up!
straight to the bulgarians i go...

- by the tender-roots: a loving grace...
           a fatherly delusion...
                  none of my own... yet with...
mother death...
the illusion of pandering to...
                the conclave.... of... we...
about... to... change... the world...
using... nothing... more... than...
the logic of... Archimedes...
              by the tender-roots: a loving grace...
        and that: ****-load of...
impulse and: leverage... just about right:
tight... straining in all the right... place...

sore thumbs: misfits of knuckles...
to give up writing poetry is the energy of youth...
to become a retired: et al.
of teacher, activist... humbled sea-gull...
a richard levine...
   not to diminish the reading...
  to entomb it... to squabble with a moth over
the insomnia of light and...
the ready-and-*****-waiting:
access to the wardrobe for her to
deposit her larva of...
then the argument with the cat who
pretended it was all about alcatraz:
through the window he jumped onto
the roof with my back turned...

         hoarse worth of voice attempting
to woo him back: to sleep sensibly: not as a stray...
in the garden with the foxes...
this is hardly an over-arching Dickensian
chapter... it's a quasi-taped-together
lot of... 3 paragraphs worth... at worst...

- these capitalists... "capitalists": major majors...
treating "mental health" like it's some
gimmick for: talking intelligently
to low i.q. people: the juggling act...
                left to their own purposes...
the gnashing of teeth...
the song sung... when... wood is broken...
chopped... contra.. when it is tailored
by a carpenter to suit a sitter:
via a chair...
                         is it really a contenst between
the quadratic of:

marconi                        fessenden




dubilier                         popov?

i much appreciate the comment section?
sideline: hobby... am i being paid for...
writing + pandering to... what?
cheap ****: hot bagels...
you either like it or...
        i would be pandering to an audience...
if... i was... but i'm just content with
having the canvas: made available!

"too long"... too short... i guess i wish i was
a teenager once again...
fortunetly for all of "us": i'm not.