Praising the Persian Pussy

Big Brown Eyes

Those big brown eyes
Those Persian eyes
Those big cat eyes
Glowing at me

Between her thighs

The Persian cries

From big brown eyes

Those glowing cat eyes

In the dark

Where she lies

Those big brown eyes

Smile at me

From unsealed lips

The stutter of cries

Tongue to the milk

Licks at silk

From in between

Those creamy thighs

The shuttered eyes

Those Persian eyes

Those dark cat eyes

Glow at me

Between the sighs

Of big cat cries

Those big brown eyes

Those stirring hips

The moistened lips

Between silken thighs
Those crying eyes
Those brown cat eyes
The big glowing eyes
The sigh from lips
That seal her cries
In opened eyes
Through shuddering thighs
Those Persian eyes
Those big cat eyes
Smile at me
Tell no lies
When I look up
From between her thighs
To gaze in to
Those big brown eyes


*     *     *

Dust In My Eye ..

Cherry Blossom

Our love is as the cherry tree

Whose flowers blossom a single day

A morning zephyr, tender

Casts the fragile petals loose to earth

Dust; their memory fades away

*     *     *

Carnival of Dreams

Fair Ground

“Step right up and come on in come on in to join the mirth”
“Roll on up roll up this story is that greatest show on earth”

It’s everything all around more than a feeling it’s being there
Running through fingers
It’s neon it’s vapours it’s the electrostatic pulses everywhere

Shining spinning reflection of the sparkle in your eye
Laughter in the air and the squeal of delight
Colouring the world a freedom unbound
Hand in hand with tears of joy to cry
Where the lights are forever bright
Up here at the old fairground

Shoes covered in sawdust and sand
A barker shouts above the din
Drop a coin in his hand
Let the show begin

The riverboat ride through the tunnel for lovers
Hide their faces steal a kiss under those covers

Pull back that curtain and peer through the gaps
Progress measured in numbers through her flaps

Coconut husks jumbled and weighted against the punters
Hoopla rings wait for the greedy who think as big hunters

Two bits for cotton candy gifts from that vendor’s new trailer
The prostitute laughs at her paying boyfriend flabby old sailor

Two middle age lovers promenade nightly not hiding away
From crowded stares as furtively
They hold each other and whisper sweet talk

The machinery churns gears whirr a calliope organ blasts
Sound through tubes of steel to
Carnival drifters under that dusty boardwalk

It’s sexual it’s mechanical it’s robotic and endless
It’s terminal it’s tyrannical presents with kindness

All so fragile the life of sequins tinsel and rapturous jubilation
They say that this bliss will lead straight to hellfire damnation

*

That whirling swirling amusement of the senses is no shortage of extravagance
The opulent abundant indulgence of intellect heralds a richer and truer dance
Thinks the naive moderate youngster preparing to seize life’s first real chance

Opportunity comes knocking and he answers without fears
What’s he to lose this way he’s young yet with many years

No more wasted time on this silly sideshow
Destiny’s calling for serious business below

Parade through the high arch and past that guard on the gate
Leaving this show behind heading downhill to a game of state

Down to that valley I strolled to encounter real life
I studied and learned all conforming to those ways
The mist of confusion removed in protracted days
That boulevard is busy with big troubles and strife

You soon learn this grey stones existence ain’t nice
Work all day ensuring goodness is awarded its right
Struggle to resist you’ll soon give up that good fight
They aren’t trustworthy enough for truthful advice

Don’t listen my friend to those who say that you will gain
Down there is confusion too much sorrow anger and pain

The system in living there is settled for past dreams

That power and glory is a money changer’s schemes

News reports hide or reveal the creepiest sin
While never the lonely only the rich ever win

Although all talk a good storm the prayers for world peace

It’s only an illusion that disguises the dirty palm to grease

War justifies poverty and corporate pharmaceutical addictions

Starvation on televisions gives a community serious afflictions

Rhetoric employed keeping balls spinning in the air

All the falsehoods of history like the bride laid bare

These are the little things that make up every day
Going insane trying to live the sinister world’s way

Hierarchy keeps guessing but it never stops for the rest

Entrenched in accountancy that bureaucracy’s a big test

It’s chance or good fortune not ambitious technique with tools
When witnesses go down it’s fate that can teach us those rules

