Index

Back then
Picture in an Exhibition
Time
Rosslyn Chapel, Hampstead
Recital
Lady of Dreams
Tune of Love
Moments
Dance voice
Church Yard
Florence
Homage to Hughes
Butterfly
Drifting Spheres
Jewels of the Night
Traveller of Dreams
We
Nameless
Do you remember……………
autumn leaves
Patrick
Eliot
Journeys
Looking at the world
Concert
Silver screen
smokey bar blues
Passing time
Lights
Birdsong
Pendeen
Marston Moor

Kasimiercz
this place
Auschwitz/Birkenau
Weep for me
Another Day
Getting through
The Train
Believer
Lonely road
The Troubador
End of Dreams
Sad eyes
The Prom
Days
Jubilee Day
St Peters
Voyagers
Songbird in a Cage
Empty dreams
Time 2
John Fahey
And the band played on
A father’s debt
Growing up
What am I
Take it
In the name of God
Slow time
Lonely Days
Singing a song
Growing old
Shadows

Kasmiercz

This is where they were picked,

she said,

as though talking of potatoes or fruit,

not the sad and empty chairs

in the square,

frail, desolate reminders

of people scared

beyond belief,

for belief.

This is where they prayed and sang,

she said,

this tourist guide in her silver car,

of a people once so proud

of their synagogues, their streets

now oh so desirable pied-a-terre

for the yuppy youth,

the latest set.

This was their market, their school,

she said,

matter of fact, no emotion here,

driving through, as though a zoo

where animals were kept,

not like me or you,

strangers even then,

the Jew.

This is where the ghetto was,

she said,

flicking her hand, her eyes, from here to there,

at cobbled roads, at faded walls,

where each window seemed to tell a tale

of life clutched so hard

of death come all too easy

within the tombstone guard

This is where some were saved,

she said,

hardly stopping the running engine,

a squat little building

behind a black iron gate,

no posters here, no ceremony,

just a factory site,

a veiled apology.

And this is where we remember them,

she said,

with a slight frown, perhaps of feeling,

and we looked at the rock,

65,000 dead from here,

it said,

gassed and burnt, man and child,

and we…..?

we had no idea

it was happening.

The Troubador

Gaunt eyes staring hollow

From hollowed cheek,

The singer stands, draped

Around the stand,

Hair masks the face

But the rictus smiles

Through the smoke that laces

The watching eye.

He is not here

To chat, to exchange

Superficial pleasantry

In that superficial way

Of others.

He is not here

To exorcise his soul

On altars built

By others.

He tears out

His entrails, visceral

Blood and gore

In each chord, each tune,

And yet still they ask

For more.

He leaches his bones

Dry of their marrow,

Grieves for the dead,

Inside, and yet they deride

His sorrow.

He fills his empty bottle,

With tales half told

Of women half known,

Beneath the alcoholic haze,

The heroin gaze,

Slides back, to taunt

The spectres’ grip, and groans

The bill half paid.

Moneymen, junkies of the flesh,

Float through his dreams

Demanding their cash,

Or return,

The resolution of another

Debt done.

Friends abandoned, in abandonment

Hold out their Banquo hands

And toll the bell

For the future already sold

To the past.

Aquiline, ravaged by time

He holds his body

Stiff, each limb

Skeletal in its posture

Cat’s cradle of angular

Uncertainty sure

Only in its deprivation.

He is not here

To joke, to laugh,

To perform

For others.

He is here

To celebrate the coming,

Of his death, his going

Long since due.

Part earth

Part sky

Part underworld,

He is not here,

For me,

For you.

Concert

clap-clap, clap-clap, the leaves

clap-clap, thrilling in the breeze,

the trees welcome in

the summer serenade, the concert about

to begin

as flowers of various shape, various hue,

mutter, rustle their programme petals

as the orchestrating wind flicks through

and the honey humming bees zip and sigh

like lead guitarists with bottle neck slide

and the dragon fly in carnival costume

hovers and leaps, gossamer frontman,

and the fountain

in a rush-strewn pond

burbles and chuckles

in the echoing flow

filling the air with soft driven sound

and the irregular beat

of its murmurings.

