Gloaming

It's been a long, long time since I've had any energy to formulate cohesive thought. Henceforth, a little effort. It's safe to say, my inspiration is obvious. Once there was one beautiful person that was my life, rock, soul - now there are two. Mother and son: the reasons I get up in the morning.


Gloaming

And let the evening grow old around us.
Becalming gloaming.
Final vestiges of light flitter past,
the shutters bathed in vermilion glow.
You sigh in your minute chair,
and your father's heart melts.

PO

Metronome

Today.
You are the greatest thing
I ever saw on the screen.
Your heart beat - a tiny
magnificent metronome.
I am counting down days,
Today.

The Car

Oh little cocoon of alleged safety.

I watched the man sitting silently,

rocking slightly,

as if no one else in the world could view his intricate moment of pain.

Tears of rain scattering the windscreen

little rivers of ache

heavily starched tie knotted ever-so-close to his throat

minute veins throbbing rhythmically at his temples.

This man was a soon to be burst ball.

No liquid trickle descending alabaster cheeks,

no tell-tale sign of shake.

A mystery; what ailed him?

Loss, anger, betrayal. Universal idiosyncrasies.

But what struck me was the car.

Ensconced within,

enveloped by machinery, successfully

separated from the mortal coil.

I often think to myself – where would we go if there were no cars?

PO

The Low Road

THE CRUSH:

Without the dark,

All-encompassing, comforting,

How would we know light?

If I could not see your face as I rise in the morning, I doubt

whether I would get up at all.

Such a rose.

HOPE:

Now endure this ray of sunshine,

get up, get up,

a new light is taking flight.

To mope/to wallow, perhaps just fallow,

there is more to life than this.

THE REGRESSIONAL SLIP:

Follow perpetually (there is no such thing),

This contemptible affliction.

The crush will. Become a dramaturgical fixation,

despair and inability to go forth –

even from bed.

Every day.

PO

Cataplexy

It has been too long - still, sometimes the creative river suffers drought too (how pretentious is that!) - if writing is a habit, a routine, a drive, then perhaps I am truly paralysed in plundering forth... Still, occasionally, an inkling takes hold. An idea formulates. The pen touches paper... and I remind myself that I am capable. If nothing else.

Drop me a comment on this new poem below (and/or the new one above).

CATAPLEXY

All soles, mighty, stock-still

sufferingly glued to the ground.

A sudden sense of the metaphysical,

acknowledged; unwillingly quizzical,

rigid, fearful. Muted sound.

Cataplexy.

Such a wonderful word!

Inspiring dexterity of the tongue,

demanding understanding – immobility of nightmares.

Whereupon awake, drookit with sweat, into it stares.

Embrace physical disability, no longer young.

Cataplexy.

Fear of fear itself,

a reason by which not to move at all?

Rooted inactivity, unintentionally profound,

this voyage of privilege has run aground.

Eternal stasis, preparing to fall.

Cataplexy.

PO

Stunted Shimmy

Aye so we’ve aw been there, huvvnt we?
Back tae th’back o the playgroond.
An ah’m tryin a wee shimmy oer the baw
n the baw gets kindae stuck in the mud n that,
n later when ahm eatin’ ma tea an Ma’s poring oer me like ahm goin aff ma sell by
date masel,
Ah gets tae thinkin’ aboot whit ma English teacher wis talking aboot the ither
day.
Talkin aboot mettyfurs.
Ah’n ah think, as ah chew slowly oan ma mince n tatties, that ah may jist hiv done
it!
Ah may jist huv goat it – cos surely the way the baw stuck in the mud like that
wis jist typical ken,
an that in itsel’ is a mettyfur for aw the things ah want tae go right at school -
bit tiny wee pieces o misfortune end up bawsing it aw up.

