Sadly my Father-in-law died last year. Although he was suffering from a degenerative illness his actual death was a sudden shock. He and I weren’t alike. He was reliable, practical, unassuming and I enjoyed his company. This was a poem that I wrote to commemorate him. His precence in my life was a blessing and I miss his quiet humour and steadfastness.
Jack’s Drill
A gift from my father in law.
My inheritance.
A small collection of blown plastic cases
contain the soul of the man I knew.
A sander, drill bits,
a battery powered drill.
I hold the drill.
It’s functional shape
containing the potentiality for creation.
It was carefully chosen;
no doubt research was undertaken
to find the right tool for the job.
A physical compliment
to the man that chose it.
It’s unassuming size masks
the power held within.
Capable of surmounting any task,
bringing to fruition
the form
of ideas held within
the wielder’s hand.
Capable, practical, unassuming
ready at a moments notice.
Not for showing off
but for worthwhile assignments.
Well maintained,
it’s intrinsic value
understood and respected.
Kept in a protective case
and only available to those
who had the eyes to
understand its substance.
Jack, I share so few of your traits
but I was always happier for your company.
So now, even though you have gone,
when I hold this drill
it’s solid practicality
a physical memorial with which
I’ll remember you.
Wow! Two posts in two days and I’m a mere 16 poems behind! Can he do it? Will he do it? Has the world of blogging ever been so pre-occupied with this question? Unlikely. Still, I will do what I can to catch up. Today it was about grabbing opportunity whilst it presented itself. I’ve mentioned before that I go to many meetings. To be fair, many of the are very important and their purpose is to ensure the ongoing success of the organisation that employs and pays me, so I can pay my bills, support my children etc. But sometimes, a conjunction of thoughts, environment, how I’m feeling and in this case terrible coffee; provide me with the impetus.
Corporate coffee cups
Tepid coffee.
Bitter as acorns.
From the lips of men
To the lips of cups.
Liquid dries into stain,
marking the meeting’s measure.
Desiccating discussion.
Sugared spoons slowly
Sticking themselves to saucers.
Corporate coffee cups.
Hiding enervating refreshment.
I have suffered less tedium than you.
Stained and wearied
your clinking
a manacle reminder
of our joint chain gang.
We share our exit
only leaving when we break.
I’m being crushed by guilt. Really, really nice people are continuing to follow my blog despite my faltering output. I could tell you a story but everyone has heard it before. It tends to boil down to not prioritising my creativity. Why? Books have been written about that, none of which I intend to read. Until I have my own self-help book published, of course 😉 I mistakenly believe that my every utterance should be perfection. So I languish in anguish toying with ideas and words but not producing anything. Up to a point. Something small will pop into my head, usually lightweight as if to counter the ongoing and usually narcissistic existential struggle taking place in my head.
So I was sat, sipping in Starbucks (endeavouring to win the prize for most clichéd place to be creative) and struggling with my Muse, when the Sun was blocked from my view by one of those most bloated of cars, the Mini. The poem followed quickly…
I’m taking time to start my catch up as I’ve had the opportunity to spend a couple of hours on one computer that I’m familiar with. But this time draws to a close so I think this will be my last post for today. All of which has nothing to do with today’s poem.
It’s about not being interested and what the consequences might be of not challenging that status.
Not interested
It seems a shocking thing to admit
But
I’m just not interested.
I’m reassessing which is a sensible thing to do.
I’m re-appraising,
Re-considering,
Reviewing,
The prefix emphasising I’ve done these things before;
Which I have, many times.
But no matter in which direction I approach it
In what frame of mind
Whatever my physical or mental state
Whether quickly or via tortuous consideration
Exposition or introspection
I’m just not interested.
An uncomfortable conclusion;
It implies
Nay, strongly suggests
No. States.
I need to do something about it.
Moreover, that something
Can’t be self-destructive
Can’t be self-defeating
Can’t be forgotten about
Or, and this is my favourite
Thought about some more.
All of which run counter to previous behaviour.
Because it won’t go away
Until I do something that
Interests me.
Hi. I’m winsomely handsome and I have some attractive photos of myself in exotic locations around the world. I make my money by just goofin’ around, being cool, playing music and mixing with attractive and glamorous people. And you can to! Just by following my blog, you know, no pressure. That way you can get to see all the laid back stuff I do and have fun just by being associated with me. Amazing or what!
What the Frack? I’d forgotten about those blogs. It’s like being virtually mugged by these two:
Of course you can all be my friends and follow my blog, but I have a negative reaction to any person ‘jus lettin me know’ how I might improve my life, no matter how amazing the rewards and how attractive the dummy in the shop window is.
I could go on, but I’ve said my piece. That plus I’ve bruised my fingertips hitting the keys! All of which has nothing to do with today’s poem. Or rather this belated post due to my ongoing technology confustatibulations.
Untitled
After you depart
a swirling force
of injured angry indignation
the Sun briefly pierces the
rain clotted sky
lighting the infurious dust
frenziedly dancing
animistic memory of the slammed door
The absence of noise
ringing in my ears
acute counterpoint
to what went before
voices, door, silence, spent.
but in this achromatic moment
light arrives.
