An exciting time

A friend (the distinguished A. Waddell) and I are nearing a momentous moment. Hopefully by the end of this week we will release our first poetry pamphlet - the plan is to disperse around the usual suspects and establishments of Edinburgh.

It will contain two poems each. Here's one of mine that will feature (there's a slight misrepresentation of formatting due to blogger):

hummingbird

K stood very young and beautiful, silhouette imprinted forever against a night sky
Dark hair pony-tailed behind her, green eyes sparkling in the gloaming.
Staring up to the stars she dreamt her dreams -
Far-away places, far-flung, undiscovered, waiting and waiting.

The emeralds scrunched tightly-shut a wish was whispered under the breath.

Closed again, and open, still searching; always a little lost when standing still.

One more time the eyes closed, and they opened again.
Far from the ground below
And the wings beat beat beat at a rate of 70 per second,
Floating above momentarily, gauging acceptance of wherever will be will be



She flew towards the stars.

drowning

Little effervescent bubbles are collecting in my lungs
Perfect minute spheres of oxygen
Like bubbles of carbon in ginger -
I greedily gulp the sea water.

There is no panic, no thrashing of limbs
There is only liquid sleep, an
Acceptance of what will be will be…
and a thousand other idioms; lull me to a welcome final slumber.

Edwin Morgan - RIP

Strawberries

There were never strawberries
like the ones we had
that sultry afternoon
sitting on the step
of the open french window
facing each other
your knees held in mine
the blue plates in our laps
the strawberries glistening
in the hot sunlight
we dipped them in sugar
looking at each other
not hurrying the feast
for one to come
the empty plates
laid on the stone together
with the two forks crossed
and I bent towards you
sweet in that air

in my arms
abandoned like a child
from your eager mouth
the taste of strawberries
in my memory
lean back again
let me love you

let the sun beat
on our forgetfulness
one hour of all
the heat intense
and summer lightning
on the Kilpatrick hills

let the storm wash the plates

- Edwin Morgan

Untitled...

I was on TV once.
With a mask of glass upon my face
My naked greed for all to see.
The pound signs flash green, in my eyes,
And you give me what I want.

Raspy rotten breath quickens
I gasp as I saw you in Heat
my sexual wanderlust exploded at the thought
of a night at the Ivy
my picture in tomorrow’s Metro!

I drink, until I drink no more
Imbibed I am numb, but lust, longing
For this £. Sweet, sacred £.
I worship you o’ £.
I will bow for you, bend over for you, bleed for you.
Sweat glistens my skin
I bare my teeth, sharpen my fangs.
Vampiric for my own soul.
An age of shallow.

Anthonys

I was running tonight (a sleepy and hungover 6miler), and as I passed the National Gallery of Modern Art I spotted one of Mr. Gormley's structures. It made me smile.

Then, as I ran on, embracing the dull thud of my footfall as I attempted to sweat out the hangover, I began to think of famous 'Anthonys'. I do love Gormley's work, particularly the installation at Crosby Beach, Liverpool. And then there's the small matter of my favourite book 'A Clockwork Orange'. Written by... Anthony Burgess.

Now's as good a time as any to confess that I puffed my chest a little due to the fact I share my middle moniker with these two men. Who else is out there, worthy of the 'Anthony' title? Hmm, some investigation and meandering later, I stumbled upon:

Anthony - of he and Cleopatra fame. She was a looker that Cleopatra, allegedly, so Anthony must have had an appropriate whiff of his genius-name about him.

Tony Bennett - crooner extraodrinaire. Pretty sure his Ma would've called him Anthony. I have text him for confirmation, but still awaiting reply...

Facebook confirmed an eaterie, very much in keeping with my thoughts: FAMOUS ANTHONY'S - "began in Roanoke in 1986 and soon became a well known stop for breakfast, lunch, and dinner." Wow.

Then, there was a slew of Tony's - none of which I'd like to venture a guess as being bona fide Anthonys - however, for the purposes of research I can reveal that Tony Hart was there, as was Blair, Hancock, et al.

Anyway. If the above hasn't persuaded you that Anthony is the greatest moniker of all time, then I don't know what will. I invite you to let me know of your favourite Anthonys.

PO

a Fiddler

Let me tickle the finest of horse hair
with my sweeping majestic bow,
as you lose yourself in grandiose beat
my foot taps me in to flow.

I am bound up with all conventions
Sweet malts slake your thirst,
Test to the full the supportive rigging
As your energy is fit to burst.

And as with all the best small things
You wake next morn’, sounds still running your head.
A jig, a drop and a smile,
“Sure, tis better than being dead.”

Dust

I observe psychedelic approach too young
to sculpt her glorious capture
A concrete passion. She was a drug.
Why mount every sense?
Shimmer my art, write out through mad junk
& use ink instrument
It will mean ‘Masterpiece’
or yet more aesthetic symbol.

An angry canvas at best
they investigate original silhouettes,
as smoke is metaphor. No monument.
No unimpeachable line of time.
“Be empty?” asks the electric green angel.
“I give only to picture” I reply.

The sun drops through the slats
fading in late winter afternoon,
pointing out dust in the air playfully and gently,
as if it were never really in breath at all.

This scale is for subject, music is my colour.
Though I hear no harmony, and so paint absurd.
Dazzle. Perform. Compose. Above waste,
Imagine my balance in full nude song
and thinking would create joy.

Wild as my demand – like dry death
after dust and pain.

PO

Pablo Neruda

The Morning Is Full (taken from 'twenty love poems and a song of despair')

The morning is full of storm
in the heart of the summer.

The clouds travel like white handkerchiefs of
goodbye,
the wind, travelling, waving them in its hands.

The numberless heart of the wind
beating above our loving silence.

Orchestral and divine, resounding among the trees
like a language full of wars and songs.

Wind that bears off the dead leaves with a quick raid
and deflects the pulsing arrows of the birds.

Wind that topples her in a wave without spray
and substance without weight, and leaning fires.

Her mass of kisses breaks and sinks,
assailed in the door of the summer's wind.

Monday afternoon

Idle thoughts as the end of the day approaches:

"I can only give you one piece of advice - it's all in the breathing."

So, in honour, a haiku in the traditional 5-7-5 form:

it's all in breathing
your footsteps behind, leaving
Forward! The new teething.

PO.

UNKLE back to form

Top tune, and great video from UNKLE - featuring Ray Winstone telling his story of being struck by lightning as a 17 year old boy.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/video/2010/aug/10/exclusive-video-unkle-answer

1st post, Monday blues

1st post testing:

"Arrange whatever pieces come your way."