The Personalised Cross

Can I get one,

That's a snug fit,

In your 'No nails' range,

Now I think of it!

Have you got something in red?

Dull brown's just not me,

Got to think how it looks;

This “Christianity”,

 

What about padding?

It seems quite rough,

And I don't want to get splinters,

If I'm going to be in the buff,

Also, can I wear clothes?

Or I'm going to look silly

Out on display,

And sometimes it's chilly,

Although Jesus pulls it off,

In the book,

For the rest of us, you'll concede,

Not a flattering look,

 

And can I take one,

With slightly less jeerers?

It can't have escaped your notice,

I am hardly fearless,

Besides,

I am quite sensitive,

And I would rather,

Live and let live,

And must I “take it up”,

All of the time?

Could I not work shifts,

Say five to nine?

(Till ten past nine)

I'll do the time,

Fifteen minutes,

Of fame on the cross,

Wait till I tell them,

Back at Martyrs-are-us,

Oh and by the way,

I hope you don't expect me to actually die,

But If called upon, I can perform,

A convincing cry,

Surely that will suffice,

There is no need,

For real sacrifice...

(20/06/2012)

Why I write Poetry

Why I write Poetry

I fell in love with poetry. When I remember my childhood, and hearing humorous verse, like Spike Milligan's 'Silly Old Baboon' or Pam Ayres, 'Oh, I wish, I'd looked after me teeth'. I liked limericks and the Nonsense of Edward Lear, Connecting later with bleaker and more haunting work, through Richard Adams Novel, 'Watership Down'.

I later wrote my first poem, for an assignment in 2^nd year English, about a crow, settling on a branch, in the midst of a wind storm. As instructed, I used all the alliteration, and similes I could think of, as I tried to ape the melancholic style and bleak imagery of Richard Adams. For me, at the time, it was oozing with metaphor. I have the feeling now, that my teacher may have thought it oozing with the pus of pretentiousness. However my predominant feeling, on writing this masterpiece, was not dissimilar to the feeling I got when I first tried to ride my bike with no stabilisers. Though wobbling all over the place, with huge potential to career into the road and the path of an oncoming truck, I was thinking 'I can DO THIS' 'I AM doing this. I am a poet!!'

And a year later, Studying poetry for GSCE English, the work of Ted Hughes and Wilfred Owen, in particular, blew me away. Ted Hughes in the unpicking. You had to take it apart to see how it worked. I loved the discussion of the ideas behind his poetry, I hoarded the gold that mining his verses gave up. It took my breath away. Two poems in particular. The Thought Fox, which I used for my GCSE art project, and 'The Warm and the Cold', which remains my favourite one of his.

And then Wilfred Owens 'Dulce et Decorum est', For the exact opposite. It did not need explanation. It needed experiencing. The raw power of it, the violence and shock of it, the righteous anger behind it, and the killer punch at the end, "My friends you would not tell with such high zest, to children desperate for some ardent glory, the Old Lie, 'dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori."

I fell in love with the very idea of being a poet, from these lessons onwards. To be able to express yourself with such potency? That was something of merit.

And a few years later still, when my talented friends were branching out into Music and Art, poetry became MY thing.

I started to self define as a poet. And yes, I probably WAS pretentious, but it connected me to a creative side that hitherto had been left untapped. I began to carry a pen and a bit of paper with me everywhere I went. And in that rather teenage unconscious way, I would frequently stop whatever I was doing and pull out the folded bit of A4 from my back pocket, and start to scrawl.

And I kept on scrawling. With varying degrees of success. It is not so much that I went on a poetry journey, but rather that poetry became my constant companion on my journey through life. And the A4, and the occasional back of an envelope, eventually became a note book, which became a Lap-top, and then a phone. But every now and then, an envelope still comes in handy.

I began to see in my life that poetry was everywhere, that, As the poet Pablo Neruda puts it, the 'Heavens unfastened'. That the world was indeed an awesome place, and by that I mean full of awe, and poetry helps us revel in the wonder of it.
And, as many poets I suspect will resonate, some of the most painful moments of life are poems that never reach the land and evolve, never grow words, font, syntax and verse, but are reclaimed by the sea of forgetfulness, from which we failed to rescue them, dragged back into the receding tide of memory. Good ideas for poems, like the biggest fish, are usually the ones that got away. Let me tell you. The great Poetry I haven't written. You would be amazed.

