Sea Legs

Writing poetry is fun partly because of the way it gets round to what it's "really" about. I'm writing about an empty house but I'm talking about say isolation or exile or what have you. So it lends itself well to insular kinda folks. But it also indulges that insularity, which is not only generally intolerable but leads to shitty poems. Poetry is written primarily for other people.
This poem is part of an exchange with the Edinburgh College of Art, and is based (loosely) on the picture above, by Toby Cook.

Sea Legs

Maybe that’s all that there is.
Maybe he runs through the streets
along roads over bridges on railway
lines that fly over sleeping cathedral
towns lit up blue green like swamp
mushrooms tra-la like coral like Christmas tree
lights like the Forth Road Bridge a frame
over night-bound trawlers young man finding
his sea legs tra-la cutting shadows
in the sky far beneath the feet of a man
on the moon-blackened bridge
regarding all that there is.

Thanks,
Dave.

It's you! It's me! And there's dancing!

Check this out first:
You! Me! Dancing! by Los Campesinos

So I wrote a little thing about this music video.

‘You! Me! Dancing!’ by Los Campesinos!

I

It barely matters
that our morningwatch
of echoing major chords
will sweep away the ghosts
of thorn-mingled ruins –

our mutual smallness remains.
Sun glares over the mountains,
houses rise like bruises
from the sickly patchwork
of hesitant string-picks.

How can you understand
the sunrise forging warehouses
from the shadows, building
inevitable momentum
from a frenzy of dischords?

II

Draw back from our disco of nuclear beats –
blasting this sphere to a cosmic glitterball –
which reminds me of no earthly thing
more than your eyes under the flashing blue
and violet light.

Thanks for reading,
Dave.

Welcome to the WORLD of TOMORROW

Soooooo it's been a while since I paid attention to this here thang. Ima put some poems up that I've been working on, hope you enjoy em. Gosh, this whole page needs a little housekeeping. The junk in the right margin... seriously.

This one is a re-worked old one, the title refers to where the poem might be situated. Dreams are weird.

Anywhere but Vienna

The night is alive with drones.
The hum of the streetlight,
the infant cry of a far-off ambulance,
stillness enough to hear blood flow.

If I opened the curtains I might see
the moon pass between clouds
like the last train out of Vienna,
and the courtyard dyed blue-grey.

If I opened the window I might hear
dogs yelp as they doze,
or the murmur of an exchange
in a language I don’t recognise.

But if I sleep I might dream
an off-white room full of saints
praying for distillation from the physical
into one solitary, confident note;

a theatre of bunk-beds,
curtains and moth flight,
and a pebble of dream-stuff
I can hold until morning.

Next one I'm pretty sure has been around here before, but I wanted it a bit more sparse. Less is more.

Anaesthetic

The valve turns and releases graceful
sleep. Daffodils circle the tree
among patches of foxgloves.

Satellites beam through
space, miles above the surface,
shinking the landscape.

The daffodil in my hand
braces to the wind
that once blew over foxgloves.

Names are fun! So is romantic longing. This is a renga, which is a Japanese poem consisting of pairs of stanzas; the first has three lines of 5-7-5 syllables, the second has two 7-syllable lines. The basic idea is to make a poem that can be easily read then just as easily forgotten.

Better Words

Hear the folk song of names,
blood-lines, incantations.
Sound them like a spell.

I hold your name behind my teeth.
I hold your name beneath my tongue.

I call up spirits
far gone in time and geography,
that one afternoon –

shearwater, meadow brown,
cormorant, yellowtail,

stitchwort, iris,
meadowsweet, herb robert,
lily, vetch, foxglove –

for better or worse, time let
them live, like a kiss goodbye.

Ruddy with wind-catching,
we walked through the streets
with grassy knees.

A towel, old shorts, summer sun,
touching my face with loose blades.

Topless in water,
feel the searing embrace
of airlessness,

watching the sun set on the glens,
glowing like you wouldn’t believe;

god, or a thing
for which there is no better
word than god;

the breeze tangling your hair,
fingers tangled in your hair.

Palmful of horse chestnut,
floor glazed in green shells,
smell of muddy shoes,

witch-hazel, valerian,
ragged robin, lady’s bedstraw,

bay window,
the ever-dwindling
list of flowers.

I knew you less than a year.
We never saw winter.

I write about birds a lot. They're weird and fantastic.

Magpie

From a standing position
in the wet-leafed car park,
magpie waits, wings furled, head
tilted left, right, square
to the ground.

On legs of hooped birch
and dirty lizardskin,
its haunches tighten
and release, launching
those few pounds of bird-
flesh, bone and feathers
inches from the concrete
where wind twirls magpie
in somersaulting spirals.

Feet, yards and faster,
magpie wings spread
farther in the blank
winter night –

Yards, furlongs and further
magpie spans the breadth
of the sky, tearing away
its animal sutures –
shards of feather turn
in diffusing whirls
to the scattered light
of the black, glinting
winter sky, all
the stars tangled
in magpie’s wake.

Thanks for reading!
Dave.

Ay Oh, Let's Go

These two go together, one is set during the day, t'other at night.

Whose Garden Was This?