Still the wind blows

and the branches creak and strain

backing singers finding their voice

deep within the coiling grain,

and the myriad insects, hidden

in the enveloping green,

take up the beat, and endlessly hum

a thrumming bass,

a reverberating drum.

Then the birds, the finch,

the sparrow, begin to sing

songs of love, songs for the setting

of the sun,

songs of joy, songs of the day,

now gone,

and the chorus joins in

rising high in the sinking

of the light,

filling the world with music

until the darkness

comes

and the band falls

quiet

Save for the faint and softening

ripple

of the leaves

in the sleeping trees.

Eliot

No wasteland here, no coiling angst or twisted line,

but a world apart, of cucumber sandwich and muted sound

and the slow, inevitable, barely visible creep of time

and the gradual melting of memory in the softly faded stone

Odd tourists lured to this distant wold from the bustling city

Wandering by, in search of a final word to the wise

Pilgrims and voyeurs, like me, travellers sating an idle curiosity

Or looking for answers lost in this peculiar peace

And the children’s voices rise for a moment and fall

Flittering like larks over there by the forgotten crusader’s tomb

And I stare at all that remains, a small slab on the wall,

Such scant reward for the poems, for this foreigner come home

But here he lies, this is where the Eliot, I once read, chose to rest

Grey-brown church, nestling quiet in a pastel countryside

Of towering hedge, winding lane, and smartly thatched Sunday best

A curious and yet maybe a fitting place for him to be dead

Trees cascade high up on the rise, bobbing in the breeze

Beneath the early summer skies, a pale and watery afternoon sun

And the village, so full of gently stated charm, lies at ease

Asleep in its valley, dreaming the dream of its ancient, adopted son

No, no wasteland here, no twisted angst or coiling line,

But the simple truths of this smooth and softly undulating land

Wit and all the subtlety of rhythm, complexity of rhyme

Lost in age-old answers that somehow still belie this nomadic man.

Traveller of Dreams

And where are you going

To what do you aspire

My Frodo of the modern world

My wild-eyed child of the Shire

You searcher for the silent truths

Believer in the hidden mysteries

You yearner for the distant stars

Apostle of a thousand fantasies

Where will it all take you

The road that coils so far ahead

What will be your elven Rivendell

In what Mirkwoods will you tread

You traveller of the dark-blue depths

Explorer of the forbidden bound

You adventurer of the ice-cold wastes

Student of ideas, disciple of sound

Yes, where are you going

To what do you aspire

My Frodo of the modern world

My wild-eyed child of the Shire

With heart worn upon a threadbare sleeve

And a gentle soul that bleeds its need

With simple joy in the warmth of fellowship

And a mischievous love of the derring deed

And what is the ring that you wear

That is your power and is your fear

To what horizon does it guide you

Through what unknown Gate of Moria

Will it take you across the oceans

Will it see you climb the mountains high

Will you find the meaning of your dreams

And discover where the secret answers lie

Child as was, man now newly born

Hairy-footed hobbit become an Aragorn

May your journey heal the wounds of the night

And see you emerge into the shimmering light

Child as was, man now newly born

Stood at the threshold of this precious dawn

I wish you the fulfilment of your waking destiny

And treasure the pride you will always bring to me.