Only set pieces change as leaders of men come and go between

Backdrops painted in garish pastels that anthropomorphic scene

*

Down in the valley the shadow people congregate
Down in the valley those silhouettes do anticipate

What arrogances drove me to suppose talent during youth
What conceit that existed allowed me to paint with truth

What vanity I thought with language I could juggle rhyme
What pride inspired a belief that the arts can affect time

Down in the valley the shadow people congregate
Down in the valley those silhouettes do anticipate

*

“Step right up and come on in come on in to join the mirth”
“Roll on up roll up this story is that greatest show on earth”

Ink on stamped palms washes off like summer rains
The facade entices with a magical mystery name
The wheels keep spinning round and round
Daily lives change in the world of pains
But harmony always stays the same
Up here at the old fairground

The stalls are empty no one comes to play here anymore
Rides are deserted the ghost town is now simple folklore

Everyone is so busy making their deals down in the vale
A marketing industry that’s dying buying to make a sale

That marionette conductor waves his baton
The company strikes up the band
Above diamonds sparkling guides to dreams
Countless stars fill the night sky
One by one I watch as they fall to the earth
Cast down to the dusty tired land

Then a cavalcade of beasts marches through that door
We’ve no time to explain to this world what’s in store

We haven’t a choice in this late day and age
Write the story read the book turn that page

*

Wow! You can see everything from way up here
When you blink away that blurry and bluish tear

Oh look! There’s my ex-girlfriend standing outside a shop
Still waiting to buy her dreams or for the pennies to drop

And hey! There’s that guy I’d once thought my best friend
He turned out to be like the weather so, it too had to end

Down there it’s my old teacher going about her business
When I learnt how to think I realised she knew even less

I wasted too much of precious time chasing the life that ends
And that trivial parade below isn’t the reality that transcends

Artists beneath the hill try to capture pieces of what’s up here
Vision they show simply mirrors of mass production all unclear
Don’t worry about perspective acidic ideas now they drink beer
They don’t get no blues and that salt water’s a crocodile’s tear

They will do anything to appear all new hip and trendy
Telling a public it’s so cultural it’s media hype friendly

If artists use government power to settle their critical acclaim
When another one comes along then they too share the blame

Social stratification buys new theories of a treasured trash
As long as it fills this space and grabs bagfuls of grant cash

Time won’t be kind to those of this disposable art generation
So enjoy this fleeting moment of fortunate fame an ambition

Being part of a transitory scene can limit potentials for scope
A politics of art that retires future paradigms in a grand hope

No fair ground believers are struggling down at the base of a hill
Those who stomach endowments
Insanely giving up a dream are the ones who’ll survive there still

*

“Step right up and come on in come on in to join the mirth”
“Roll on up roll up this story is that greatest show on earth”

That devil at the gates tempts me toward the prospect of fate
He’s but an angel disguised in kindness I’ve recognised so late

Leave the material world’s objects back in the past
Why chase the irrelevant things that can’t ever last

We climb that hill ‘cause we know what we’ll find
Laughter dreams and hope fulfil those of our kind

Play with the game of this age a trip beyond reason
Festivals exist for this through each change season

Humanity’s indulgence is the essential ecstatic luxury
It’s simply another truth to set all seeking minds free

Outside these gates where reality awaits
The depression greed and corruption
Outside these gates that sadness berates
The suffering that continues forever
Outside these gates a darkness hesitates
A delusion of true happiness lasting

Embrace eternity’s archetypal representation so divine
Through time the importance will age well as fine wine

Don’t worry about some local in-crowd’s latest fashions
Discover the inner self create thoughts of true passions

Search deep for revelation it exists in this simple line
Discover wisdom beyond words the sweetest sunshine

Open your heart break down the stone walls
Meditate daily connect with those universals

Enjoy all emotions of a love that we feel
Only pleasure and our memories are real

Up here at the fairground
Prodigal homecoming welcome
I’m going where all is as it seems
Everyone knows Love the world around
Playful yet peaceful a paradoxical pandemonium
Get a ticket hard earn easy currency to satisfy dreams

Then come and celebrate tonight with the lost and now found
In the comfort of friends on the wheels at the old fair ground

*     *     *

I’ve given a great deal of thought to the role of the artist both as an active agent in this world and participant observer of our time .. should we be attempting to define our age and illustrate the disparities and inhumanity that cause so much suffering as well as the noteworthy moments of wonder at our distinctively human achievements – should we attack injustice with works of powerful meaning and relevance in hopes that our efforts can sway the minds of those with power, or, is it our job as keepers of the flame of creativity to transcend temporary concerns and fashion works that reveal the universality of the human condition and attempt to reveal truths that provide pleasure and peace of mind ..?