Resting like idle violin bows.
Birds in their dialects;
Keys of a typewriter, squeaking
Sneakers on polished wood,
Muted ruffling of blackbirds in unison.

Cirrus smudges like finger paintings
Roll like surf;
I lie stretched long in soft grass.
Listen to the code of magpies,
One from the aerial, two from the chimney stove.

Clench your feet on the prickling fuzz,
Leave behind foot prints,
Take home with you a gloss of loose blades
And remember the sun,
Lying on your belly on a towel on the grass.

Cat’s Eyes

My father’s cat had escaped on my watch.
Shortly before the midnight clock-chime
I laced up my trainers and switched on a torch,
Shuffling through darkness half-blind.

Sadly for Saffron, the night was all stars.
A sudden clear sky in an overcast summer
Had sharpened the glamour of the lights in the air,
Dusty grey grand-stars and the shooting white glimmer.

I thought about naming the cosmos like clouds:
“Three in a row, like a belt!” “Okay.”
Black canvas resistant to fathoming out,
A map without compass, no index, no key.

I remembered a book then: “On this tiny planet
Life was created; whether or not this delicate
Balance has been repeated, as yet
We do not know.” It seemed something like fate.

Thanks,
Dave.

Hi.

Whale Watching

A cargo of sightseers draws
sedately clear
of Bar Harbour, watercolour dawning
and gull-filled air

whips across the prow, drains
the flushed colour
from faces weighed haggardly down
by matted hair.

The flock of terns the lighthouse draws
in their silence clears
my mind enough to make it dawn
on astonished ears

that a mournful wail gently drowns
out the low-geared
thrumming engines; echoes and resounds
beneath us, where

the whale basks, singing. As if drawn
up by a clear-
minded artist who'd ordained
such unwary

carelessness, its cragged, drawn
forty-odd-foot glare
is half-dreaming, half-drowning
in air and water.

Thanks,
Dave.

Oddyssey

It's that time again! I've been doing some editing. Some are totally re-written, some just tidied up a little. Plus one new, never-before-seen DVD extra poem! Here!

Penelope

No gulls haunt the horizon, unadvancing,
Unreceding, a line that hides its riches in
Its folds; constellations orient my view.

The sea soon learns to hoard loam and flot and barm –
Protective filters from the light – to turn obscure,
Safe, dulling the full reflection of the moon

Into torn bandage ribbons waxing, waning
Over sable molten glasswork that encircles
This vessel. I watch reflections touch my feet,

Fill my lungs, my eyes; I meet its gaze at last.
I regret this. Minerva, Pallas Athene,
Queen of grey-eyed purity in this black and

White serenity. Her eyes were often blue;
More likely they were simply indescribable.
Tonight the feeling is not so Greek to me.

Edit edit edit

The Island House

A cricket rubs its legs, wild percussion
Close to the house; close to the house
Are silent valleys and crazy-form mountains –
Slieve More – big mountain; Knockmore – big hill.

Hives on the arms are tattoos of honour,
Though the houseflies’ days are numbered;
They emerged, days later, from behind the curtain,
Overdosing on the quiet peace of the living room.

Over the fence, the donkeys tear grass free
With blunted teeth. There is space to hear breathing,
Air brushing cold between the lips,
Steady silent prayers to the island.

Sorrow Burns

A vesperal flare in the reddening night,
Curled on the floor, half-naked, we lie
To each other, beautiful half-truths, delight
Daubed freely across the northern sky.
Drifting for now, asking nothing but the world
Leave us, all fingertips and tales,
Sun-fled and tight-lipped, too fleetingly held
To the warm, dull thud, too livid and pale.

We have long overslept as rainfall returns
Us our respective lives. We fight but concede,
And memory directs a distinctive reprise
As our parts are usurped, sensationalised
In Merchant-Ivory grayscale, the starring leads
In an alien picture. Unheeded sorrow burns.

The Mountain

I

At mountain’s peak, I stayed a while.
The pines rolled out to vanishing point,
In sanguine breathless stubbornness,
Shouldering neighbouring canopies
That hold in line the skyways and
Sanctuaries now strewn to the four corners.
Verdant canvas of vital greens.

II

On mountain’s side, I climbed ahead:
Massive fauna reminisce,
Serene and solid, delving deep
Into moss-stained soil, carbon
Engravings dwarfing my hands.

III

At mountain’s foot, my fire, ablaze
Beneath browning kettles, I hold
My pilgrim’s victual, bathed in embers’
Glow. Green bed under the clouds,
The mountain watching the pale, rising smoke.

A Staircase in a Foreign Country

It wanders up from stonework river-walls,
From the old town’s cobbled lanes
Where skateboarding kids work magic feats,
From the tourist traps and pork knees,
The sweet lager and plastic half-crowns,
A timorous, frayed-ragged stairway
That holds the best seats in the house.

No market marble coolness
In these newborn office courtyards,
No fleet-foot street artists with coterie crowds
(And no box-office) will welcome me here,
Counting the hours and watching the city’s
Heart harden. With each failed landing
I draw closer to the balcony haven.

