It’s cold and bright in Albion tonight
Though the snow covered fields
Have little to reflect
From the greyness of the cloud laden sky.
Tonight the owl hunts in vain
As nothing else stirs,
The silence of its glide
Amplified by the hushed tones
Of the icy blanket beneath.
Trees, ghostly sentinels, patrol the hedgerows
That enclose the hunting grounds.
Smoke rises vertically,
Windless from the occasional chimney,
Whitewashed walls invisible
To all but the owl,
Which is itself seen only
By the trees and
Through the aperture of the imagination.
February 5, 2009
It’s cold and bright in Albion tonight
February 2, 2009
Jamjar of Apostrophes
jamjar of apostrophes
On the mantelpiece, gathering apostrophes, stands the jamjar
Never seeming to get full despite
A steady stream of infilling punctuations
That claim to be the real thing,
Though they may simply be
Misplaced commas.
Whence it came we know not
Nor the jam contained
Within its glass rotunda,
Spread out on bread
And washed, long since,
From the sweet of communal consciousness.
Unlikely as it is, in the jamjar
Gathers the dust of failed scribes
And victims of progress,
Sentenced to be read by others
In the twilight of expression,
The false dawn of a new age.
As it slowly fills, so dies the light…
February 1, 2009
Snowtime
This has been a wonderful winter. I can’t remember when we last had such a sustained period of cold weather. The snow is now falling and this time it looks as if we might get a reasonable dump of it rather than the light scattering that normally comes and goes within a few hours. Ironically the kids are off sledging at Xscape which is an indoor ski slope.
The sky feels as if it is closing in on us though it isn’t getting darker. Occasionally I see someone walking along the pavement the other side of the hedge in the front garden. Give it a couple more hours and there will be hardly anyone. Also cars are still going past.
Sat here in front of the fire I’m facing a near perfect Sunday afternoon. Anne is doing some baking in the kitchen and in a short while I’ll be cooking a Delia Smith’s recipe chille con carne. Pretty much the same as most other chilles I imagine.
This weather provides an absolutely perfect excuse to sit down and write. To some amongst us tapping away at the PC probably constitutes idleness but they have to believe this is not the case. In fact it is absolutely essential to have uninterrupted time at it.
This the weather you always deam about that gets you stranded in a pub or a country hotel. Unable to make it home for a whole week, running up a huge bar tab and dreading the moment that the snowplough makes it through to announce that the road is now clear!
The snow has stopped now but it will be back. It strikes me that my recent posts, be they prose or poetry, have very much had a wintery theme. If not winter certainly an element of bleakness. It will be interesting to see how this changes as the year progresses. I’m not naturally a person with a negative outlook.
January 30, 2009
A view from the stage
It’s always an interesting moment seeing the CPO programme list for the next year.There will always be some pieces I like balanced by some I’d rather not have to bother with.This year was no different, and scanning the e-mail I took an involuntarily sharp intake of breath when I saw ‘Tchaikovsky Symphony #5’. What a treat – fantastic.I won’t say which pieces prompted a groan!
Tchaikovsky symphonies are packed full of delights and challenges for your average first violinist (and I am a very average first violinist). Lovely tunes, fast passages, grunty bits for effect, subtleties that need a great deal of skill and refinement, and sections which, quite frankly, it doesn’t matter what you play because you’re being drowned out by the brass anyway. They like doing that.
Sitting waiting to start playing there won’t be much going through my mind, but the sense of anticipation will be powerful, boosted by doubts about all the personal little tricky corners which, in rehearsals, I haven’t quite managed to get to the bottom of. At least this time we don’t play at the start – I can sit and compose myself a bit more until we join in with the rest of the strings.
Once we get going the audience fades from my consciousness, and it’s just the music. It sounds clichéd but it’s true. There is so much to concentrate on that awareness of anything else would be wasteful. Am I playing exactly with everyone else ? Are the notes right ? Am I counting the rests properly? Will I get that high note right this time? Am I playing loudly enough – am I playing too loudly? Is my bow going in the right direction? And they’re just the basic technical details. Am I managing to deliver what passes for music, let alone Michael’s interpretation of it? That’s the key question, and the one that time after time, brings us all back for more.
We move through the music, pumping adrenalin just as much in the really quiet bits as in the loud fast sections. We get to relax and swing with the tunes. Some sections are more difficult than others and need more focus and wide-eyed, unblinking concentration. My favourite part ? The horn solo in the second movement. From my vantage point in a large section of violins I always think it must be a high-pressure moment for the horn player, and am silently urging him to relax, do his best, and enjoy it.
