NaPoWriMo: Day 29

I'm going to save my royal wedding poem for the finale, and today I'm going to go for a combination of a one-word poem and a found poem. I think, living in Manchester this word conjures up all sorts of images and ideas.

Cottonopolis.

Until next time!

NaPoWriMo: Day 28

I worked very briefly for the News & Star in Carlisle,

Day in court, sipping flat coke while
petty criminals walk in and out;
merge into one teenager.

At lunch I sit with reporters
who talk about 'crazies' and send
them letters about God.

In the evening I walk through Carlisle
town to the bed and breakfast, curl up
on the bed and flick through battered
'Nineteen eighty four' that my dad
once owned.

The sun, it goes down and I swear,
I can hear the clocks striking thirteen.

NaPoWriMo: Day 27

A haiku about my failure to write

I've got writer's block
Portal two makes writing tough,
Now, back to the game


I do hope this is self explanatory...

NaPoWriMo: Day 26

Late night fire alarm

No doubt the flat downstairs
will blame us. One in the
morning freshmen stumble
bleary eyed into courtyard.
Still drunk teenage lovers
caught in deer headlight lamps,
her wearing his baggy t-shirt.
No doubt, the flat downstairs
will blame us.

NaPoWriMo: Day 25

A mute is not just someone who cannot (or chooses not to) speak. It is also the name for a particular person's role in a Victorian funeral. The role of the mute was to lead the funeral procession and look a bit glum, in doing this they would inform the rest of the attendees exactly how they should look. I love this, the idea that people need to be reminded they should be in mourning. Mute's were usually only employed for the funeral's of the rich, which is fairly apt. The best reference I can think of is of course Dickens, in Oliver Twist "There's an expression of melancholy in his face, my dear ... which is very interesting. He would make a delightful mute, my love"

Muted

They keep time, still. Keep faces the same,
lead the procession onwards.
Ever the professionals,
They do their job and show us,
how we should do ours.

We forgot, how to cry for the dead,
how to lay flowers, throw dirt
miss everyone who left us,
forgot to replace their eyes
with pennies, or rest a plate
of salt and Earth upon them.

NaPoWriMo: Day 24

Running behind on typing these rough drafts up. This is about someone I served in a bank once.

Widow

A husband, wife, he's not decided, still
he likes 'widow' all that word instills.
Adjusts wig and dress and tights he purses
lips, glances into mirror, rehearses
arguments and tears; finds the worst memory
(a dead dog) and applies blusher tenderly.

This will be his finest moment,
a performance to savour.

NaPoWriMo: Day 23

Skyscraper's lean
(after Sandburg)

The skyscraper's lean solemn,
drink low bitter and talk
about Gulf war visions
and stories of youth.
Yet they were never young,
nor did they fight, but
conjure stories of these times.
"The things I've seen," they whisper, "I'll never
forget," and show me store
bought medals while I pull them
another pint.

NaPoWriMo: Day 22

So I've attempted a rhyming poem below for my day 22. Trust me, it reads aloud better than it looks. I had messy form today.

I Remember

I remember being lost in dancing forests,
staggering, wavering and drunk.
I remember holding onto something, or someone
readying myself for throwing up.
I remember hands steadying
my eye-rhymed vision,
leaning in and whispering
with a cool precision.
I remember your hands, your shirt, your kiss
but not your name;
nor your face, but I remember rain,
a taxi, a bedroom and a dream
of forests dancing and a silhouette in a stream
of conciousness parade,
and I remember waking up in an alien location
shuffling in late night footwear over to the station,
I remember those fleeting moments,
a dance, a drink, a kiss,
and lose myself in dancing forest thickets, the abyss.

NaPoWriMo: Day 21

Mugged

Here they come
spattering across autumn
puddled pavement,
not anticipated.
Geet crash down
bus station pathways,
I turn a moment too late.

When they punch,
it's like people describe explosions,
you know it's happened
but the pain
that comes later.

I never see their faces
never hear their voices.

I lie bleeding on the floor,
and
there
they
go.

NaPoWriMo: Day 20

I did a rough draft of this yesterday, here's the nice typed version! I worked for a year in a fairly busy restaurant, and had to deal with horrible people day in, day out. When you work in a place like that, or any place really, you develop a kind of camaraderie with the people there.



The Hardcore Few

We, the hardcore few
rule this night through
gravity stricken trays,
carbon copy order pads
and stolen bottled beer out back.