Can artists actually make a difference? Sure, Picasso’s Guernica was a potent anti-war statement, but his Weeping Woman is surely more touching, evocative and moving in it’s revelation of the person within, and these basic traits exist forever whilst particular events are transitory .. war, famine and the hideous consequences of greed are disastrous and evil, but the soul survives – and passing along from one generation to the next the message of what we hold sacred and dear – the mystery of life in all it’s forms and the need for happiness to sustain love, might be a more sincere endeavour ..

I have always believed finding a balance, an interactive relationship with our era of change and it’s concerns whilst investing art with significance and substance that exemplifies the eternal, is necessary and perhaps, eventually, more appreciably enduring ..

I hope you enjoy my poetry; at almost 1500 words this is one of the longest pieces I’ve written and contains some of the most complex rhyming structures I’ve attempted (don’t believe those who say rhyme is dead, poems don’t need to rhyme but sometimes it’s more fun that way)(and I tried my hardest to maintain the rather complicated formatting for the blog, but it still isn't perfect, oh well). If you have any thoughts on the work please contact me through my usual email address or by private message on FB. And, if you enjoyed the poem, and believe any of what it is about, then once I get my tongue outta my cheek and my heart outta my hands, I’ll see you up at the fairground ..


For another enjoyable take on the theme of the ‘Fairground’ visit this site:  The Bontempis and listen to my cousin Bill’s band .. they are based in the Cayman Islands and have recently been touring the UK.

*     *     *

On the Back of a Postcard ..

Endless Love

A life without love .. Is a poet without words

A poet without words .. Is a body without spirit

A body without spirit .. Is a day without light

A day without light .. Is a flower without colour

A flower without colour .. Is a poem without verse

A poem without verse .. Is a rhyme without rhythm

A rhyme without rhythm .. Is a phrase without pulse

A phrase without pulse .. Is a text without heart

A text without heart .. Is a heart without blood

A heart without blood .. Is a sea without water

A sea without water .. Is a moon without sun

A moon without sun .. Is a word without reason

A word without reason .. Is a self without sense

A self without sense .. Is a sense without being

A sense without being .. Is a being without soul

A being without soul .. Is a soul without life

A soul without life .. Is a life without love

*     *     *

Something sweet to keep you going round and round until the carnival comes to town. Promises, promises, but the real question is .. ?

*     *     *

Four Seasons

Haiku

Springtime bursts upward

Flowering toward the sun

Revealing new life

Waves break across rocks

Tidal pools anticipate

Summer brings fresh hope

A spirit soars high

Tracing the downward spiral

Of leaves in autumn

Winter moon melting

Dreams of ancient history

I forget the past

*     *     *

Princess of Perjah

My Iranian Bride

Where are you now my Iranian bride?
Your caramel complexion toughened by time
Moonlight smiled on dreams and cast you from the garden
Provided hope and work as harsh as the fruitless desert summers

Where are you now my Iranian bride?
Your almond eyes painted with ochre and olive
The roots of happiness buried deep within our memories
Those long flowing garments a wedding gown crowning history

Where are you now my Iranian bride?
Your softened belly weak with multiple births
A cousin’s hand that stole you from my evening shadow
Gave you children rich as the earth we ploughed in the morning

Where are you now my Iranian bride?

Mother of pearl shimmer in your ancient smile

Knowledge forbidden like the restless nights we sweated

Erasing traces of shared lives as sand washed by ocean currents

Where are you now my Iranian bride?

Locks as dark as the treacle in your sweets

Your perfumed flesh intoxicating incense to my lively senses

Praying secret thoughts of years past together shaping destiny

Where are you now my Iranian bride?

Feet softened with pumice from the dusty trail

Jasmine and lavender oil betraying your heritage to the west

Veiled emotions captured forever in visions wide as an Arabian sky

Where are you now my Iranian bride?

Lips puckered and outlined with hazelnut henna

Gentle fingers that eased my burdens from those heavy days

Reflections of the future in your ancestral culture taught me wisdom

Where are you now my Iranian bride?

