the armchair dissident
Saturday, March 08, 2025
Saturday, June 29, 2024
Coming around again
(Or, further steps on the road back from wherever it is I was to wherever it is I'm going)
I've had cause of late to think a little about how things can come back round, how concerns which you thought you were done with can suddenly be back in your writing, as if from nowhere.
It was while idly just doing a bit of daily writing, I'd managed to grab a spare bit of time and had the opportunity to just get a few words down, I wasn't thinking anything in particular, but for some reason I found I was writing in a tone and register that I'd ceased using a long time ago.
Now, it's not for me to say what I'm "like", I've been cornered by far too many bores who are convinced that "their" way is the only way to be convinced that one should only ever write in a particular style. I've always found that a very constrictive view, and I'm pleased to say that what little I have come up with to date has wandered around a lot in terms of style, concerns, formality. The idea of being "the same" throughout one's entire writing career is one which I find somewhat stifling.
So it came as something of a surprise when a little bit of free-writing slowly started to take on a tone and style that I thought I was done with. Not because I dislike it but more because, well, I was done with it, I'd done my work with it and it always seemed redundant to continue. I'd done that, to keep going with more of the same would essentially be to be pastiching myself, or so I thought, whenever I thought about it at all, time to do something new.
At the risk of getting too cryptic, I started writing in the style that defined my first chapbook, L39, most of the poems for which were written over twenty years ago, so you can see why I was a little surprised at this turn of events, it felt like having a conversation with my younger self, in a sense.
Still, as I did so, it felt a little like coming home. It was an easy tone and rhythm to fall into. I'm wary of pursuing what comes easily and naturally, because it's all too easy to become glib, to become a caricature of oneself. The original concerns of small-town weirdness and parochialism, and the slightly mock-heroic tone, they've been done, so it's not really something I intend to do much of, but I enjoyed a brief foray into my writing past. Not sure I'd pursue it any further though, so here seems as good a place as any to park them for a bit while I think on.
Two asides
1
Sat, marinating in the stale bath of the sermon
drawn up through soil and down through air by indifferent hands
to my horror, I felt the words slip in, incubate
and after a while, I grew gravid with Middle England
my belly swelled with boundary disputes, I carried
complaints about noise, borrowed lawnmowers
and to be frank, I felt put upon to be poked by midwives
as a hitherto disinterested bystander, why me, but within me
parked next to their swelling grudges, pushing on my bladder
I knew why various experts prodded and tested
my urine, my semen, I was a wonder of the age
but they never hung about, couldn't meet my eye
Papers were written, but in truth I knew
that I was set up for this
a sacrifice on the altar of politesse
For without me, bursting and groaning and crying to Heaven
they'd have had to carry their spite with them
and it would have drowned them, each in turn
2
and here at the crossroads we can see
through the sheeting sleet the site
where Roscommon, lecher and gossip
was hanged for the sheer malice of his words
lack of intent not precluding guilt
his protestations of inanity, insignificance
were swallowed by the rising tide of townsfolk
a scrum recalling ancient games of football
he should have known better, a man of his vintage
so refined in many ways, well-dressed, a lover
of fine coffee when so little was to be had
(his delivered by liveried men in red bags)
but the irresistible taste of slander
the flavour of sensation, the way
that lewd descriptions of the widow Fairfax
felt in the mouth...
he was a sommelier of gossip, revelled
in the viscosity of Rimmer the Carter's son's dalliance with Carter
the Rimmer's daughter - and her not yet sixteen
and on the altar, I heard
Bliss, the floral top-notes of Billy Chisholm's
eye for the lads, the lengthy, languorous aftertaste
of Dredge's bankruptcy - but it's all hidden somewhere
just ask the widow Fairfax
And they say, if you wait at this site, all these years
after the mob swallowed him whole, you can still hear
his last cries on the evening wind
But none of it matters! None of it!
Sunday, March 24, 2024
The intermittent resumption of service
Well, I've been here before.
It is a recurring theme of my writing existence that life gets in the way, to the extent that maybe I could credibly claim that enormous swathes of writing nothing are "integral to my process, actually". Anyone who's kept half an eye on here or Coastalblog over the last (what is it, twenty years now? Blimey), will have heard me sing this song before, long periods of silence followed by penitent blogs about how I need to make more time for writing, this time I mean it, etc etc. But I suppose there comes a point where one has to recognise that no, this isn't a situation which can be easily remedied, this is simply how one is. I'd like to imagine a world where I get up in the morning and make more time for myself to write regularly, start to submit again, maybe publish again, but I think it unrealistic to expect it, based on the evidence of, well, me being me for the last twenty years.
But despite this being a recurring refrain, that doesn't quite mean I'm willing to knock it on the head (another familiar trope of this particular sort of blog post, which I've written so many times now that that it practically qualifies as a sub-genre). To my pleasure, I've recently had the odd fleeting moment where the idea of writing didn't feel impossible, I wasn't immediately required for anything else, I'd done enough housework not to feel guilty, and managed to occasionally get the odd piece done. For the lack of anything better to do with them (for the idea of finding time to research which magazines or websites would be ideal seems far too fanciful right now, baby steps, I'm just pleased I'm writing again) I'll pop them here, as and when, I think. Doing so, even intermittently, is a distant connection to a place I still want to visit more regularly, and for longer periods, some day.
Lacking inspiration, the following were responses to other poems (getting reading again is a whole post by itself), a failsafe standby in times of creative drought. As to their origins, I'll leave it to the reader to guess. Anyway....