Hunners ae years later,
as ah sit doon tae ma tea (it isnae mince n tatties the night),
Ah think eh aw those years ago, wi’ the baw an the mud n the kick-aboots
every night withoot fail (there wis nothin else tae dae…).
An ah chew methodically oan my lasagne (which is pure lovely by the way)
an it happens again! A lightnin’ bolt moment!
The feckin’ mud stickin’ wisnae the mettyfur at aw…
Naw.
Ah think tae masel an reach for another beer wi’ a wee tear at ma eye –
the mettyfur wis the stunted shimmy.
The failed shimmy itsel’.
Of aw the things ah’ve ever wanted tae dae since.
Aw those wonderful things, fancy-free and fu' o grace
and jist like the mud that held the baw up,
there was a’ways some wee piece o misfortune that stopped me
bein’ aw that ah could be.
That bloody stunted shimmy.

PO

New York, New York

But I am your keeper…

To swim, yes swim, once more,

Indulge and immerse in passionate eyes.

To drink body-weight and think ‘what for’,

Stripped in this place, no space for lies.

Eternally holding mirrors up to yourself,

In a place devoid of calm, to find some peace!

This, home from home, soakwoundedanimalyelps;

Bathe in becalming liquor, dream of golden fleece.

A dream for dreams sake perhaps,

Or a fired imagination to never be quenched.

The subtlest of questionable connections lapsed,

And yet and yet and yet...

I am your keeper.

PO

Untitled

Oh aye, young laddie!
Ah’ve walked yer sinister shambles,
an’ marvelled at aw they meathooks,
carcasses swingin’ softly in a muckle breeze.
Yer gutters aflowing wi’ the awful offal an’ the red stuff.

An’ ah thought o’ you swingin’ fae wan o’ them too.

Dinnae try tae intimidate me, ya wee fud!
Jist cos we’re in the fleece,
you think ah’ll go aw shaky n’ that? Eh?
Think ah’ll turn oot tae be jist like wan o’ they toorists?
Wrang!

If you were alive t’day an’ spraffed tae me like that,
ah can tell ye right noo,
ah’d fuck you up.

PO

Sand

I sit and breathe watching shifting sands,
an old man embracing recollections.
Lost in Lethean oblivion – every time I call the sea back to me
it rolls back from the shore. every. damn. time.

Cover your neck
Hold you close
Tied you in knots
‘til I broke loose
- ruined myself again.

Shards of myself lying next to the foetal glass,
A maudlin’ maelstrom of minutes counted and lost.
I see the whisper of you reappear from the dune grass,
To reach out and lose you again to the marram.

Cover your neck
Hold you close
Tied you in knots
‘til I broke loose
- ruined myself again.

Riveting recollections, snippets of emotional pinnacles,
I was lost (and wanted to be) in your warmth.
An all encompassing embrace.
This was love that fell here, salted rivers on cheeks as the salted firth
fermented slowly near our feet; like last night’s beer.

I covered your neck
Held you close
Tied you in knots
‘til I broke loose
- ruined myself again.

I left my soul by the seaside



PO

Spring & Mulberry

Spring and Mulberry.
Mulberry and Spring.
Beneath the shark, black and white in hand,
I'm feeling the sting; I'm a jaded man.

And DeSalvio's bare branches look down upon me
to tell me excitement has subsided
to the loss of youth; but, much more importantly,
in the the tidalfire that is feeling like...
you are at home.

I drop in with the buzz and throng
of living urbanity - no banality;
but to try and capture the uncapturable,
to write an unwritable line -
to close. On the delicate promise of rhyme.

PO

Expectations

Expectations are funny things,
Give them licence, they'll run around you rings.
And all deliberating, preparation, swot -
Comes not to matter. Not one jot.

Yet, embracing chaos theory one might find
in the other extreme no balance of time
'til I am left relaxed muddled slightly in limbo
expectations lost; thoughts akimbo.

Neuralgia

Neuralgia sits very close to neurotoxin in the dictionary
A sure-fire slide to paranoia,
but ‘the intense pain along the course of a nerve’
leads to hiding my profile
and closing my ears to the aural toxicity that I love to dabble in.
I am not quite myself like this –
Simple shadows of normal operations.
Capacity pulse-shorn.

PO.

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.