And like I said, Poetry became my companion on the journey, but it became more than that. Through all life, it became a way understanding, of giving form to a yearning, be it spiritual, social or sexual. It was the means, in part, by which I processed my loss and acquisition of faith, and the bereavements of my Mother first and then my marriage.

It became a way of marking the miles. It punctuated the otherwise long and monotonous sentence of my time-line. Poetry became my diary.

And it allowed me a voice. Often, in private, I would write things I could never say socially. I could re-imagine conversations, I could add caveats to ones in which the last word was denied to me. I could express doubts about all kinds of things. Probe the darkness a little. Shine the light of verse into the shadowy recess, and see if there was a monster lurking there.
And those seed thoughts that we all have at times? I could explore them. Poetry has been a joy and a gift to me.

And just occasionally, what I love about poems, is they can reinvent you. People who have heard you read a poem, often find that you are not quite the person they thought you were. If we dare risk it, poetry can pin the heart you have kept in your pocket all these years, back on your sleeve.

As Alan Ginsberg said, Poetry is the one place where people can speak their original human mind. It is the outlet for people to say in public what is known in private.

And while I am quoting a great poet, why not let us see what some other of the finest poetic minds have to say on the subject of poetry and it's purpose.

What is a poet? An unhappy person who conceals profound anguish in his heart but whose lips are so formed that as sighs and cries pass over them they sound like beautiful music.

Soren Kierkegaard (Danish philosopher, theologian, poet, social critic and religious author)

and somewhat less flowery, T. S. Elliot asserts;

Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.

T. S. Eliot

Salman Rushdie has an even higher view of poetry,

A poet's work is to name the unnameable, to point at frauds, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world, and stop it going to sleep.

Salman Rushdie

I think I may have just about managed to take a few sides here and there, maybe even started an argument. But Poetry can wake us up. It can shape our world, and in shaping us, then those around us. And it can challenge. Oh yes.

Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.

Robert Frost

It seems to be the translation of the soul to paper

Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.

Carl Sandburg (American Poet)

I have nothing to say, I am saying it, and that is poetry.

John Cage (American Composer)

I just threw that one in for contrast....and humour.

Leonard cohen, perhaps one of the most poetic of lyricists, and a poet in his own right, as this quote will demonstrate says; Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.~ L. Cohen

And this is the sense that I want to get hold of, in my own writing, and for all of us tonight. Life converts into poetry. Life is poetry. Poetry, if not life itself, as the singer asserts, is evidence of life, It is not separate as we sometimes suppose. Cohen makes this vital connection, but of course, he is speaking AS a poet. We are not ALL poets though....are we?

John Fowls, a novelist, who brings a brings a word-smith's sensibility, to his understanding, and speaks with a poetic heart when he says;

We all write poems; it is simply that poets are the ones who write in words.

John Fowles (Novelist)

Which brings me back to a vital question. What IS poetry?

I sometimes feel like a poem is whatever you want to call it. I recall a discussion, in my first year music class, on what was 'music', and my teacher told us of an experimental record, in which, on both sides of an LP, silence was recorded. We were asked to discuss if THIS was music.

My music teacher concluded that Music, was whatever it's creator defined it to be. He argued and noise, or lack of it, if it was used intentionally to create 'music' was worthy of the name music. He hastily added, of course, that doesn't make it GOOD music.

The same arguments exist around art, of course. There so many views of what constitutes art. But following my Music teachers principle, anything that is used to create art, can be considered art, because art, like music, is in the intention.

So if Life is poetry, and poetry, in some sense, is life, what makes poetry? The writing and composition of poetry gives expression to something that pre-exists, because it is the substance of life that inspires us. It comes from somewhere.

Can John Fowles be right? Do we all write, unwritten poems, save the poets themselves, who occasionally commit them to form. What Fowles is saying is that our lives ARE poems.

This is a high view of poetry, indeed.