Skin tingling with a burning of the afternoon sun

Offering bread to strangers from the oasis of your heart

Returning to the land of your childhood to walk proud among men

* * *

For Samina .. with the eternal love that can only exist when time and nature conspire to separate beauty from life too soon .. may your dreams be ever peaceful.

Sundance Mountain

Shorter Days

High on Sundance Mountain:
above the tree line, into tundra, glacial;
looking out across the Mummy Range
watched by raven eyes
translucent, purple, passive.

Under mushroom capped boulders,
I dreamt of hunting and gathering.

Eagle feathers,
teeth, bones, wampum shell
pearl glint off cue ball smooth pebble
sacred;
ancient scarred land
ocean breeze history
of sundown states, sets flags a’wavin’.

The Painted Desert
reflects a bleached sand message,
on the palm
of the hand, too busy
raising wheat, and children,
to catch the news;
new wars –
monumental errors, hardware software,
gangster mob wars, police brutalities,
heroin heroes die, people on streets,
victimless crimes.

White-boy rednecks throw back Coors lite,
swear by th’almighty,
spit into the wind and cuss,
the Jews, the blacks, the commies, the fags
they’re common, enemies.

The polished political dome, all magnificence,
looks out across the harvest
bangs the gavel on empty silos.

Copper tarnishes green on golden flames,
Ellis island-landing immigrants seeking fame,
investment, investiture, multi-national disease.

Wall Street drops,
red lines trace innocent blood
a thousand miles from ..
long, warm, summer evenings
under weepin’ willow branches
at Dead Horse Creek,
suckin’ on agaves, and sarsaparilla.

Humid thoughts
of thirteen year old memories;
tree house dreams of
Hardy Boys adventures
Dennis the Menace comics
and young girls’ budding breasts,
not stopping to think
of shorter days
ahead.

Hame, At Last

A poetic composite of snapshot episodes exploring my discovery of and harsh entry into another side of life. As this piece, written in West Scottish dialect explains, I was an innocent and naive child encountering a depressingly dreary existence only a short bus ride away from the massive lawns, swimming pools and towering castles of my pre-teen years. Although I had made earlier less successful attempts, I wrote this after reading Alison Dermott and Hugh McDiarmid and other poets who often write in this vernacular speech pattern style. I do hope it rings true.

Hame

Ah kin onli be Scoatish when ahm naw there.
Ah wuz born in Ingeland
so they toald me
aw the time.
But ah’d never bin there.
Ah moved tay Jurminy when ah wuz wee
and hud a nanny there
who tawt me tay say ya fer yes
an ma parents sed aye.

Ah hud tay get aw these jabs tay go tay Amerika,
an so ah thawt
mebbe it wuz in a jungle.
An when ah got there
ev’rybudy asked me whit haggis wuz like,
an did we come o’er on the bridj,
an ah didnae no whit a haggis wuz
an there wuznae a bridj.


Anyway, ah wuz aboot eleven uhr twelve, ah think,
An ah wuz back in Scoatland an it wuz in the Awtum
cuz it wuz gettin dark urly
much erlier than ah’d ever rememburd,
cuz ahd bin growin up oot in the States
whur the awtum drifted intay twylite,
naw lived in it aw the year roon,
an ah wuz ridin this bus
fay wan part ay Grenuck intay the toon sentuhr,
an ah mustuhv got on the rang bus,
cuz ah ended up goin the lang way roon,
up thru the Stroahn an aw awfy places like that,
whit always lookt aw dark.

Noo here ah wuz, a wee’un fay Amerika (whur ah hud a red bike, an only e’er took a bus when goin tay skool-a big yella wan-ye musta seen thum on the telly), aw frekels
an shag harecut,
denim jaykit on like a wee hardman …
ecology sine sewed on wan shulder an a pease patch on the uther ..

(mah furst gang fite, wuzne like in the komix or oan the telly or nuthin at aw:
ah’d asked whit time the qwahry boys wuhr comin up the hill and whit the battle plans wuhr,
an this uther fella that mah cuzin had her eye on, toald me,
“jist pick up a hawf brick an throw it doon at thim.”
Ah wuz awfy disappointed as ye kin imajin) …

An ah wuz thinking aboot it,
wi this bus lumberin
its way up n doon
these rubbish tips
whit lookt like roads
had been
carved thru thum
an aroon these grey shells
whit lookt like
bombed oot warehooses,
but whur coonsil flats
whit hid peepel livin in thum.
An thay aw hud dark closes
that seemed tay swally ye if ye went intae thum.