After all the false summits of the last movement, and past the bit where the brass drowns out the strings, we reach the end flourish. The baton stops. A short pause. Then, we hope, the applause. The audience’s appreciation is the icing on the cake. If you’ve enjoyed it half as much as me, you’ll have had a great evening.
January 29, 2009
Hole In The Wall
Personal yet impersonal,
Grubby and soulless,
Addictive, without joy
Source of money, sometimes –
Swallow hard.
Herald of bad news,
Card swallower.
Watch your bent back
In litter-strewn streets
Of cloned city centres
All in all it’s just
Another hole in the wall.
January 25, 2009
The Box
At arms length from other boxes
On the outskirts of town stands a box,
Poorly protected by a flimsy slat fence
A thin hedge takes the full blast of the wind
Across the bare fields and over the quarry below.
Paper walls make for little comfort
And no cats swing here though they
Lap at saucers at the exposed back door.
The cheap settee fills the room, with the TV
Which sits on its altar next to the gas fire.
The small garden patch is shaded by the shed that
Stands large on the patio next to the rusting barbecue.
The paint peeled garage door opens into clutter
Where the car seldom fits,
Idling instead on the tarmac on the front drive.
The local pub survives, just,
Its new brick blandness mixed with gassy beer
And a desperately bored clientele.
Frozen food, fried, microwaved, boiled.
Choiceless, characterless, tasteless.
The box, uninspiring, the bulldozed architecture
Of (optimistically) a 100 years hence,
Thrown together, built with hopes and dreams,
Stands on the outskirts of town
An arms length from other boxes.
Telephone Conversation Overheard In The Pub
“I’m sat here pining for you.
I wish you’d answer my texts.
I aint giving up on you that easily sweetheart.
I’m sat in the Morning Star with my wolfie (his dog).
I wish I could see more of you, it’s doing my head in girl.
Is your son alright?
Where’s his next tour to?
If you want to get a taxi up to the pub I’ll pay for it and buy you a couple of drinks. I’ve got the cash.
Alright then my darling. Next time get yer fingers working and text me back to let me know you’re alright.”
Finishes conversation and talks to his dog.
“She’s poorly big guy. Any excuse not to come down to the pub. Mardy arsed bitch.”
It didn’t sound as if she was all too keen. Tref, Morning Star, 24th January 17.15pm
January 24, 2009
It’s Cold And It’s Damp
It’s cold, wet and miserable.
We are back to the normal British winter.
One or two smiles break the gloom
At Kings Cross station
But they are the exception.
People don’t smile in London.
The waiting room is warm and quiet.
The cleaner talks to the attendant,
With almost a smile!
An effort, forced through the boredom,
After ten minutes collecting
Three empty coffee cups.
I tap away on my laptop.
A woman brushes her eyelashes,
Another eats a sandwich
And some read newspapers,
But most just stare blankly,
Waiting…
January 18, 2009
Colours in Winter
The colours at this time of year are wonderfully dark. All variations of black and brown with only the occasional frosty white for a fringe. There is a wan green but it’s limp lack of chlorophyll offers a pitifully muddy contrast with it’s richness at the height of spring. Moreover this insipid, underexposed carpet is only really seen on the verges of roads and in the occasional pasture, empty of cows.
Green isn’t thought of as a glorious colour but when it is almost absent it doesn’t seem an unreasonable description, thinking back, or ahead to more productive times. The evergreens are dark enough in shadows cast by the low January sun to be almost black.
Normally this is a depressing time but this year the coldness has provided a surprising boost to the system. We rarely see proper winters. Winters with killing temperatures that punish the unwary, the unprepared, the weak. Winters of tradition. There has been little snow but the flat land of the East rarely attracts it. As usual there is plenty of wind and this year it feels as if the full force of the Siberian Winter has been blowing our way.
Interestingly there don’t seem to be many takers for the birdseed in the garden. I suppose hibernation must be in full swing, or the birds have already died. My friend the robin is absent. I hope he makes it through the far side. Even the blackbirds, normally reliable, seem to have disappeared. Time will tell. Spring has a way of fixing things.
The beauty of a long hard winter is the contrast it provides with spring when it finally arrives. This year I am not in a hurry. I am content with having to sit in in front of the fire, or to wrap up well when going out. Sunday afternoons spent in the kitchen, spicy vegetable soup with rustic brown bread and butter, crumpets, ginger cake and tea. Then a roast dinner in the evening before settling in for the night.
