A Crisis of Confidence
and Slim’s self esteem
condensed, fogged the window pane
trickled to the sill
and dried to a light brown stain
in the shape of Sicily.
Taking part in Open Link Night over at dVerse
Slim Remembers an Embarrassing Incident
in which,
believing his girl friend
has left for the pub,
in search of his glasses
he walks naked from the shower
into the living room
of his London flat
sporting a rogue erection
and is met by a chorus of
SURPRISE!
which quickly dies on the humid air
as does his aforementioned erection
and he thought she had forgotten his birthday.
Day at the Beach
sand martins, low tide
mom’s new perm all blown to hell
a holiday wind
transistor blaring
Bobby Kennedy is dead
dad’s head turns slowly
Reading Ginger Baker’s Obituary
the drum beat lingers
but no one
can say anything nice
about Ginger.
Tracker
a raven rising above the trees
seen from a boat on the swirling river
leads the tracker
to the bodies of the killers
mosquitoes, black flies
homicide, suicide
evil turns on itself.
Slim Dickens
David Copperfield
now there’s a name
to conjure with.
Let’s read Oliver Twist again
like we did last summer
let’s read Oliver Twist again
like we did last year.
Great Expectorations –
the plague novel
he never wrote.
Raccoons in the Road
caught in the headlights:
too much eye shadow, fellas,
too much eye shadow.
Late at night in the White House
while Donald’s in bed asleep,
the dead presidents
one and all
leave their places
on the wall
to dance their dance
to sing their song
of presidential grief.
Sunshine On Goodge Street (Donovan mash-up)
in the chilly hours and minutes of uncertainty
a violent hash smoker shook a chocolate machine
and sunshine came softly through my window,
thrown like a star in my vast sleep
I opened my eyes to take a peek.
Yes, I could have tripped out easy
forever to fly, wind velocity nil
but I decided to stay.
(Donovan Phillips Leitch
Superman and Green Lantern
ain’t got nothing on you)
This is a found poem using lines from 5 Donovan songs: Catch the Wind, Sunny Goodge Street, Sunshine Superman, Hurdy Gurdy Man and Mellow Yellow. I’m sure you can figure out which line came from where, but just a note on the second line:
“a violent hash smoker shook a chocolate machine”.
This line is from Sunny Goodge Street and is my favorite Donovan line because of its inherent music –violent, smoker, shook, chocolate, all those o’s, that recurring ‘k’ and the internal rhyme between hash and mash. Say it out loud a couple of times and it will stick in your head!
Sunny Goodge Street appears on Donovan’s second album “Fairytale” and , according to Wikipedia, it “foreshadows the jazzy feel and descriptions of life in urban London that Donovan would continue to explore over the next two years”. There are a few covers out there (Judy Collins and Tom Northcroft), but they are little too earnest and none match the sludgy stoned feel of the original. The recording of the song is almost perfect, except for Harold McNair’s flute solo in the middle which nearly derails the whole thing. Take a listen:
Taking part on Open Link Night over at dVerse!
The Food on Air Canada Rouge
What’s worse than a summer deluge?
What’s worse than Christmas with Ebeneezer Scrooge?
What’s worse than a ride on a runaway luge?
the food on Air Canada Rouge.
What’s worse than a sequel to “In Bruges”?
What’s worse than a night in a crowded refuge?
(the air, loud with snores, the air a flatulent brew)
What’s worse than another night in the same refuge?
the food on Air Canada Rouge.
Air Canada Rouge is a no frills version of a no frills airline. Last year, I travelled with them from Barcelona to Toronto and it was a long nine hours – the on board entertainment system (download an app, sign on to on board Wi-Fi) didn’t work, legroom was minimal, service was begrudging, and as for the food, see above.
The prompt from Lisa over at dVerse is to write a poem on the subject of food, so I thought I would give this post another outing!
When Poets Fall Out
I know something’s up
you’re sending mixed metaphors
your rhythm’s way off.
Autumn Nail Sketch (haiku)
trees leaking colour
like a paint store catalogue
et tu, chlorophyll?
Taking part in Carpe Diem Weekend Meditation #103 The Quest For A New Masterpiece Continues … Start Of Autumn.
The Unbearable Lightness of Verse 3
he was a white rapper
she was a gift wrapper
at Crate and Barrel
they loved that whippersnapper, Jordan Klepper
and the affable, unflappable Jake Tapper.
The challenge over at dverse is to write a poem that ends in a rhyming couplet.
The Name is at the Bottom Blues
it’s a name that you come across
in someone else’s bathroom
beside the shaving cream
the Tylenol
and those pills that people use
and suddenly
you’re soaked
in melancholy
from your head
down to your shoes
there ain’t no doubt about it
there ain’t no doubt about it
you’ve got those Estee Lauder blues.
Taking part in Open Link Night over at dverse!
Waiting for Slim
Sunday afternoon in late June
I’m sitting outside The Post-Coital Beetle
watching the traffic on Broadway,
at the next table, four bearded guys
wearing flat caps and plaid shirts,
looking like the bastard sons of Mumford,
are downing pints of over-hopped pale ale.
At the traffic lights, an eighteen year old Asian kid
checks his hair in the rear view mirror
while his Lamborghini growls
like a panther on a leash.
And who is this slouching along Broadway
his bald head shining in the sun?