It lookt like wurld war too wuz still goin oan
but nayb’dy hud toald these peepel it wiznae.
An auld wuhmen sat oan durty steps
smokin fags rolt up fay dowts,
uther wuhmen wuz hangin oot clays
jist below chimneys wut wur spewin oot soot.
And thur wuz wee’uns runnin aboot
wi nay clays on
oot in the street,
an thur hare wuz aw stickin oot like it wiznae e’er washt,
an mucky wee faces wi big sad eyes
wuz lookin up at me
sittin oan tap o’ the bus.

An Italyun ice van came up fay doon the burn
ontay the street as it wuz
playin this happy wee tinkly sound
Way whit wuz suppoz tay be like muzik
tay make ye wantay buy an ice lolly,
but really jist made me wantay be sumwhere else.
Ah wuznae shur if ah shuld greet,
as mah eyes whur aw wellin up wi salty tastin tears
but ah didnae no who tay cry fer
just then the conductress came up and sed,
“nay worries son, Ah kin see your house fay here”
an ah thawt, “och well, its naw so bad, ah’ll be hame soon.”
Then ah realized, ah didnae hae a hame,
just a place tay live.

* * *

Migration + Memory = Identity

Memory Man (memories of migration)

Travelling here
Arriving there
An airport the docks
Or train station
Driving in circles to
A new destination

The market square
Distribution dissemination
Amalgamation of the human population

Economic rivalry A political survival to be free
Dig up the old roots Plant a fresh seed

Memories of love And all the things that we gain
Memories of heartache Those memories bring pain

I’m your memory man:
I remember for our future
Daughters and sons
Another simple human
With no alternative plan
Like yesterday morning
I’m trapped in the past
I can recall the world’s things
That don’t ever last


***

Digging for the human memory
Excavating in the soil for the soul of history
Discover a past to provide us a contemporary identity
Carbon dating swamp life diamond light Reveal to us eternal mystery

Fossilised fragments Of evolution In the dirt
From those days When dinosaurs Roamed the earth
Fire and ice Moving continents Across the great Divide
Meteor showers Shifting sands Rising tides Oceans that Stretched far and Wide

Cave man Neanderthal Mammoth and sabre tooth tiger

Sticks and stones spears and shields Stories 'round a campfire

We’re writing a book
And burning literature for heat in the funeral pyre

The oracles and poets Predict an ancient Grecian sage
Tragedies’ comic performers On antiquity’s Elizabethan stage
These are some of the things
Tomorrow’s child May consign to history’s page

***

From the pyramids of Egypt I gained second vision
In Mayan temples of stone I committed sins of submission
Building cathedrals with arches I rejected old gods through omission
As an industrial magnate I grew rich Introducing new forms of toxic pollution

Painters and sculptors Who brought us a Renaissance
Byzantine plots in the palace A sultan’s whirwind romance
These things had their moment And missed their lost chance

A cycle of centuries Millennia returning again
The sword truly is mightier Than the quill and the pen
As the same mistakes keep occurring What we call progress yet never learn


I’m your memory man:
I remember for they
Who have come and gone
Another simple human
With no ulterior plan
Lost in time
I’m chained to the past
The future is coming
But those days won’t last

***

Destiny repeats
And repetition is a fait au Complete
Victories earned through blood
And machinery’s heartbeat
To gain a few acres of fallow earth
Turn healthy agriculture to meat

You can see the fruits of time’s passage In the palm of my hand
Witness the seeds of hard labour Through the scars on the land
Watch nightly broadcasts As oil tankers dump their waste on the sand

Jitterbug jive and the twist That taught us to dance
For love of a fair maiden
Knights would joust with a lance
Events that unravelled
In each period’s particular Circumstance

Those fedora hats we wore Through the jazz age
Flappers’ dresses feathers and boas Were all the rage
These are some of the things
Consigned now to history’s page

***

New paradigms of thought Are a sensational notion
Inventions change living Setting wheels into motion
Discoveries made creations uncovered
Above the moon’s surface Rocket ships hovered

