# 1
Sally got sacked for bringing stray dogs to class, although she swears it was because she refused to wear shoes.
# 2
Chas got sacked for playing his guitar too much during lessons.
# 3
Duncey was a born-again Christian. He told his boss he would kill him with his love.
He got sacked.
# 4
Simon was living in an unfurnished flat. Correction. There was a mattress on one floor. His boss told him not to worry - she would do his washing. He did a runner at Christmas.
# 5
Ted is living in a flat with no windows. It's like an extended cupboard, minus the view. He's sitting opposite me, shaking. 'It just got worse,' he says, and bursts into tears. 'The landlord's painted it purple.' I order more rets.
#6
'I need somewhere to plank a TV set,' says Garth. Garth is from Belfast. His boss has refused to give him his severance pay. Garth has kidnapped the appliances from his flat. 'He's got three days to pay up,' he says. 'Or the telly gets it.'
# 7
Garth is a dedicated jogger. I bump into him one evening. It's dark. He's in his shorts. He's sweating. 'What's with the big stick?' I ask. He raps the wood off the kerb and looks over his shoulder. 'Dogs, Andy,' he says. 'Dogs.'
# 8
The following evening. Garth is in his shorts, obviously off for a run. He's wielding the stick. He stops. 'Any dogs around?' he asks. Ah, I think. The dangers of jogging. 'Aye,' I say, and point back the way I've just come. 'You want to be careful, there's a pack of them...' I don't get to finish. He's off. In the direction of the dogs.
# 9
First night down the caff since I got back from Scotland. Tony's in. 'Have a good time?' he says. His eyes are bloodshot; he's had a few. 'Too right,' I tell him. 'Slap up Christmas dinner - all the trimmings. Hogmanay was a blast. Met up with some old friends and made lots of new ones. It was party time for two weeks. I'm glad I went. You?' Tony is glaring at me. 'I got sacked,' he says.
# 10
Scratch marks. They weren't mine. I tried to ignore it, but after a week the bar of soap looked like a stickle brick. I staked out the toilet. A rat came swimming out of the bowl and jumped onto the wash hand basin. I killed it with a shoe.
Moral: rats can swim and rats can jump, but they can't run faster than Doctor Marten.
# 11
Yanni brings me a bottle of Amstel and returns to his corner. I pour a glassful. It's flat. 'Yanni!' He comes over. 'There's no bubbles in this beer.' What a translator I am! Yanni picks up the bottle and peers at it. Then he puts his thumb over the end and gives it a good shake. He looks again. 'There's bubbles in it now,' he says. He places the bottle on the table and returns to his corner.
# 12
A junkie flops down at my table. He wastes no time putting the bite on. 'Gie us some money,' he says. It turns into a staring contest. Yanni comes over. 'He bothering you, Andy?' he asks. 'No,' I say. 'This is my new friend.' 'Oh, right,' Yanni smiles. The junkie smirks. 'Bring me a coffee,' he says. Yanni goes to the kitchen. The junkie stands up. 'Ah kent ye had money,' he says, and walks out.
Wednesday, 28 July 2010
Poems 88-89 (Part 1)
VOLATILE SELF IMAGE
The shaft of sunlight
struck the after shave bottle
and was split
into a promising spectrum
of possibilities.
LOVE LETTERS
The simple truth is
that it is
the Roadrunner
who is sending
the Coyote
those parcels
from Acme.
And the Coyote knows.
WHAT SHE SAID
'Listen,' said the Ichneumon fly
to the caterpillar.
'I
need
you
so
much.'
CAREFUL
There is a wasps' nest in the tree
outside my window.
There is never much activity;
I don't know if many wasps live there.
But I sometimes feel that
I would like - carefully - to peel away
some of those fine wafer layers
and satisfy my curiosity.
Revealing, perhaps,
her thriving heart.
ROOM NUMBER 8
It is a cheap hotel.
The floorboards are cracked and
there is fungus hanging from the ceiling,
proudly, like a decoration.