And here is my last quote from Michael Franti (An American rapper, musician, poet, and singer-songwriter.);

He is quoted as saying “Every single soul is a poem~”
 

Although Franti was born in the sixties this idea he is espousing is just a little older than he is. I am a believer in Jesus and I regularly read a certain book that is ancient in origin. A book full of, and bursting with poetry, the intentional expression of the heart behind creation. St Paul espouses a concept that sits not too uncomfortably with greek mythology, which states that within each of us humans, is the 'spark of Zeus'. St Paul in Ephesians 2:10 says that 'WE are God's workmanship',

The word 'workmanship' in Greek is Poiema. Sound familiar? Poiema, I am informed, is the route word from which our word Poem, is derived. Workmanship can also be translated, as Masterpiece. A work of art. So then we are a divine poem. And, from my perspective, the divine creator, placed in us, at our core, a longing for creativity.

There is a sense in which we are a creative expression of the divine heart, a poem, written not on screen or paper, but on 'the tablets of human hearts'. And through our lives we are shaping that poem.

And so our written poetry is the intentional expression of our hearts, and connecting our emotions to thoughts, and our thoughts to words, is the most human of things to do. To write is to pertain to a sense of wonder at the world, and sometimes, to express our dissatisfaction with it....and everything in between. Poems can be written about all life. About a chewed up bus ticket, or a cheating partner. It can be about the lifting of depression, or the simple beauty of a raindrop. It can express frustration with a late train, or it can lament the death of a loved one. It can rage against the elements, or serenely accept its fate. Poetry encompasses and enhances life. All life. And it gives a voice to whomever finds it. Because 'Every single soul is a poem', then 'every voice is valued'. Poetry is a way for us to register our arrival and presence on the planet. It says 'I am here'. And that is why I write.

(Written as an essay to be delivered at 'Speak Easy'.  A gathering of poets.)

I Met You Last Night

I met my dead Mother, in a conversation last night,
Coming the other way in words,
If I hadn't lifted my head,
They may have gone by,  unheard,

But in your remembrance,  from a mutual friend,
I saw you like it was the first time,
Through fresh eyes,
Distanced from the distortion of familiarity,
Free from familial contempt,
The contempt of contentment,
When new information,
Is kept waiting at the door,
Or is barged past on the crowded Street.

 

No I saw a flash of you.
It was a glorious ghost,
I saw your smile in their fondness,
I trod the steps,
From alienation to affection,
As they grew to love you,
And you warmed to them,

 

I felt the burn of your shyness,
I recoiled at the heat of your cool reserve,
I felt the tingle of thawing numbness,
As your guard came down,  and your defenses melted,

 

I too had known it once,
I was on occasion,  kept at the door,
I knew what it meant to be invited in,
And to sprawl out, fireside on the floor,

I saw you smile, as they recalled your warmth, 
I saw your face in the smile of the words,
I saw the flash of it, and It caught my eye, and it was free from all remorse,

 

It was you,  and devoid of me,
It was you standing apart from the cage of memory,
It was you,  in colour, sepia free.
Filterless and feisty,
You and you alone,
No memory to bind or blind me,

And you were as living as the words
You had life, beyond them,
Your life was in them,
As they recalled your goodness,

It was the surprise of sight,
That took my breath on a journey,

I saw you in the words of another,
And touching their words I reached out,
And kissed the face of my Mother.

You Were Taking Your Time

You were taking your time,  you said,
 Cradling my first-born baby's head,
 Taking it nice and slow,
 "There is such a long way to go "
 You were keeping your distance,
 Hoping to win us with your persistence,

 And you were not in it for the short haul,
 Taking the long view over all,
Not stepping on my wife's toes,
 But wearing her shoes, donning her clothes,
 Imagining yourself in her skin
 Measuring out the space that she had to be in,
 
You were cautious because of the past,
 And the chasm created, deep and vast,
 And the rift that seemed to have healed,
 Sewn up in ripping baby squeal,
You knew empathetically,  what to do,
 Space and love would come shining through,

 And so you were taking and biding your time,
 Never quite placing your hand in mine,
 That would come further down the road,
 Love pending,  awaiting download,
 Five per cent of it slowly processed,
 Ninety-five per cent, never possessed,
 
There were no comics, nor walks in the park,
 There were no late night cuddles, to squeeze out the dark,
You said You were taking your time, when time was taking you,
 If you only had known, you'd have thrown off restraint, and resistance too,

 You would have gathered us all to your chest,
 And our last years together would have been blessed,
 With memories of unchained and unedited love,
 But sadly, when push came to shove,
 While time was taking you, you were taking your time,
 And it took away, along with it, potential memory's of mine,

 Memories of knowing you with my son,
 Two years shared and barely a one,
You were taking your time
 Whilst time was taking both yours and mine. 