Secret air flights to foreign lands
Are the means and the ways
Fingernails chewed down
As the sentenced mark out the days
Special jurisprudence
Internment of hostages is the new craze

Gears and springs other winding things
The ticking of clocks buzzing of watches
A prisoner of conscience alone in a cell
Staring blindly at walls covered in notches

I’m your memory man:
I remember the wars battle weapons and guns
Another simple human with no alternative plan
Out of real time I’m chased by my past
Blown in the wind hearing a siren
As I am tied to the mast

***

The book has been written on tablets of stone
We translated the script from our own flesh and bone
A narrative forever missing the last page
No past and no history a freethinking new age

Continuous migration
A change of the season
A past full of memory
A future unknown
Spring always brings hope
Autumn leaves us
With memories alone

I’m your memory man:

I remember the end
When all is said and done

Another simple human

With no alternative plan

Nature’s struggle

Survive to be free

Put down strong roots

Grow a new family tree

* * *

I approached the Memory & Migration piece in much the same way I usually write for themed poetry projects .. research into my subject, notes of various phrases and thoughts that occur as I read and look, the beginnings of an outline, basic rhythm/rhyme structure, syntactical and syllabic edit, read through, edit again, review the subject, expand the structure to develop the cycle – consider repetition as device – a continuity that links aspects of the piece (it’s a masculine thing), reinforce ‘classical’ and historical references and study the parody, edit and write, look for the fun stuff in it – rhyme and word juggling .. edit and read ..

Sure, this method could become restrictive, locked in a loop of creative exclusion, but I enjoy operating in this matrix of function and find it extremely liberating ..

I don’t find it ‘sporting’ or fair to my subject to write in a personal, intuitive expose' type of manner when working to brief – and yet I generally enjoy ‘the finished product’ of these poems more (although all language is subject to change and re-interpretation) .. I reveal myself to all and their exes through this blog, yet I can shield my self behind a veil of universality and “fictionalised accounts” of the occasional happenings in and around my life while still engaging an intimate and honest expression of my own feelings .. it’s a freedom I assure you .. however, every word of the story is true - according to history, and memory ..

The Memory & Migration exhibition including visual art from the Cruiser international art collective showed at Deda, Derby, through 27th March 2010 ..

* * *

She Left Me

She Left Me

She left me
In a howling wind
By a steaming train
On a misty morning
Alone
Beside the rusting rails
In the damp drizzle
Of the Derby dales

 

The destination list
In my hand
Telling me
Every departure
Is heading
Due south
Out of town
And I’m standing
Under an overhang
In a shadow
Eyeing the snapshot
Memory
Of forgotten promises
Reminding me
Of dharma bums
And Hobo days

It’s always easier
For the one who goes
Than for the one who stays ..

I strolled along the tarmac
Detouring
Edged back
Onto the endless platform

Stretching like a highway
From yesterdays hollow dream
Into a never-ending tomorrow
Of sorrow

Pulling me toward it
Pushing me away

Crashing into my life
Like a runaway
Locomotive
Careering out of control
Onto the sidelines
Of my misaligned
Monotonous
Daily grind

 

You came in like a thief
You stole the moment
Like a movie star
Shedding a past love
In the sequel to
Last summer’s blockbuster
Affair
Cooling
In the discovery of
New roles
To play
In the limelight
Of red carpet fantasies
That populate
These fleeting instants

Shared glances

Like flashbulbs igniting

A glimpse of your cloudy soul

You flew into

My threadbare existence

On your magic carpet

Pulled the worn rug

From under my faltering ankles

Yanking

The last fraying

Strings of sanity

Linking me to the reality

Supporting the foundation

Of crumbling bricks

I’d built my shaky house

On the rocks ..

So pour me one too
And we’ll
Skim the surface
Of the slippery slope
And slide
Into the future
Like a baby
Into
A waiting
Midwife’s arms
You arrived
As a carpetbagger
Hawking your wares in public
Selling me
Every trick in the book
Pulling a rabbit from every hat
Every last drop of my blood
That was sucked from my veins
Went down the drain
With the rest of the waste
And all the heartbreak
Into the sewer pipe
Of an aching sigh
That rumbled and purred
In your throat

Gargling a mimic
Of the sounds of
True love

Sacred
Spontaneous emotion
That captured my heart
Snared in forbidden passion
The few remaining seconds
Shared in a life worth living

I took a breath
And held it
Thinking
How long can I hold this

Thought?

