Other Englands

A short blog here, as the quotidian is intruding, but it's an idea I hope to come back to.

I've always rejected the idea of consistency in my work, such as it is. I think I've played around in the toy box a bit too much to have anything which could recognisably be considered my voice. Others disagree. But, having been at this for twenty odd years now, I have noticed that there's a few thematic consistencies which bob regularly to the surface.

I blame Roy Fisher, as I have done elsewhere on this blog, for getting me going in this regard, but I always seem to circle round the idea of alternate realities, or histories, or concurrent, different worlds which lie under the surface of this one. L39 was pretty much all about this, and it's an idea I've returned to again and again, I found myself doing it again the other day with this poem (to be continued, when I've a bit more time: 

Hesketh Out Marsh

 

desiring the follow- lines

the nowhere half-stops

the old ghost-walks

 

suggestion of edges

out in the haze

 the shine beneath you

 

a liquid, refractory air

the two dimensional world

rhombuses of daylight

 

the sense of walking

right into a horizon

and asking

 

what do we look for

when we lose ourselves

 in clouds of birds

 

a protective charm

tern-flight as spell

binding the air into knots

 

knitting the world together

stitching the air to the land

 

and

later I realise I’ve

brought something of the

marsh back with me

 

as down streets

elsewhere the gathering dark

bunches and follows

 

the coiled dark circus

rolls over  the cobbles

building and engulfing

 

and the uncertain halo

of marsh light

the memories of curlew cry

of water-spells

of empty skies

hold it back

 

The otherwise engaged

Evening, or morning, or afternoon. In the absence of anything better to do with my time, I humbly present some texts which, quite reasonably, would probably never find a home anywhere else. Been sifting thorough the archives again and Lord, for a lazy man, there's quite a lot of it. Couple of them are  a bit covid-y, so, I'll go with "of their time", yes, that sounds about right. Certainly imports a gravitas and sense of historical place which, well, they may deserve. I like them, anyway. Enjoy! (or not)

Pooled words 

 I couldn’t send anything out because I’m paralysed with

Fear but if you consider how now we can carbon date the whale

Sharks then it’s one more bit of history unlocked the

Bones in their ears the constant shifting of the

Water an argument against complacency as it’s

Always somewhere everything’s always somewhere the

Sort of poundshop wisdom that passes for depth in

Jim Jarmusch films I meant profundity it’s probably

Tom Waits that said it, smoking

 

It’s not a cookie it’s been painted, hah

Says Albert, 4, nude from the waist down, and that’s what passes for profundity

In the world of locked-down four year olds

And who is anyone to say which is the wiser?

I’ve stopped trying to compare, to be

Honest with you at this point I’m mostly

Trying to hit the word-count.

That’ll do, I imagine,

I have

Low standards when nobody’s watching. Shuffling roughly

Off the poetry training pitch in baggy trackies, letting my gut out

(there’s plenty of it)

Sloping off for a fag and a pint before

Puffing my cheeks out

And saying yeah, tough day today

Worked hard, gave 110%

The best part is nobody knows what I’m doing

And nobody reads it anyway, so it doesn’t

Really

Count, does it?

The middle podium

 

The gradual whittling away of advisers

The middle podium

is the power podium

We don’t need graphs any more

We don’t need facts any more

At this point, it’s moot whether we need voters any more

In a sense it’s refreshing

The obvious lack

Of need to for truth

At least you know where

You stand, if you’re lucky

 

Why is this lying liar

Lying to me?

Facts are inconvenient, though,

and the signalling

Of advisers is too much

To keep a straight face

So they have to go.

 

Anyway, cheer up

If I could lie like this

With an adviser stood by me

I’d rule the world

So maybe there’s hope for you all yet

Communist breakfast 

 

You can stuff your lefty breakfasts

Your eggs benedict

Your smashed avocado

Get over it, avocado, you lost

 

We fought our war for the chance to eat  bacon

Now no one can tell us to stop

Black pudding and a fried slice

This is what control tastes like

 

Not this communist breakfast

This roast heritage tomato

This poor imitation

We fought our war

For glorious sausages

The sausages of old England

Full of promise and pig

We took back

Controlof our sausages

We fought our war

Whilst veterans died

Fow the chance to eat

Cheap breakfasts in Spoons

And you

You will not deny us or breakfast

Death to yoghurt

And death to advice

We’ll take no advbice

On our breakfast

Nno words to the wise

About hash browns

Or sly digs about beans

You can keep your elitist

Granola

Hens invented eggs

And the British invented frying them

In good British oil

On good British pans

And now as our good British veins

Slowly contract

We die happy

The taste of freedom on our lips.