I’m sorry. I do apologise. I know that I’m not making this any easier for people to like or follow. I can’t stand the irregularity myself. Sounds simple. A poem a month for April. But as participants know, it’s not easy. If it were, everyone would be doing it. However this year the problem hasn’t been so much about the poetry, although this is always demanding. It’s been with the technology. But I’m hoping that come Friday, when I have the Internet installed and don’t have to use various phones, ipads, tablets, phablets, net books, PCs and Macs, things will have settled down for me. And then, hopefully for you.
All of which has nothing to do with my fifth poem. This poem underscores the old adage that some acts of creativity have a long, long history. I realised that I started this poem thirty, Thirty! years ago and it existed in many forms over the years. This is the first time it has made it out of any of my notebooks. Hawthorns are common trees here in the UK and come in two main varieties, white and red. They flower prolifically and if you see one, go an smell it.
Redthorn Blossom
May’s heat had not yet penetrated
the basement flat in Earls Court.
The walls, a mealy division
between excavated garden and subterranean bedroom.
Damp air presaging reclamation by decay
dark soil seeping through the wall
kissing the hanging wallpaper
with blemishes of black mould
outside the Redthorn blossomed
it’s musky smell, a false invocation
of sex, stained sheets, spent passion
you were there
and I faltered between your legs
uncertain in the
coldness of your passion
your knees scylla and charybdis
I sacrifice my self esteem
to give you something unwanted
lessening us both
equally inarticulate
unable to describe
what we need
footsteps pass by our heads
bisecting sunlight
amputating warmth
we lie wrapped in chilled air
scented with rethorn musk
Hope you like it. Comments and likes as always, are welcome.
After writing my previous introduction regarding my phone I was interested to see that one of NaPoWriMo prompts was to do with technology. Which has inspired me to capture my feelings very promptly in this short offering
Nexus 4
Plague carrier.
A container for
Electronic zombies
Wordlessly clamouring
For my life.
Who do I know?
Where do I go?
What do I like?
Tell us, tell us, TELL US!
Before we pull it from you
Dragging your life from you through your phone.
The undead apps
Transmitted by the black rat in my pocket.
i hope you like it. I’m feeling frustrated with some of the editing features that are either present on the ipad/Wordpress/android/mobile phone combination I’m currently failing to use well. I’m having a decent internet connection put in on Thursday so I’ll be able to spend more time tidying things up.
Well, putting a post on via my phone was a lesson in patience last night! But is still didn’t work. It was probably the mobile network I was using. It was so slow I could have read all of Shakespeare’s sonnets before I could see what changes had happened. In the end I gave up. This caused my internal nagging parent one of it’s increasingly infrequent (thank all the Gods) chances to leap out of it’s box and shout ‘You’ve failed! You haven’t published today!’ Happily I find it easier to let it have it’s say then mention that there are probably other, more important things to go and get unhelpfully indignant at and it quietens down.
All of which has nothing to do with the poem that I intended to post last night. Which is this.
A final meeting
How many of us are authentically
occupying the room?
That this
they know that what they do
it’s not work for them
more an identity.
Who they are.
What they do.
Personality, purpose
location, clothes, language
in harmony
making sense.
We all nod.
We can’t help it.
It’s difficult to disagree with the
vacuity and obviousness
of witless professional statements.
Maybe inside they are all scared
of making mistakes.
I’m not,
not any more.
I stop nodding and smile instead.
So the others can see
the blood on my teeth.
Do let me know whether you like it, or not. I always enjoy reading comments and replying. I will also visit your blogs and comment on yours if you’d like me to.
This is going to be interesting. Due to a lack of internet connection I’m endeavouring to do this post on my phone using the Android app.
This is my first poem for NaPoWriMo 2014 and is short because I also think my battery will run out soon!
The last 12 months have been a bit of a roller coaster which culminated which my wife and I separating. It was a mutual decision but the actual physical separation was me moving out. This only happened in February; so it’s still too soon to provide perspective. Hence this poem.
First Spring
Today is the first day.
The first day of Spring.
The first Spring of separation.
The first separation.
Today is the last day.
The last day of promise
The last promise of together
The last together
Today is now.
The first now of me
The first me of independence
The first independence
I was filling in my calendar when I realised that April was coming up fast. I’ve not done much writing over the last 12 months, but I do like to participate in NaPoWriMo. I do have lots of snippets but very few worked through completed poems, so it’s time to sharpen my pencil and begin to apply it to paper. In order to get myself back into the swing of things I’m re-posting my final poem of NaPoWriMo 2013.
Farewell NaPoWriMo 2013
What has taken up most of my time?
Whisper it, NaPoWriMo.
Fight every day to find the right rhyme.
What has taken up most of my time?
Writing blank verse or tightening a line
Sometimes easy but usually slow.
What has taken up most of my time?
Whisper it – NaPoWriMo.
The countdown has begun and I’m happily anticipating April.
Uniquelyrussell 