Twelve hour shift shirts
black and darkened with sweat
lie on changing room floor
while we sweep around
drunk hen parties.

We swig from remnents
of your bottled wine
and race through bitter espresso,
watching police arrest
two in the morning twenty-somethings

Not once, do we wonder
why we are in here.


I'm sure there will be plenty more delays in putting these online as easter travels happen!

NaPoWriMo: Day 19

Wedding on Deansgate

This dress waited for you,
hung off the rack and leant out
and touched you; still does
on these steps, protects you
from the wind and from him.

He stands three steps down,
instructs and gives orders
to a long lens on the Cathedral
pathway in tuxedoed satisfaction.

This dress is white, pure and
stays close, you like it
because it's not him and
every smile you give is
a begrudged teeth bared grin.

Glare from the awaiting
limo leaves you sightless for
just a moment.

You awake into a new dawn, new day,
just like the song;

in your dress you watch
your mother drunk on jetlag and
airline booze dance to the drones of
miserycord song and
you cling to the only thing you can,
that waited for you.

Protected you.

Still does.

A Respite from Poetry

How is everyone? Enjoying all the poetry? Well, that's good to know. Don't worry about the book reviews, I thought I'd take some time out from the day to day poeticals to cover some of the books I've been reading. I'll probably end up spoiling some of these by the way.

Well here's a surprise, one month and two little masterpieces show up, both American Vampire Vol 1 and Heart Shaped Box come with a little bit of Stephen King connection, which is always going to soften me towards reading them (the former has a storyline written by him, the latter is written by his son), but both turned out to be very good in their own rights. Heart Shaped Box by Joe Hill tells the story of an aging rock star in the Ozzy Ozbourne mould who purchases a ghost on eBay. When said ghost turns out to be the vengeful spirit of his ex girlfriends step-father he has to try and get rid of it before suffering the dire consequences. It's a clever plot, helped largely by the rather officious nature of the lead, he's not the nicest of people and his redemption throughout the story is one of the better handled character transformations in mainstream horror. What sets this book apart from other horror as well, it scared me. Actually got to me with its descriptions of the dead and their eyes, scrawled over with black marker.

American Vampire Vol 1 collects the first five issues of this series about Skinner Sweet, the titular vampire who has a few rather unique (and very American) attributes in his vampiric arsenal. This is no Twilight or Buffy. The vampires in this book are monsters, through and through and the author Scott Snyder pulls out all the stops to tell a rather brilliant story that sets up what is surely going to be a huge hit for Vertigo comics.

From horror to religious fantatiscm, Big Machine by Victor Lavalle is an insane dream-like fantasy novel. It tells the story of Ricky Rice, a junkie who gets recruited into the leagues of the Washburn Library, a secret society made up of mental patients, hookers and drug addicts, who's sole aim is to find the 'voice of God'. Big concepts are abound in this book, and ideas are thrown at you on every page. Some of them even stick (check out the extended flashback about the main character's childhood) and will keep you thinking beyond the length of the book. However, some of the major story is lost in a misguided attempt to be ambiguous and reads a little like sub-par Murikami. Worth a read, but just.

My pick of the month goes to, Rabbit, Run by John Updike. This classic novel tells the story of Harry 'Rabbit' Amgstrom who goes through a bit of a Don Draper moment and leaves home determined to start his life again. The writing here is perfect, poetic and just plain incredible. The story is a deft little tale, not much actually happens but with good reason. It tells you everything about America in the fifties and does it by only telling you a very small story.

So that's your lot for the moment, I'll be back with more poetry tomorrow and soon there will be reviews for The Corrections, More Trees to Climb and more!

NaPoWriMo: Day 18

This is a list poem. It's a list of unused ideas for my current novel:

Unused Synopsis

Main character awakes to find:

a) their lover has left them
b) a series of heightened circumstances has forced them on the run from a mysterious authoritarian organisation
c) the briefcase they picked up at the airport is not theirs (a bit like B?)
d) vampies
e) zombies
f) Twilight with cats

NaPoWriMo: Day 17

Funeral

They steer through uncharted bridgewater,
flowers blow in the silent wind, petals detach and float
past fishermen who hold their hats to their chests.

They are black suited, mournful and ancient;
stoic, preserved faces that do not waver.
You, we imagine are encased in a brandy haze.