Breath I thought
Breath
Exhale I thought
Breath exhale
Don’t breath
Play along
Don’t play

Play at Love
Play Be Real
Play Dead
Why?
Play

Why Play
With Love?

***

As I cast my sail to the wind of change, turning away from the rocky shores where many have lost their hearts swimming against the tide of time, I offer this fragment of a tale ..

With passion, regret, longing, anger, fear and all the other confused and altered memories that accompany a separation of soul mates, I've tried to present a personal yet fictionalised account of that emotive sense of lost love as it manifests itself in the early stages ..

As an artist I try to open myself to all the potentialities life presents – I believe that dreams require effort and risk and taking chances is essential to growth .. and this piece is but another examination of the wanderings of a poet through the encounters that create those opportunities for experience ..

Trade Passages

A couple years ago I was invited (after several auditions, interviews and a ten year hiatus from performing) to write and perform a piece of poetry to commemorate the bi-centenary of the abolition of the slave trade in Britain ..

The ‘Freedom Showcase’ was presented at the Phoenix Arts Centre in Leicester.


Ten ‘emerging poets’, two mentors, a director, a video editor and a composer, and a host of arts organisations and live literature-managing agencies were commissioned to produce and stage a performance of epic proportions (for the poetry scene, man) ..

Scheduled for performance in July, we had only a few months to pull this original performance poetry event into shape and present the Midlands with an exciting and challenging show ..

So, we spent a lot of time preparing: writing, workshops, rehearsing, writing, recording, travelling, memorising and of course, writing ..

I approached my piece attempting to capture the perspective of the people I knew when I lived in the Southern region of the United States .. back when I was hanging at the Golden Rose after-hours members-only jazz club in the lowland swamps of South Carolina ..

I took on the role of a composite character developed from the various groups I associated with at that time, and throwing myself into the dialect and costume of the dramatis personae of the piece I tried to bring to life the history and culture of the people ..

The poem is divided into 3 separate narratives: the first offers the tragic personal story of two young lovers taken from Africa to America to serve on the plantation .. the second part is a time-skipping story that takes us on a winding route through the South from the days of abolition to the New Orleans flood ..

The final act is a contemporary reading of capitalism and it’s slave roots; the way trade, multinational corporate financial exchange, whether traffic in people, electronics, food or weapons, is gradually eroding freedom through consumer gentrification and using the ultimate cataclysm of terror as threat ..

The 3 sections were accompanied by music and large screen video. The music moved from simple drumming to a syncopated rhythm reminiscent of early 20th century bands to the electronic hum of rockets and radios. The video began as a huge projected stone circle reminiscent of Stonehenge, which through the piece transformed into mirrored skyscrapers. For the first segment I sat cross-legged on the stage enveloped in the aura of an orange light, for what is the campfire but the stage around which the narrative of life has been played out through eternity? The tale is told and we listen and participate in the story. Through the second section I rambled across the stage as a traveller seeking identity within the newly achieved freedom to roam. In the final act I was still and contemplative in anger as one seeking justice, an active agent employed in the inter-relation of progress and devastation of identity through cultural and social disintegration. I enjoyed being the creative behind the selection of images and composition .. though naturally I'd like to thank Thomas Hall for the video art and Mark Melville for the audio.

I titled my contribution ..

