Category Archives: Uncategorized

St Patrick’s Day

Dublin on a wet afternoon.
Sometime in spring.
In a smoking hotel,
with pizza and wine.
And a day trip to Bray,
on Sunday.
Outside of her room,
is an unwholesome alley.
Where sheltering boys
become hoodlums and drunks.
Happy St Patrick’s Day,
she says to their ghosts.
To her old hometown city.
To the memories,
more persistent than rain.


In Zanzibar

We found our feet,
in Zanzibar.
Between the roads
that bump and grind.
And the village trail,
down to the beach.
It’s cold now.
A chill has passed
through bone and skin.
Say, it was thirty degrees,
in Zanzibar.
A heat haze of a memory.
Evaporating as quickly
as the evening sun going down,
in Zanzibar.


Django

An encounter one winter long ago.

Django played in the tunnels beneath Bank Station.
He fashioned a twisted scale,
that drifted on the air.
And he made me think of Morocco,
and the sweet fragrant smell of Marrakech.

Django: all awkward and angular,
with a mop of thick blond hair.
Had large bony fingers,
that made me think of Christ’s,
bending round the cross.

Django hummed as he played.
More moan than tune.
It sounded raw and real, and how he could feel the music.
And he made me think of the Mississippi delta,
and the wide expanse of river rolling along.

Django spoke silently to me,
and I to him.
We acknowledged each other,
as familiar strangers do.
With a nod of our heads.

One Christmas.
He wore a velvet hat Trimmed with ermine fur,
and an Arabian cloak to keep out the cold.
And I though of Gold, Incense, Frankincense and myrrh.
And things like joy and goodwill to all like Django.

Django was the name,
sent telepathically to me.
And I thought of Django Reinhardt,
and his paralysed fingers,
and of those who are not as fortunate as he.

Django busked during the winter of 1984,
while miners struck and the GLC crumbled.
And the memory of him, brings into focus,
this current hard winter,
and how warm it is underground.

 

 


Mist

In the light of those eyes.
In the slow turn sideways.
May this not be a gamble.
A chance meeting.

We stand frozen in the moment.
Waiting for the other to shoot first.
Breathing heavily,
as a great darkness unfolds.

Mist rolls through…..
A slow detachment follows.
Finger tips unravel swiftly.
Mouths open and shout.

“Here over there,”
someone screams.
Dead with uncertainty.
And I run, run into the grey.


Adrift

Hanging on for dear life.
Caught upon a wave.
Some broken off branch,
or bundle of sheaves.
The distance between.
Earth and an aquatic life.


Below the Circumference

There are dances we
choose to forgo.
Below the circumference.
A bleeding limb.
Never ending now,
or ever shimmering.
In the minds eye.
Frozen in bright headlights.


Alan Sillitoe

alansillitoe2

Highgate Cemetery was free for locals today. Here’s Alan Sillitoe, just a few yards away from Malcom McLaren !


A Christmas Poem

Its just about Christmas here in England, and I’,m thinking about my old friend Django again..

Django

Django played in the tunnels beneath Bank Station.
He fashioned a twisted scale,
that drifted on the air.
And he made me think of Morocco,
and the sweet fragrant smell of Marrakech.

Django: all awkward and angular,
with a mop of thick blond hair.
Had large bony fingers,
that made me think of Christ’s,
bending round the cross.

Django hummed as he played.
More moan than tune.
It sounded raw and real, and how he could feel the music.
And he made me think of the Mississippi delta,
and the wide expanse of river rolling along.

Django spoke silently to me,
and I to him.
We acknowledged each other,
as familiar strangers do.
With a nod of our heads.

One Christmas.
He wore a velvet hat Trimmed with ermine fur,
and an Arabian cloak to keep out the cold.
And I though of Gold, Incense, Frankincense and myrrh.
And things like joy and goodwill to all like Django.

Django was the name,
sent telepathically to me.
And I thought of Django Reinhart,
and his paralyzed fingers,
and of those who are not as fortunate as he.

Django busked during the winter of 1984,
while miners struck and the GLC crumbled.
And the memory of him, brings into focus,
this current hard winter,
and how warm it is underground.


Cook a Snook

cockasnook


Record Store Day

recordstoreday

Is a day away. Last year it was Traffic’s – John Barleycorn Must Die. This year….I’m still deciding. So go on: put the needle on the record !