No, it is not an image out of Spiritus Mundi,
it’s not one of the boys of summer,
it’s Slim,
a man with all the charm of a pit bull with distemper;
his remaining hair is scrunched into an angry man-bun
he’s carrying a magazine
which he slams down on the table in front of me
“Look at this bullshit!” he whines.
Later, as the sun goes down over Point Grey
and automatic timers turn lights
on in empty Styrofoam mansions,
we settle in to a plate of nachos
and one pitcher follows another
until we find ourselves face to face
trading lines like Lennon and McCartney (well, not quite)
and driven by our shared admiration
of Melania Trump’s granite cheekbones
we compose this maudlin cri de couer
Melania
his megalomania
don’t let it stain ya
don’t let it restrain ya
don’t let it contain ya
and if he should fail ya
remember this:
you know the size
of his hands
and his……..
(the last line is drowned out
by the roar of a feral Ferrari
tearing down Broadway).
The challenge from Sarah over at dverse is to write a poem about waiting, thought I’d revive this one.
Self-consciously Poetic Haiku referencing Greek Mythology
twixt deck and deck post
Arachne’s tremulous web
shimmers with wet pearls
Two Bros at the Art Gallery
v- necked, buffed, burnished
pumped, pectoral, and puzzled,
aerobatic hair.
Sgt. Pepper Mashup (a found poem)
Made passively tolerant by LSD, he was happy to sit back
endlessly recombining like some insoluble chemical compound
all he really wanted was the cyclic cloud drift of his verse.
The song never relinquishes this staccato dominant
played by Harrison on his Stratocaster with treble-heavy settings
making the most of McCartney’s rich ninth’s and elevenths –
a brilliantly whimsical expression of period burlesque.
It is impossible to conduct a revolution without picking a side
like a comic brass fob watch suspended from a floral waistcoat
objectivity is illusory and all creativity inescapably self –referential.
The track is whipped to a climax by a coruscating pseudo-Indian guitar solo.
Lennon grinned sardonically, as he walked past Aspinall,
requesting from Martin a sound like the end of the world.
I have always felt that found poetry is a form of theft. Yet, here I am with my first found poem. It all started with listening to the remastered copy of Sgt.Pepper, ( a vast improvement on the snap, crackle and pop of my old vinyl version) and in particular, the guitar solo in “Fixing a Hole”. Paul McCartney played lead guitar on a number of tracks on the album, but the style of playing on the solo sounded more like George Harrison. So, I consulted the bible – “Revolution in the Head”, by Ian MacDonald, a track by track analysis of 241 Beatle tracks and essential to any Beatles nerd. Yes, it is George’s solo!
I read a couple of other track analyses and found myself enjoying MacDonald’s writing style, a number of phrases jumped out from the page and the idea of a found poem formed. The result is the above poem. It has, believe it or not, a structure: each line is a direct quote from an analysis of an individual Sgt. Pepper track, and the lines are sequenced in the same order as the tracks appear on the album.
Buy Ian MacDonald’s book, you won’t be disappointed and I will feel better about stealing his stuff.
The subject over at dVerse is Pop Art, I can’t think of anything more pop art than Sgt. Pepper from the cover to the content (the Beatles turned pop into an art form) plus found poetry is a form of collage, so I thought I would link this one!
hard men, old hatred,
prod, papist, patriot games
I thought you were done.
**********
haiku prompted by
the pratfall that is Brexit
and the re-entry
to my consciousness
of the DUP, Sinn Fein
and Gerry Adams.
Redwood Haiku
new shoots from old roots
deep in the cedar forest
I’m birthing clichés
End of Summer double septo (redux)
like a wasp in late August
circling a bin of regrets.
This poem is a double septo also known as a quatorze, it consists of two seven syllable lines.
Boris Johnson at the G7
Can’t believe I’m here.
Oh! The joy of dissembling!
Japes, pranks and capers!
What is Macron looking at?
I think Donald might like me.
There’s Melania!
Those cheekbones, the north face of
the bloody Eiger,
scale her promontories, what!
No time for rumpy pumpy,
lots to do! Trudeau
is smirking, colonial
prat! I think Merkel
wants to spank me, go nanny!
Concentrate! Now where was I?
The nice people over at The Galway Review have published two of my poems: Naming Things and Having a Coffee and Reading Tom Wolfe on Chomsky in Harper’s.
Check them out here.
Cats I Have Known
there’s the cat with nine tails
there’s the cat with nine lives
there’s the cat that got my tongue
there’s the cat that is out of the bag
there’s the cat that curiosity killed
Percy was our first
a long-haired white
a tour bus for fleas
he led a long and lazy life
those fleas didn’t get around much.
Next came Sweeney
who left us too early
killed by a car
in the back lane.
Then Sasha the hunter
who brought us daily gifts
of dead birds and mice
and fought an ongoing battle
for ownership of the back yard
with two blue jays.
Sasha, too, fell foul of a car
in the back lane,
I heard about it
while checking into a Holiday Inn
somewhere in Alabama,
the peroxide permed ladies
at the front desk
passed me a note
which simply said:
“Sasha is dead”.
“Sasha is a cat”, I explained,
seeing the look of concern
on their powdered faces,
this did nothing to alleviate the gloom
I couldn’t get my room keys fast enough.
That was enough catastrophe for us,
Sasha’s ashes now rest in an urn
nestled in the bowl of the cherry tree
in the back yard
where she is visited frequently
by her former prey.
Photo : graffiti in Getsemani, Colombia
Taking part in Anmols’ prompt “all things feline” Over at dverse
Stopdraggingthepanda 