They moor outside Brooklands, and it's as though
this body has no water. When they remove you
they are following unheard instructions.

NaPoWriMo Day 16

Today is Record Store day! To celebrate I've written something about the music I like and if you have a bit of time this afternoon, get yourself down to Piccadilly Records in Manchester. In this day and age there's something to be said for a real CD or record, as opposed to digital copies. There's always a brilliant honeymoon period with a new album where you put it on and start flicking through the inlay, reading acknowledgements and lyrics, learning everything there is to know about a band. One of my favourite artists of all time is Bob Dylan, and I was lucky enough to find a bizarre book of his lyrics/poetry/inlay notes and artwork in a second hand book store. I've stolen two words from a Dylan song, and used them in here. As a word of note, I did work in a factory for about a week or so, (not shifts this long, but I've worked those in restaurants).

Warehouse Eyes

Twelve hour shift face, cuts bags under
weary warehouse eyes. Sweat soaked
uniform, he climbs the steps and sits
uneasy on the top deck, surrounded
by students.

Dreams of bed, the hour shared there
with his girlfriend before office hours
commute her away. Shuffles in red rashed
seat, keeps eyes forced open.

Knows five people, one drove a forklift
like him.

Died at work.

Wipes condensation from window
pane and looks out through
weary warehouse eyes.

NaPoWriMo: Day 15

I'm not religious, that's for starters. I wasn't brought up religious, although some of my family (not immediate) are very religious. I never really even went to church as a child, but when I was about ten or eleven, just before secondary school, my best friend at the time was a kid called Michael. He was adopted and his adoptive parents were very religious. When he invited me camping, I went along, only to discover it was something called a Faith Camp. For those of you who don't know what one is, it's a little like a music festival but instead of live music, bands etc...there are preachers. I remember watching a faith healer and it being one of my first proper religious experiences. Suffice to say, I wasn't a fan.

This is day fifteen.

The Healer

White spotless suit amongst matted floor
he treads within an enraptured flock,
touching shoulders, stroking souls and
brandishing mightier than sword
microphone. Commands invisible
ghosts as a supernatural cure all,
invites the diseased and disabled onstage
with a ringmasters boom and wink.
Performs call and answer slam scripture,
coaxes a middle aged man down the aisle;
places one hand on his camped hair, one on
the bible; asks "what ails you?"
but treatment is always the same.

He arches his back,
laughs manically,
points at the sky and smiles,
giggles even, and others join in.

At the back, women start shaking,
jump out of chairs, they feel Jesus in them,
talking incomprehensible tongues,
one collapses from laughter. Some sing.
Another tries to hug me and I cower,
leave my chair, move two rows back

and watch.

Between dancing and singing,
laughter and tongues. What I
remember most; his suit
always spotless.

NaPoWriMo: Day 14

This is actually how to get to my flat. With a little license (and assuming charity workers are out frequently enough).

Map Reader

Past sky grey trams you walk, you come to me, through alien territory,
turn left at persistent charity workers and don't stop, you're two skyscraper stars
and straight on till morning. Past history, converted wine bar factories,
ghosts of debris from ancient Pompeii bombs, and nuclear bunkered restaurants
scuttle past angel meadow, under the train track bridge where we travelled in time,
and turn, past smashed glass, three months old following teenage goths until you reach my door.

NaPoWriMo: Day 13

Unlucky for some, apparently. I'm going to stick with the previous poem's theme of teenage life. In Punjabi 13 is said as tera, which also means 'yours'. So, this poem is about young love, and it's called, I'm 13. It's trying very hard to be a sonnet...

I'm 13 (tera)

I had my first drink on a crowded Metro
sat next to you. I took in your perfume,
choked on hops, and when you with me in tow
jumped off I knew I was thirteen, and who
knew what that meant? Agreed with everything
you said, sent bullshit texts talking of stars,
and when you didn't reply, thought scathing
things about you; who only had a half
measured understanding of what being
thirteen meant. Who bought a knitted scarf
with money I gave you. You were loved.
I often look back and wonder why I
acted that way, but of course, I was tera.

NaPo WriMo: Day 12

Day twelve, nearly halfway there! One of my all time favourite songs is Citrus by The Hold Steady. Essentially, an ode to whiskey and ginger beer cocktails, it's about a hell of a lot more, and it contains one of my favourite lines, "I've had kisses that make judas seem sincere" which reminds me a lot of my teenage years. When I was a teenager I was bit of a mosher, bushy hair, baggy clothes, I think I may have once worn a chain. It was when I first started going to clubs as well.