Drone Strike

I don't wanna be your drone
And I don't wanna work from home
I don't wanna end up all alone
So I'm on strike, I won't answer the phone,

 

And I don't wanna be remote controlled,
Mindless, lifelessly do what I'm told,
So I'm outta the game,  I'm leaving the fold,
This drone has a voice and it won't be sold,

 

I don't wanna chase your pot of gold,
I hate what you love, I detest it's hold,
Nothing has changed from days of old,
You gain the whole world,
But forfeit your soul,

 

I don't wanna live for a Web of lies
I don't wanna become what I despise,
I won't be kept down,  my soul will rise,
You pin me to the earth,  but I'll reach for the skies,

 

I don't wanna work anymore for you,
I reject your terms and conditions too,
I've seen their effects and what they do,
I'm telling you now,  that's it, we're through,

And you can chase me down the street,
Take me to court, I'll take the heat,
I'll keep walking to where sky and land meet
Even if you nail my hands and feet,

I don't wanna be your pet,
The treats you offer, I never get,
You stroke my ego, I take the bet,
But the winner has never materialised yet.

I don't wanna be your wage slave,
Or live in the land of the broke and the brave,
I've seen your success and what it gave,
The cess pit, and not Aladdin's cave,

No, I don't wanna be your slave,

I don't wanna make the noise
The drone of complaint from the girls and the boys,
When within the pram, we keep the toys,
We satisfy ourselves with such trivial joys,

No I'm on strike, here's what I'll do,
I sit on the bog and write a haiku,
on the wall to say why I am leaving you,
So you can read my resignation when you're on the loo,

And now that I have left the hive,
You will still go on and thrive,
You can replace me in less than five,
With more dead drones,
But at least I am alive

This drone is on strike, that's it, I've gone,
You'll barely notice, you'll carry on
It's hardly like I dropped a bomb,
Whilst here, It's hardly like I shone,
But at least I left with some aplomb,

No, I don't wanna be your drone.

I won't live for a Web of lies
I won't become what I despise,
I won't be kept down, my soul will rise,
You pin me to the earth,  but I'll reach for the skies




 

 

 

 

 

The Next To Me Person

I am Your neighbour,

Of whom your scriptures teach,

The one you so often wont reach out to,
Although I am easily within reach,

And you ask,

Who is my neighbour?

All the migrants & refugees ,

The next to me person,

And the person next to these,

Trafficked people who reach out for help,
Those whose voices are silenced,

Not a whimper or yelp,

Someone who needs me.....

The next to me person,

You only live once,

And there's no rehearsin',

A neighbour is literally someone next to you,

Close in distance, akin in feeling,

Symmetrical in understanding,

So my neighbour is everyone....

Even the worst person in the world,

And the most demanding,

They are not my neighbours ,

They are my brothers and sisters,

Listen to me mister,

As the children of God,

We are family,

I am their brother,

I am their sister,

 

I am Your neighbour,

Of whom your scriptures teach,

The one you so often wont reach out to,
Although I am easily within reach,

Who then is my Neighbour? ,

The rich young man demanded,

To justify his lack of care,

To weasel out of being reprimanded,

Who “THEN”, is my Neighbour?
For, who 'Then' shall I serve?
For whom shall I labour?
For he who is worthy?

For they that deserve?

 

Tell me who!

who then is my neighbour?

Someone in need, anyone in need ,

Anyone less fortunate than me,

Drug-addicts, Junkies and those who smoke weed?

People who have been sanctioned,

Victims of greed?

Who Then is my neighbour?

People who surround us,

Homeless, refugees over here,

We may or may not like them,

Those we may distrust or fear?