There seems stability in these hills;
Peace at the precipice, a house of God,
Veranda over the clay-tiled canopy,
Where sunrise tries to catch my shadow
And send it out across the skyline.
Fingertip metronome counts off the beat
For skateboarders in the shimmer of dawn.

So, Then, Tycho Brahe

On the hillside that overlooks city and sea,
I lie in your hand’s reach, nestling in
The soft grass, sheltered by branches,
Black blanket sky lit by freckles of light,
On the hillside just angled to lie and look up.

I haven’t anything to say, not really,
And the blathering stream and the bass-chorus
Owls seem more eloquent anywho, night-
Watchmen with three-sixty vision; I tell you that
I haven’t anything to say, and you’re quiet.

So I turn back to the stars, moving too slowly,
But moving, ancient light that confounded
Astronomers, fearing eccentricity, or punishment
For it, burning away their distance from God;
So they turned back on the stars, and you squeeze my hand.

If truth is heresy, Brahe can hardly be blamed
For his universe model that set sun and Mars
Toward fiery discourse – I say, and you smile.
Perhaps I imagine the peace in your eyes.
I can hardly be blamed if truth is relevant.

Errantium syderum – wandering stars
That threw the world into error, only needed
Correction, but correction eternal.
The tent-bed is warm on the hillside.
Mountains and skyline, errantium syderum.

Anaesthetic

The valve turns, and releases cold and graceful
Sleep, though night fell long ago.

Daffodils circle the tree, March-blossoming,
Standing in stubborn fealty against squall and shower
For a spirit that has shed its need for dead places
With the vigil-keeping foxgloves in the garden.

Satellites and transmitters shrink the open country
And open sea to the space between mouth and ear.
Ethereal baritone braving midnight storms,
Undaunted by distance, bringing news from
The garden to my hands. The daffodil in my fingertips
Braces to the wind that blew over foxgloves, miles away.

Illusion

III

The day-old sun caught the spinning edges
Of the Diablo, reddened the white masquerades
Of the Marceau-faced jugglers, settled and
Lingered in the fallen haze of the evening.
I dodged crowded faces, screaming and vomiting,
And stood in silence like a sole grave-visitor
Beneath the canopies and curtains that climbed
Into the twilight, eclipsing what brightness remained;
The neon bar-lights stirred, wakened, hot-
Buzzing with lures that left burns on the eyes.

II

The raven-haired harlequin half-danced
Among puddles now gilded by humming streetlamps
In the anaesthetising gloom, ridding
Your strange flesh of what few flaws there were.
Green hair in spotlight, tawny eyes of cold
Silver: Indias of spice enlightened in your blood.

I

Last order of honey-wine quite gently tipped
Its hat in esteem of my wettening shoes.
Coins became yellow blossoms, enchanted
By the gold and silver cloth of the circus awning.

Descent

Flying in from Glasgow on the eighteen-fifty
To Aldergrove; out through the thick-glassed window
The frayed knuckles of coastline, reaching out with gnarled hands
Beyond the fallow piebald farms, swooping and diving
A thousand feet below. The sun touches the horizon
With a feathered fingertip, hissing as it meets
The waves, settling in for the night under a blanket of
Flourescent algae, the unfathomable sea-dreams of fish.
I wait to be informed of our descent, patient angel
Entranced by rolling breakers, snow-white foam,
Trying to feel something. Awe. My grandfather flew
Once a month to his work in Scotland, leaving his
Son and wife in the capital, watching the sky.
My wings melt as the black cliffs drift into view.

Thanks for reading,
Dave.

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Viva Ozymandias!

I

A few hours later, through Babylonian desert
And confluent arteries, pilgrims blown by trade-winds
To the fusion of inert gases and electrical tension
That ignites one word, appearing and disappearing,
On a pedestal of plastic and dark bolted steel.

Two vast and pointless pylons shoot searchlights
Into the restricted airspace stars have neglected,
Where angels dare not venture, holy creatures blinded
By the fire-fly desert city whose refracted visage
Glowers into the darkness, a glowing eye from space.

A labyrinth of temples complicates the surface
That perspires through the night and mocks the dawn,
Mocks the works of the dead, a masque of death,
Parody of life lived apart from sweating masses,
The great pawns of history tread their faltering paces.

At the pulsing heart of the teeming desert city
The twin ziggurats are counting, one by one by one,
The blurring roll of tributes to unknown emperors,
Counting the germinating souls sacrificing
At the altar no man-god will deign to forsake.

II

Too hot for outdoors and with nothing on the telly,
I sneak to the toilet-stalls and inscribe the words of Shelley.

Thanks for reading,
Dave.

I can't get enough of this shit

Oystercatchers

The road beyond the house stretches
Out around a field grown wild with oilseed,
Tarmacadam sweating rainfall into gutterways
Before turning east in search of seashore.

The road lies low, and silent this early,
Mist and light rain holding indoors all but
The swallows, herons, swifts, cormorants,
And any one else who never wanted for roofs.

A corridor of hedgerows opens into the rocks
And sand (smaller rocks) dusting the spray
As the oystercatchers loiter in the shallows,
Waiting for the water to offer its secrets.

Thanks for reading,
Dave.