So this is about that.

Mosh

Pound our arms in the air
a fistful salute to bourbon
and fizzy drinks.

We don't rock out, we
mosh, fumble and wrestle
through pits.

This isn't a dance, and
it's not for her, it's for
everyone else.

We high five when our
favourite song comes on.

The air is always cool
no matter where we are.

And under those lights
and that smoke machine
you are king. And we;

We are stars.

NaPo WriMo: Day 11

Here's part two of yesterday's poem.

One for Kieron

2.
The next morning, we drive out,
outside Stone we catch a trail
streaked across the sky, and the dot
of a plane breaking the blue.

I imagine it's yours and remember
the times you made us laugh or,
more likely pissed us off.

You chase the sun across the world,
and Thailand waits.

Anxious, of course.

NaPoWriMo: Day 10

My friend Kieron left for Thailand today. We were supposed to go and see him a couple of days ago. So we popped on a train and went to play mini-golf. He never showed up, got caught up somewhere, so I've not had a chance to say bye to him. He doesn't read poetry, although two years ago he told us he doesn't "do the Southern hemisphere" so hopefully he'll change his mind one day.

Oh and for those who wish to know, I lost miserably, eight over par.

This is a two part poem.

One for Kieron

1.
We wait for you with clubs and balls
and when we're sure you won't show
we tee off, in plastic Incan paradise.
Toast to you with bottled coke
and a bag of chocolate.

When you phone and say you'll be
running late, we share knowing nods
before knocking a ball into
bathroom carpeted rough.

You phone again, eighteenth hole.
You won't be making it,
but we understand and drink
flat coke in your honour.

NaPo WriMo: Day 9

So I've been away this weekend, and the past two days. I have drafts though! Just haven't had a chance to type anything up. So here's what I wrote for day nine.

Scuttlers

Amidst industrial factory air
they stalk; sailor trousered, donkey fringed
their buckled serpant weaponry
heavy in hand.

The Hope St boys are out tonight.

Sirs! Lock up your daughters,
your horses. Shut the windows
scuttling, skulking across the
cotton mills.

The Hope St boys hit the town tonight.

Will glass you in a single dirty glance
on the dancefloor; fight in the
five hundreds, football shirted
colours.

The Hope St boys are round our way tonight.

But they are not hooded rockport stompers
Not quick to anger tracksuits wrapped in
Enigma coded blank stares outside
supermarkets.

They are the Hope St boys,
the ghosts of Manchester.

Coming for you.
Tonight.

NaPoWriMo: Day 8

You can now purchase (should you wish) the Ark Royal on the Ministry of Defence's Ebay site.

They encourage viewings.

Ark Royal

One previous owner is all,
in good nick when you think about it,
through here, mind your head.

So, torpedo bay, roomy; perfect
to raise a child.

Just don't press this...

NaPoWriMo: Day 7

About seven years ago (seven!) I went to Cologne for christmas. This is about that.

Christmas, 2004

The stairs are single file, cold stone

I wait in the bell room whilst

Fat American tourists

Pass the other way.

You never told me you had a

fear of heights. Slipped into

conversation before I started

up the stairs.

And left you behind.

An elderly German follows me up

Tells me that one hundred

Years ago, this place

Was the tallest on Earth.

“We would have felt like Gods.”

He points out stonemason signatures,

“Original work,” tells me,

During the war, British aircraft

Refused to release bomber bay doors.

“Why?” I ask.

“Too beautiful,” he says, in cracked

stumbled English and looks

out across the city. I look down,

you are just part of an eyebrow

in a Lichtenstein marketplace.

Later, while you sleep, I roam

Walking corridors

Watching businessmen at the bar

I wonder if they ever walked up

Those stairs

I wonder if they ever felt like Gods.

NaPoWriMo: Day 6

I've been reading some six word short stories today, courtesy of this brilliant site, as well as one word poetry here. I like the idea of writing something really short, that definitely doesn't seem like a complete cop-out...

Unfaithful
hamartiologist
repents

It's not quite a one word poem, but it's a damn sight shorter than a six word story. Hamartiology is the study of sin, which in itself is a fascinating word. This incredibly short poem will probably come to exist in a much longer capacity somewhere at some point.