To Alexander on his 21st Birthday

Jewels of the Night

A city of a thousand mysteries caught on the hillside’s seried sprawl

Fingers reaching hard into the fold, clutching firm the moulded mound,

Like volcanic lava on the flow, glistening in the rise and fall

As it oozes succulently from a deeply seeping subterranean mine

Necklaces of glowing light

Snake smooth and serpentine

Gripping the new Laocoon tight

Across the molten fields

Beneath the glowering night

Each jewel, each drop of amber wine resting on the knuckled slope

Shards of stories from an unseen, unknown, indeterminate book

Scenes of love and laughter, scenes of fear and pain and hope

Unnamed players performing behind the veiling curtains of the dark

Pearls of a hidden life

Specks of grit grown

Within the layers of strife

Fought since dawn by man

And man, by man and wife

Cobbled streets and tarmacked wastes reach and grip and hold

The bulging veins and liver spots of an old and slow decaying hand

And here and there shadowy clumps of tower blocks stand bold

Like stumps within the toothless gums mouthing empty sounds

Blackened rock and precious stone

Creep along the valley base

Beside the endless drone

Of trucks and vans and scurrying cars

And their seamless metallic undertone

A world envisioned and encapsulated in the straining eye

Of smoky bar and corner shop, of painted nails and slippered feet

Of babies born and lovers tiffs, of hardened truth and slithering lie

Lives and deaths uncoiling all the while beyond the edge of sight

A seam of granite

Hard, uncompromising

But by diamonds lit

That sparkle in the darkening

Of this ancient pit

And then it is gone, all swallowed by the enveloping gorge,

All save for the occasional twinkling from the highest fold

And the fading memories of a brooding preternatural forge -

And the silent musing of what this place was called.

Rosslyn Chapel, Hampstead

Suddenly, in the late afternoon,

almost sepulchral light, a face

A wide-eyed demon

in the lead lined glass, a gnarled grimace,

Staring determinedly back at

my wide-eyed stare, as I sit here

In this genial softly spoken place,

this ancient cavernous space

Of saints and martyrs floating

above their pink flamingo feet,

And beneath the great barrel-roof,

the wooden rib of upturned boat,

Flowers thrust their colours

from their translucent vase,

Explosions of pulsing dance

and a faintly sexual beat

And bas-relief panels drape

stone flags upon the flaking wall,

Pictures of writhing snakes,

muscular, strangely twisted shapes,

A violence so at odds with it all.

Arches and steps, blunt forecastle

and spit, the ship’s pulpit

surging through the blue-carpeted surf

that crashes on the greying rocks

where once people knelt

before the trickling stream

winding its way from the wooded beam

of choir pews and table

where the altar should have been.

And in the darkness behind

Lofty turrets of timber and metal pipe

Rise like smooth faced cliffs beside

The delicate organ, its mouth agape

At the scene below. And I muse

on the gentle peace of this place

That holds in its wise

if slightly care-worn embrace

a thousand, thousand memories

and today this quietly thoughtful crowd

listening to the music, to the stories

of the poets, both young and old

and content in the experience,

suffused in their friendly innocence

they try to expunge

their neat and middle class guilt

and fear.

Dance voice

In silence, movement;

In movement, peace;

In tangled form

And broken mind, a grace

Is born. A fragile bird,

Hovering shyly

With soft-flutter wing,

A tender flower

Of subtle hue

Starts to show

Its hidden colour

And move in time

With the slow

Forming rainbow.

In need, compassion;

In passion, faith;

In hope, meaning to untie

the twisted soul inside,

as dancer pirouettes

and slides

hair flick and glide,

and the smile rises

radiant from within.

In despair, a hope;

In sadness, laughter;

In the self expression

A freedom is born

A humanity beyond

The human,

A dance to transcend

And, in that moment, a chance

To dream again.