The dark stairs,
with a handrail I'd rather not use,
lead to a corridor,
half lit through a dust covered window
at the end.
There are doors along either side.
It is third on the left.
Room number 8 with
the door with
the shotgun wired to the handle.
I cannot help myself.
I reach out
SUICIDE PACT
and they faced each other
with tears in their eyes
and they raised their revolvers
to their heads
wept a last farewell
squeezed their triggers
only he made sure
she squeezed hers first
and as he listened to the
echo
of her gun going off
the echo still ringing in his ears
as he phoned for the ambulance
he felt happy
that at last someone had
loved him that much
The shaft of sunlight
struck the after shave bottle
and was split
into a promising spectrum
of possibilities.
LOVE LETTERS
The simple truth is
that it is
the Roadrunner
who is sending
the Coyote
those parcels
from Acme.
And the Coyote knows.
WHAT SHE SAID
'Listen,' said the Ichneumon fly
to the caterpillar.
'I
need
you
so
much.'
CAREFUL
There is a wasps' nest in the tree
outside my window.
There is never much activity;
I don't know if many wasps live there.
But I sometimes feel that
I would like - carefully - to peel away
some of those fine wafer layers
and satisfy my curiosity.
Revealing, perhaps,
her thriving heart.
ROOM NUMBER 8
It is a cheap hotel.
The floorboards are cracked and
there is fungus hanging from the ceiling,
proudly, like a decoration.
The dark stairs,
with a handrail I'd rather not use,
lead to a corridor,
half lit through a dust covered window
at the end.
There are doors along either side.
It is third on the left.
Room number 8 with
the door with
the shotgun wired to the handle.
I cannot help myself.
I reach out
SUICIDE PACT
and they faced each other
with tears in their eyes
and they raised their revolvers
to their heads
wept a last farewell
squeezed their triggers
only he made sure
she squeezed hers first
and as he listened to the
echo
of her gun going off
the echo still ringing in his ears
as he phoned for the ambulance
he felt happy
that at last someone had
loved him that much
I feel a bit of a self-retrospective coming on. An 'introspective', I suppose. Some stuff from Scotland, 88-89, which I came across in a folder I'd forgotten I'd salvaged. The poet then was not a happy camper. Most of the pieces are quite dark, although most seem to be grasping towards some idea of self-knowledge, which is only to be expected. A few are quite whimsical, with a lightness of touch which still brings a smile to my face. I promise to post only those which I deem worthy of an airing - and an airing they certainly need; some of the A4 sheets have got mould on them.
Tuesday, 27 July 2010
Unthinkable Skies by Juliet Wilson - Review
Unthinkable Skies by Juliet Wilson. Calder Wood Press, 2010. ISBN 978- 1- 906269-28-5
Juliet Wilson has a reputation as a poet who cares deeply about the natural world. But the poems that really stand out in her latest collection, Unthinkable Skies, are not those that deal with man's impact on the environment. The real gems in this work give a more direct insight into the poet's take on human relationships. It is here that Wilson shows true form, as she employs everyday images to describe the unbridgeable chasm that exists, inevitably, between lovers. In 'Drift', the writer reflects on childhood times, playing with a jigsaw map - she realises in later life that she is no closer to her lover than Africa is to Brazil. 'Return' is more positive, again using the map and jigsaw motif, but distance, thankfully, is abandoned in the last line. In 'Alchemy', a young couple try to build a kind of love in a war zone - 'The pull of vestigial wings between their shoulders / lifts them above their troubled town.' And this, from 'Unblinded' - 'Eyes closed, you read the Braille / of your lover's face, / feel her breath on your skin. / Her heartbeat in the dark.'
There is a gently pulsing vein of sadness throughout this collection, although the poems never become melancholy - far from it. I thoroughly enjoyed reading Unthinkable Skies, and will definitely be on the lookout for Juliet Wilson's next book.