Unseen Dance
She moves between instants
then not, before
apparent, insistent, existence
It follows that her movement
is both something of herself and
helping the crowd see
what it wants
in her steps
are the life histories
of everyone watchings, she
takes them, costumes them
contextualises them
tells them back
when she stops and
theaudience drifts away
thinking about what
they saw in themselves
some elated, some appalled
some disgusted, some afraid
she becomes herself again
her stillness is insistent in
instant the instant ceases
there is silence
there is a silence
It's like this
i
he said your eyes
are watery, your hair
is seedy and your voice
reminds me of a chorus-line
Guys and Dolls. maybe
(She knew he meant
Like the sea, Flaxen and Musical
so let it slide, he was himself
so seldom, now)
It's good to see, she said
you've not lost touch with your roots
ii
I can't quite get it right
he said, the poem's
out of order
I struggled with the learning
I wanted time
to get my accent back
She said: you're older
than some hills
you've never lost it
a poem's not a puzzle, nor am I
iii
when they came to decipher him
and pick over the bones of his words
there was little left
he'd worked out what he wanted to say
and she'd laughed and said finally
you old fool. I was always here
iv
Love stories are a continuum
start and end points
thoughtless, idiotic, unnecessary punctuation
your eyes are always a part of me
and I have always been here
there's always been the shift of the sun
and what was it I meant to compare you to?
too many poems
he scratched his ear
picked up a pen
started to write
Sunday, December 10, 2023
Parker Crescent, 9.25, Sunday
It's a filled-in morning and the sky
for those that like to read into things
is suitably bleak
for the front pages
are a collage of cyclical death and
trying to write it with reference
to anything but the death
which exists on its own terms
is an obscenity, likewise commentary
the constant flow of takes
entrenched and dumb and you think
as you walk down a suburban street
still-sleeping of how
there's money being made off this death
and scores being settled off this death
and positions being taken
prejudices reinforced
careers advanced
tweets sent
off this death
and how if
you do anything but abhor it
entirely
fuck you
Sunday, August 27, 2023
A Cliff Yates Collected? Yes please
Monday, June 19, 2023
Two years
Dear me, has it really been that long? Well, not quite, but almost.
The last post here was October 2021. In the interim, I've managed a few posts over at Coastalblog, and I've kept up a diary, but that's been the sum total of my writing. My practice has dwindled to nothing.
Well, not quite nothing; intention, but inaction.
I've kept a diary almost as a trail of breadcrumbs back to the idea of writing as a creative endeavour. Hoping that one day the act of making marks on paper might lead to some synapses firing somewhere. Writing as muscle memory.
I have always been too inconsistent with my writing to consider myself serious about it, over the last couple of years that inconsistency has hardened into a consistent nothing. I could make excuses and say that life has got in the way, but it is also true that I have allowed life to get in the way. It is furthermore true that I have separated writing and life, as though it were not part of it.
But it's still in there somewhere.
Keeping a diary has reminded me that I have always regarded writing as a way of looking at existence. My diary entries are broadly factual, an aide memoire, but every once in a while there is a flash of something other, a brief aside into philosophy, and attempt to raise the day above the quotidian (without fictionalising my own existence, which would defeat the object). Recently, I started titling diary entries, a way of inserting a line I'd heard that day (my favourite so far being the day which featured a trip to Southport, where the daytime karaoke by the Marine Lake ensured that day will always be titled "Little bit of Engelbert there, Ladies and Gentlemen") but also a way of contextualising the day. I realised that this was a creative act, it felt like I'd taken a step back down the road.
A few weeks later I started a file for writing bursts, not much, a few words here and there. This morning, I thought about writing a poem, I wondered if I could. I put a few lines down, I broke it back to basics. I'm not going to put it here. But it felt like another step back. This afternoon, I'm doing this.
These are tentative steps at best, but they are steps nevertheless. For a long while I didn't feel I had anything to say any more. Now I feel I might. We'll see. Either way, it feels good to be back.
Saturday, October 09, 2021
Further alternative realities
The last blog briefly spoke about alternative realities, something of a theme which is always rattling around the back of my head. And as we live in increasingly unreal times, freshly amazed that things could turn out like this, it's an idea which feels increasingly relevant, another poem on that theme:
Hi-ho silver away
Crossing between
The parts of years
Seamlessly, as if
I have a lengthy
series of apologies to make
One could only see
the moments between
from a distance
mostly for minor
infractions
the accretion of time
layering, sedimentary
time, ossifying
like making you listen
to my awful band
the unnameable
horror of the depths
the layers of green
like only ever
projecting
the silence of
the midsummer house
its isolation
like never listening
the headland viewed
from above
a panning camera
I’ve only recently
learned
land undulating in time
with the sea’s swells
a slow echo
that every act of
indifference
an endless ripple
like a slowly shaken carpet
the Earth’s co
has consequences
-respondent sine waves
Slow, sad, imagined
Shuddering, unstoppable
And the land keens at
minor slights
coursing along an imagined England
shaking it to the core
rattling its raddled heart
parched peas in a tin
can
on a sun-stricken street in Kirby
I saw a three wheeled pram
Pushed determinedly
What have I done
I saw bombs fall where they’d
Make no sound
I watched the moss absorb history
The peat which
Rents stories
By the century
Imagined England
Cutting itself loose from reality
Cutting itself away
From every thing but itself
Arrowing in flexing the sky
To hunker down for the night
Hold tight, everyone.