Do you remember……………

Do you remember a time

when we hid in the attic eaves

and held our breath for ever

lest we be heard and in the hearing

face our fears, the thieves

of the light and of our dreaming

and you, even then, could not

hold back the laughter

and in the twinkling of your eyes

bursts like shards of sunshine

through the darkening clouds

Do you remember a time

When we rode that old brick wall

And imagined riding the plains

Between the nettles and the road

And tried our best to sit so tall

Despite the terrors lurking below

And you, even then, grinned

And giggled in undaunted glee

that forever dances on your lips

And with the sparkling rainbow

That is and was your smile

Lit up the sunless world

Threatening to drag us down

Do you remember a time

When we stood on the bottom stair

Broken shoes and tattered clothes

And fought back the tears

As the photographer clicked

Our pain so cruelly laid bare

And you, even then, had to fight

Back the chuckle in your throat

In the flashing of the light

And cross your legs as the thought

Stole through and our mother ,

Glared even more

Do you remember those times

When we crept through the mysteries

Of that long forgotten garden,

And played around the gravestones

And sought our fragile sanctuaries

In the bushes and the trees

And shared it all, even the measles

And even then you laughed

Despite the fearful warnings

And I paid the inevitable fee

But, between you and me

Never really minded

Do you remember all those times

When we faced the world together

Back there in that distant day

And met its spectres and its ghosts

With nothing more than each other

And the warmth of your rosy-cheeked laughter

That, even then, lit that haunted house

Before we went away to other empty places

And had to deal with all that awaited us

Down that long and twisting road

Stretching down the hill

Yes, do you remember those times

Of brother and sister

Of friendship and of love

Do you remember all the forgotten times too

That linger wordless in the hidden depths

With a smile upon their anxious lips

because I do

and ever will

And the band played on

Solid in the sound

In the pub on the hill

All gathered smiling round

In the mountain peaks, still

In the fog, in the mist’s embrace

Solid in the cut-edged stone

In the unspoken sharing

Of friendship’s grace

Like the embers in the fire,

All softly, wordlessly glows

In the harmony of the pulsing tune

Here, there, each spark takes light

And ever growing the music flows

The wild dance of the Irish fiddle

The delicate pit-patter of the mandolin

Lace and unlace

The pipe, the swirling Wurlitzer

Of the pumped accordion and yes

That strange five-stringed bass

Solid in the time, old time

Centuries back

Miners’ cottages huddled on the brow

Of the age-old track

And the coaches paused awhile, a while

From the time of plague

The days of coal and pit,

The days of wool and market

Here, they would gather, sit

And play for the heart

Play for the sheer

Crack of it all

Solid in the bonds

Of people, of harmony

Of the tapping feet,

Of the driving beat

Oh and that pointed beard

Of a bard with impassioned word

And mischievous eye

And the fire burned bright

And the world seemed warm

In the depth of winter’s grip

And the hope was drawn

From times I thought long dead

And I too stamped the foot

Whistled the tune

And felt somehow

Solid

Jubilee Day

petals on a silver stream

yellow flotsam flowing

butterflies on a gilded summer’s day

drifting with a languid wing

on an easy current of a nation at ease.

a moment of rippling movement

framed in the arch,

framed within the mind,

beneath the canopy of gently swaying trees

on this day of union, this day of jubilee.

all is strangely still

all the striving ceased

all the bitter turmoil paused

as the children run and dance in the street

and carry with them our long forgotten dreams

a fragile myriad of gossamer hope

cushions the air, stops the clock

a golden stream gently flows

beside the couple in the car

and time folds within itself, and forgets to wake

a people suddenly transformed

beyond themselves, despite themselves

on this day born from the storm

and the music lilts and tiptoes

and soothes the fevered mind with thoughts of better times

all is still

in the flowering

all is bathed in the light

of the morning

awoken from a bitter night

and, despite myself,

I’m glad to be alive.

The Train

ripe breast heaving, button nipple drawing in the eye;

moustache tweaking, young enough to wear it with pride,

fresh signs of balding, though, so it will be doomed to fade

none of it to last, these moments in the day;

woman small and blond, now grown old and turning grey,

sits still, holds herself tight as the watery sunlight

flick-flack flickers in the windows of the speeding train,

and the trees slide past, leaves glistening in the early morning

dew, fields of mist lap and roll against the islets of green,

villages snuggled in the crease, seductive in the harlot’s grin,

spires of church thrusting high, taut with masculine pride;

old couple, mother hen cluck-clucking, beneath encompassing

hat, husband nodding, mainstay no doubt of the bowling team,

the over-sixties bridge, the Sunday collection plate, the dram

in the pub, full of effusive jollity, oh what a wag was he!

||||||||||||||||||||||

Young pair of bearded men, wondering what they should be,

jocular but nervous, eyes tired, lips working effortlessly,

an Asian woman, taffeta and lace, hard beneath the curtain

smile, close the blinds, please, the sun will damage my tan;