But for now, enjoy!

NaPoWriMo: Day 5

April is named after Aphrodite, who didn't have the easiest life. This one's for her.

April

Think of her, Jeremy Kyle strapline
queen, drunk on love and greek wine

she'll tell you, she's got excuses.

No childhood, mistake from the get go
she was made from disgarded manhood,
true story.

She whines about cursed beauty,
cast-off arranged marriage,
a magic girdle,

Gave snake hair and stoney gaze
to jealous eyes across the bar,
lost a lover out of revenge.

Went to hell and back once.

So think of her, Opera Winfrey
couch legend,

she'll tell you, she's got excuses.

NaPoWriMo: Day 4

This is a poem partly inspired by John Updike's brilliant, 'Ex Basketball Player' and partly based on truth. I love Updike's style, banal and brilliant and I tried to fit that style a little here, I don't know if it's worked, but it's my contribution for today:

Plugged in

There are no wires, not here, not now,
and we sit, not talking, not aware
of time passing.

They came across county lines and sit planted, awaiting news.

He reads you the paper, which you
never did when you were awake,
still, your eyes twitch when they mention Diana.

I want to be like Rabbit and
leave here, back on a train, escape,
instead I turn the page and think
about anywhere not here, not now...

NaPoWriMo: Day 3

I popped out on saturday night to pick up some drinks for friends and found myself caught up in the crowd for Kylie. I watched two thirty-something year old women doing cartwheels outside Victoria station, giggling away like they were teenagers again. This poem is for them:

For two women waiting outside Victoria station on a Saturday night.

You share cigarette smoke chatter, under
train station canopies and practise cartwheels
on the gravel. Under glowstick Manchester
sky you change into comfy shoes, tossing
neon purple high heels with dismissive regal
hands. There is electric blue air dancing,
sparking, swaggering around and fractured
disco ball glisten spotlights dancefloor puddles.

A couple embrace under departure board green,
threatening their children with further displays;
you giggle a fifteen year old girl's giggle,
twenty years in waiting; polish off plastic
glass of wine and walk on, leaving no trace,

but a single slippered heel.

NaPoWriMo: Day 2

Day 2 of National Poetry Writing Month. Yesterday I spent the day writing a fairly long piece of fiction. I took a break when my sister came over and we were having a coffee on my balcony when a steam train came rushing across the bridge near us.

Time Travel

Columns rise above skyscraper
outlines; it treads through the
city, disturbing saturday
shoppers and young balcony
residents. For a moment
they watch in steam powered
anticipation then as
carriages pass and the view
settles once more we come back.

We have travelled in time.

NaPoWriMo: Day 1

Morning all,

National poetry writing month is upon us, and began yesterday! I have a poem for you, brand new and hopefully you'll enjoy it. I'll be writing a rough draft each day and posting a poem on here the day after, so whilst this is day 2 right now...you're reading poem 1. My final poem will be up on the 1st of May!

The first is called Galactus Hungers! For those of you who don't know, Galactus is a Marvel comics character, who eats planets and worlds. He's always accompanied by the Silver Surfer, another cosmic character who seeks out planets for him. I quite like that relationship of master and servant and wondered what it would be like for Galactus to reach old age and start dying, in a very human way. I like to think that the Silver Surfer would be there by his side. Anyway, here's poem 1,

Galactus Hungers!

He floats on metallic bodyboard
reflecting white dwarf light across
Bedroom cosmos; he brings coffee
weak and milky, empties my bedpan.
I don't remember dreaming.

I eat baby red giant for breakfast
only manage the atmosphere
He wants to know how I'm feeling
Holds my hand, emits and Kirby crackle
That I cannot feel.

Today I'm five years old and devour
planets filled with sentient life
I chase galaxies and climb nebulae
and shout for my father. Instead I see
silvery wisp of surfboard.

He says I cry when I sleep but
I can't. Galactus doesn't cry.
Galactus hungers! Galactus destroys!
My prescence repeals physical law
or did, or does, I forget.

I wonder how it will happen
whether I'll fall and break or rather
just sleep away forever, while
the universe turns. He reads adventures,
daring do's, Burroughs, Kipling.

Teenage years were; notorious menace
Twenties spend terrorising; grew into
Sunken eyes and bar fights, now this
Pathetic weak man, cannot even stand
Galactus hungers. Indeed.