They may be the person we envy,

But should be pleased for, congratulate,

When you stand their frozen, hateful,

And starting to stagnate,

 

I am Your neighbour,

Of whom your scriptures teach,

The one you so often wont reach out to
Although I am easily within reach,

My Neighbour is,

The next to me person,

This isn't a play,

 We are not rehearsin' ,

People who we interact with in every way,

The Atheists, the Muslims,

The straight and the gay,

The people who wind us up and irritate us,

People who have wronged us,

Day after day,

 

The next to me person,

This is not an act,

You are not rehearsin',

Good teacher,

Who is my Neighbour?

 

I am Your neighbour,

Of whom your scriptures teach,

The one you so often wont reach out to
Although I am easily within reach,

My neighbour is the one that's in need of my help, my care, my attention,

The one with the skin condition that we barely dare to mention,

My neighbour is the person next to me,

Without a smile on their face,

The one no-one sees,

The person too stubborn to ask for help,

When you can tell they are desperate for it,

The one who's hoping you will see,

And hoping too, you wont ignore it,

The person without a shoulder to cry on,

Or a friend to talk to,

The one with no-one to rely on,

The one who doesn't need your bible quotes,

Who wont hear the word,

But maybe just a hug,

When Love is the loudest sound you've heard,

Beyond the talk,

Beyond rehearsin',

The far off, far away, near to me,

Next to me person,

 

It is the person you do and do not see,

And in as much,

As you have done it unto these...

Every day family, friends, acquaintances or complete strangers,

All are neighbours to me,

 

So then,

In a Global village, is this something you could savour,

In our global age is the whole human race your neighbour?

 

In a day of technology and easy flights,

In a world that recalls in an instant, a web of horrific sights,

In a world of resources from an agency,

One woman stood in a kitchen , in Birmingham , cooking tea ,

May not be able to jump on a plane to comfort another,

Shivering-in-a-tunnel, escaping-a-war kind of mother,

But she can pray, for release of those who can, .

And She can stand with those who give a damn,

Neighbour cannot any longer be confined to people we meet,

They no longer reside only in the house, either side, along our street,

So many people are our neighbours,

But when I'm overwhelmed by the plight of ALL,

Of them, who I connect with through the media,

When my feet should be racing,
But my heart starts to stall,

I remember, somewhere, somehow,

That God has put me, where I am now,

And he gently reminds me

Not to overlook,

The "next to me person".

That this life is real,

And I'm not rehearsin',

That he is in heaven & here, and he sees us,

And in loving friends and enemies alike,

We are really loving Jesus.

I am Your neighbour,

Of whom your scriptures teach,

The one you reach out to,
 I am The One, who is within reach,

You Are Here

Red dot upon the map,

The words etched in black,

This is the place you feared to come,

And came to fear,

Worry and Don't worry, 

"You are here"

You pinched yourself twice,
But no spoonful of sugar can make this nice
So swallow down the medicine my dear,
because every way you look at this,
You are here.

And lost along your way,
When paths had gone astray,
And betrayed your feet,
which dragged you far from near,
You thought you'd never reach this point,

You thought this day would never come, but, Now You realise,
You are here,

You thought you'd never sink this low,
But here you are my dear.

It's worse than being lost
This facing up to cost,
So, let me whisper the price into your ear,
Yes this is what you've done,
This is what you have become,
And yes,well and truly,
You are here.

But worry and Don't worry,  now,

My dear, 

It's kind of reassuring, 

To put your finger on the map, 

And be able to say that 

You are here. 

From here you can get to there, 

When before you were nowhere, 

And drifting year on year,

When you know you're down from up, 

At the bottom you can see the top, 

And finally acknowledge , 

You are here, 

Before, it felt like mystery, 

Like you barely existed, 

Like you were a figment of some childhood fears, 

Like your soul was in the ether,

Like your body was all numb,

But now, connecting to the pain, 

You know you're here,

And pain is just a signpost to the lost,

And shame is lost upon the found 

The signpost points to another place, 

Where joy and honour will be your solid ground. 

Red dot on the map, 

The words etched in black, 

This is the place you feared to come 

And came to fear, 

But be Worried and yet don't worry now my dear, 

Because there you were and you were there but now for real,  you can say that, 

You are here. 

So trace your finger 'cross the contours, 

Dig your nails into the earth, 

Take one last swig from your glass of beer, 

Get your feet back on the road, 

Leave behind your load, 

And leave behind a note that says that, 

You were here, 

And leave behind a life that says that, 

You were here.