Muslims in scarves, plump pigeons coo-coing softly so no-one

can hear, detached as we are in our click-clack detachment;

Caribbean man, languid limbs and lines drawn with marker pen,

no doubt expecting to be watched, wanting to be found wanting;

and that tussle haired youth, in the corner, too good looking

for his own good, so mannered in his studied indifference.

meantime the guard; ticket machine and brace-kneed stance,

red-eyed, who knows why, 70s wig just slightly askew, tries

to be funny, but the joke falls flat, in the artificiality and lies

with which we hold our place, our face, our weariness; and me –

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world looking back, strange man, haunted eyes, twitch, twitch,

restless in the seat, tap-tapping machine and then the sketch,

hardened face, battered clothes, and hair gone too early,

yes what would they all see, what would they all make of me?

Funny fellow that, artist if you ask me, piss artist more like,

and what on earth does he think he looks like, for goodness sake?

Alone again, with the window for a dream, click clack, click clack,

Time to move, time to move, the train beats out

But whither and whence the track mutters back

and with whom the wind softly whispers.

Birdsong

In the morning eyes

sparkle bright

wistful tunes of love

fall and slowly rise

on the cadence

of each shyly pulsing

beat

a birdsong

to wake the weary sleeping

heart

to bring the smell of dew

and cherry blossom

and that first and fragile hue

of mutual recognition.

In the dawning, a smile

flutters nervously

the sound of gossamer wing

opening and closing

in each and every shallow

breath

of the teasing, seductive wind

a fragile butterfly

to tempt the damaged

soul

to soar and glide within

in that first and tender moment

when it all begins.

In the waking, a joy

trembles on the edge

like fallow deer emerging

from the forest’s dark

and deep longings long unknown

pulse the vein

course the limb

drive the frenzy on

until

the light breaks, a coolness

murmurs from the brooding shade

and thoughts of tomorrow

return to haunt the day before

and………

the instant

has flown

the garden lies

oh so quiet

again.

Slow time

Tick tock

the creaking clock

croaks the beat

of an anxious heart

a funeral mourner

in his frock-coat black

he leads the sombre march

and never looks back

at the seconds

stretched like stiffened corpses

in the darkened hears

behind.

Tick tock

the pendulum mocks

its lengthening stride

taunting the fugitive ear

and derides

the waiting listener

with moon-round face

like Cheshire cat

its smile curled wide

across the place

you were just looking

at.

Tick tock

the echoes block

all thoughts, all sounds

until the air begins to burn

and the silence abounds

an avalanche of snow white

emptiness pouring down

the slope of a mounting

scream

Tick tock

Tick

Tock

Tick.

Shadows

And into the fleeting shadow

we must one day go

to the long, unbroken shores

where the grey tides flow

and the surf will drag its weary feet

and the fading horizon will clutch

at every advance and every retreat

and the moon will sit in the molten sky

and we will come, and we will die.

A life now spent, bones grown tired

and, in the passing, we will wonder why

we yearned and strove and fought

and grasped each bubble as it hurtled by.

A walk upon the stage

a turning of the page

a dream, a love, a rage

a constant battle against the cage

that sought to hold us in.

And into the velvet of night time’s grip

we must surely one day step

to the distant reaches where mountains sit

and the eagles rise high and dip

and the stars paint their pictures bright.

A life now spent, a debt repaid

and, in the passing, we will wonder why

we dreamt and hoped and played

our tunes of fragrant mystery

That lit the darkness, guided the foot

through all those perils and seeping doubt.

A day that passed so fast

has gone forever more

a day we thought would last,

a childhood lost, a being born,

all now drifting on the final breeze

that takes us cross the seas

and, in the pillow of the night,

sets us free.

And into the fading of the memory

we will surely one day go

to the hills and dales of another land

to the bending tree, the shifting sand

of your dreams, and of your mind

A story told, a vague remembered anecdote

a faded picture on the shelf, a fading note,

a song once sung, a bell once rung

a love that will live on in your ageing

heart.