January 6, 2009
Tree Forty Four
Spheres of silver, or gold, or red, or blue,
Or one of those with glittery powder sprinkled on and glued.
Glimmering and glinting with reflected light
From Christmas tree lights all bright and sparkly and white.
Old favourite angel, looking down
At silver snow slopes of tinsel cosily draping round
The rich, deep green, bowing branches.
Ragged, ripped ends of chocolate-coin foil, all spent,
Mountains of scrunched-up wrapping paper rent
Asunder all too soon in one long-awaited, ecstatic moment
Dumped, decaying, municipal-machine-mulched,
Tree Forty Four, short-lived, for sure
Ends up in the butchers shop on the floor.
January 5, 2009
Winter Tennis
It’s freezing point
On the tennis court
Though the action is hot.
Vestigial muscles rediscovered,
Youthful opposition forces the pace,
Balls blaze a trail in the crisp January morning.
Breath hangs in the air,
The score hangs in the balance,
Youth triumphs and handshakes firm.
Finally the snow arrives.
Small flakes drift across the court
Satisfying our romantic sporting spirits.
We retire to Starbucks
For hot chocolate with a warm glow,
Marshmallows and whipped cream.
Villa Retreat
We’re in! Centre Parcs, Sherwood Forest. Anne must have clicked on the button for a villa near to the centre by mistake because we are so close it isn’t worth using a bike to get there. All we would be doing would be pushing the bike across the road.
What’s more when we arrived there was no room in the car park so they asked us to drive straight in and park outside the villa. So we got in early, were unpacked early and got back to the car park as soon as they let everyone else in which in turn meant we got one of the parking spots nearest to the centre. Result all round really.
Now we’ve settled in, arguments settled over who gets which room, and I’m settling down on the settee with a cup of tea and a slice of chocolate cake. Aaahhh.
We are here for a long weekend. It’s a perfect short break. It only takes 40 minutes for us to drive here so it is easy.
The biggest downside is that I am forced to sit in front of the TV with the kids watching The Simpsons. There is no escape. Nightmare!
December 29, 2008
Alistair Cooke
Radio 4 is running some repeats of Christmas editions of Alistair Cooke’s “Letter From America”. What struck me in listening to one of the broadcasts was the breadth of subject matter he could draw on to write about. He was talking about people dying in the snow at Christmas time during the Klondike gold rush. They were buried anonymously in makeshift graves at the side of the road. Nobody knew who they were. It was dramatic.
Now Alistair Cooke was not alive during the Klondike gold rush but he certainly lived through some momentous times in history. The Second World War, the assassination of President Kennedy, etc, etc, etc.
Most of us don’t get exposed to these experiences. This isn’t to say that historic events aren’t going on around us and in my lifetime. Collapse of the USSR, Iraq, Afghanistan, Palestine, the death of Princess Diana, 9-11, and so on and so forth. These days however our experience of these events is limited to what goes on on the television, which we typically see in real time.
My father recalls that during the Second World War he was in hospital in Swansea having his appendix removed. He was released from hospital early because they were clearing the decks for the D-Day landings. Swansea Bay was filled with warships as far as the eye could see. He was born in a wollen mill in South Wales. His own father died of a mining related respiratory disease in his early fifties. It was the fate of most miners in those days.
My mother grew up in a place called Mohil in Ireland. She used to take the milk from the family’s sole cow to the dairy, in a donkey and cart. She attended a convent school where the nuns were classic bitches, beating an education into the children. She was one of seven children who had to be farmed out to relatives because they didn’t fit into the two bedroom cottage.
These days peoples’ experiences are far more tame. They go to school, get a job, find a partner and have 2.3 kids, or whatever the latest number is. Often they lose their job. Over this they typically have no control. They will find something else, good or bad. The take their holidays, watch their inane television programmes and sink into a routine that slides deeper and inexorably into anonymity. Then they die.
Of course Alistair Cooke died. In that he is no different to the other anonymous people mentioned here. He did make a mark though and I’m sure enjoyed the process of doing so. How long the mark will last doesn’t really matter. What matters is that he made it in the first place.
December 27, 2008
Peas with Honey
I eat my peas with honey,
I’ve done it since I was one,
You may think it’s funny
But it’s actually really yummy,
I could eat it by the ton.
December 24, 2008
The Fork’n Knife Club
Members must have
Ageless beauty
And inner strength,
Be hard working
And fun loving
With a positive outlook to life.
A net source of love
They will have kids who
Are often a joy
Though a constant worry.
Membership is by natural selection
For Mam.