Juliet Wilson blogs at http://craftygreenpoet.blogspot.com/
Calder Wood Press http://www.calderwoodpress.co.uk/
Juliet Wilson has a reputation as a poet who cares deeply about the natural world. But the poems that really stand out in her latest collection, Unthinkable Skies, are not those that deal with man's impact on the environment. The real gems in this work give a more direct insight into the poet's take on human relationships. It is here that Wilson shows true form, as she employs everyday images to describe the unbridgeable chasm that exists, inevitably, between lovers. In 'Drift', the writer reflects on childhood times, playing with a jigsaw map - she realises in later life that she is no closer to her lover than Africa is to Brazil. 'Return' is more positive, again using the map and jigsaw motif, but distance, thankfully, is abandoned in the last line. In 'Alchemy', a young couple try to build a kind of love in a war zone - 'The pull of vestigial wings between their shoulders / lifts them above their troubled town.' And this, from 'Unblinded' - 'Eyes closed, you read the Braille / of your lover's face, / feel her breath on your skin. / Her heartbeat in the dark.'
There is a gently pulsing vein of sadness throughout this collection, although the poems never become melancholy - far from it. I thoroughly enjoyed reading Unthinkable Skies, and will definitely be on the lookout for Juliet Wilson's next book.
Juliet Wilson blogs at http://craftygreenpoet.blogspot.com/
Calder Wood Press http://www.calderwoodpress.co.uk/
Here's where it all started - Lines Review 111
THREE NURSERY POEMS
OUT OF IT
I see from his file
(which is three lines
on a piece of paper
stuck high on the wall with a tack)
that he is four
and that his mother and father
are alcoholics.
He tells me
that his father is
a Fireman,
a Tractor Driver,
and is the man who
sees to the schools,
meaning that he is the man
who knocks the fences down.
I am his friend.
I am Andy
who lets out the tunes
which are inside the piano.
On the last Thursday
I tell him that, tomorrow,
I am going away.
After a moment,
he looks up from his sand pie.
"I'll never forget your name, Andy," he says.
I wish
I
was four.
ABSTRACT
Today, we are making a frieze.
A frieze of things that make a noise.
A loud noise.
Or a soft noise.
There are cut out pictures of
an electric drill,
a piano,
a wristwatch.
Christopher
sticks a blank piece of paper
on the wall.
MEMORIES
Ring a Ring o Roses
round and round we all fall down
the circle ending up
where it started.
And now the music has stopped.
The lid
of the piano
is locked.
William
presses his eye
against the keyhole
to see
if he can see the tunes.
OUT OF IT
I see from his file
(which is three lines
on a piece of paper
stuck high on the wall with a tack)
that he is four
and that his mother and father
are alcoholics.
He tells me
that his father is
a Fireman,
a Tractor Driver,
and is the man who
sees to the schools,
meaning that he is the man
who knocks the fences down.
I am his friend.
I am Andy
who lets out the tunes
which are inside the piano.
On the last Thursday
I tell him that, tomorrow,
I am going away.
After a moment,
he looks up from his sand pie.
"I'll never forget your name, Andy," he says.
I wish
I
was four.
ABSTRACT
Today, we are making a frieze.
A frieze of things that make a noise.
A loud noise.
Or a soft noise.
There are cut out pictures of
an electric drill,
a piano,
a wristwatch.
Christopher
sticks a blank piece of paper
on the wall.
MEMORIES
Ring a Ring o Roses
round and round we all fall down
the circle ending up
where it started.
And now the music has stopped.
The lid
of the piano
is locked.
William
presses his eye
against the keyhole
to see
if he can see the tunes.
Let's get this page back in gear.
I can't believe I've been neglecting this page since April. Time to put that right, I think - there's been a lot going on. As far as Drive! is concerned, I am more than happy with progress. I think it might be time to branch out a bit and start doing a wee bit of writing here, as well as my regular posts on Facebook. Of course, the two sites need not necessarily be mutually exclusive. This is one of the things that I am finding so liberating about the Internet - the amount of sharing that goes on.
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