Trade Passages

Living in the past

Or the present day

Time is but a narrative of trade

Travelling hand in hand and eye to eye

Chained one to each other

A history shared also collides

*

Uhuru was a youthful poet, African princely born

A tall dark warrior, His true name it means freedom

Torkwase was his bride, a life about to start

She sailed with Uhuru from an oasis in the desert

They were on a slave ship going to the new world

Taken from their rightful kingdom

About them the mighty grey Atlantic swirled

They were just commodity

Another man’s immoral income

Red white and blue flags on the ship unfurled

The slave trade and their emblem

Every day in fear their lives imperilled

Hoping on a slow train

Coming for their freedom

Uhuru ran from the plantation

Liberty deep within his soul

Legacy of his free will

Laying low and makin’ north

He lay behind a chicken coop

After three days in deep mud

His feet thickly blistered

His eyes red with blood

Torkwase had been living

Under a master’s dirty ways

Her fingers still remember sand

Her eye recalls Uhuru’s gaze

A memory of her tribute a shamanic presence gave

She walks amongst the shadows, servant to the slaves

Night fell as Uhuru scratched notches in the wood

Tonight he’d kill a chicken, the waiting needed food

With baptised tears Torkwase crept toward the shed

In a sacred dance round midnight the cockerel would be bled

A fateful chance encounter as the full moon shone

Torkwase screamed so loudly others heard it too

Recognising within Uhuru’s eyes the passion of remembrance

A separation by the slave ship crew

They held each other tightly with distant hound dogs barking

Uhuru and Torkwase reunited caring not for all lost time

In minutes it was over everyone had come

But in the night the hangmen committed a dark crime

"Your people they were free, your father was a king"

Torkwase to the newborn babe, one day she would sing

It takes two to tango

Two make a narrative of trade

Travelling hand in hand and eye to eye

From the cradle to the grave

*

Moors to Maroons Morocco or Mali

Black or white Latvian Asian or Mexicali

Put out your hand

The road to freedom

Is through another’s land

The Underground Railway still exists

In my mind

Passages of lives

And the ties that bind

History following the tracks of my tears

Lazy Southern river flows all through the years

Leads to the levee that bartered the town

Barbeque sauce and banjos till dawn

Ain’t no one caring

Now the hurricane is gone

Spit roasted swine skewered and soaked in lime

Carrying the memories of Creole and slaves, that lost time

Flood done come to Orleans down Louisiana way

Coloured man does suffer, women bear the pain

Ain’t gonna be no harvest this year

Ain’t gonna do nothin’ but rain

Poor child barefoot in the old town

Family washed away

The wind it is a howlin' wolf at the door

House of sticks and straw

Sun won’t shine here no more

He’s the black and tan minstrel

Roamin’ from town to town

Ain’t no white man’s burden

Gonna weigh him down

Dropped him in the river

Rolled away the stone

Plays guitar like lickin’ fat

From a chicken bone

Music be the devil

Gonna make the kingdom come

Sing no more of misery

Take him back down home

"Gonna head on up to Memphis

Seek some shelter from the state

Leave the lowland bayou humid night

Ride the freedom train .."

Makin’ merry and livin’ mirth

Like young men do

Gonna follow that old river

Flowing water of his birth

Strollin’ under a yellow moon beneath the Southern skies

Climb aboard and ring dem bells, "headin’ North," he cries:

“I wanna sing about tomorrow’s world

‘til I got a place to call my own

A little piece o’ somethin’

Without oppression and the rain

Ain’t nobody give me nothin’

No space to lay my head

I guess I’ll keep on ramblin’ man

Freight train of freedom

Be my only friend

“I wanna sing to you

Songs of hope and freedom, no more ‘bout the cane

I wanna bang the tribal beats

No more sufferin’ whips and someone else’s chain

I wanna sing to you of soul baby, not about the bruise

Sing no more of heartache

‘Cause we’re all black .. and blue"

*

Nowadays ..

Bitter tears of ecstasy

As freedom comes our way

Pinkies extended mocking class without a care

Lip service afforded by the leisure of the day

Sitting sipping fair trade free trade

Cappuccino in the square

Listening to conversations

Watched by cameras everywhere

Express yourself!

And your freedom if you dare

Lock me up or lock me down

Freedom!

And coffee

Instant status for all

Ashes to ashes

Soil to soil

Cotton and molasses and pepper

Bubbling troublesome oil

Refineries of industries manufacturing dignity

Liberation and libation an abolition of emancipation

Another manumission of the social institution

A slave ship of integrity battling the waves of history

Batten down the hatches!

Board up all the doors

The hurricane is blowing

There’s no such thing as Civil wars

Civil liberty heresy and piracy

China to Brasil

People won’t stand still

Jealousy conspiracy

How about a little humility?

Boston beans and Indian rights

Peasant blood mixes sugar, Honey

And Champagne fizz!

The pursuit of happiness

For this privileged homecoming

On shores tainted with conquest

And cotton and sugar and maize

Slap on molasses

And gimme those old time religion ways!

Toast the victors! Toast and jam

I’m going down amongst the squalor

Beans on toast! Beans ground roast

Cash crop indulgence to the privileged

Great white wave

To mine a golden harvest of that sugar cane

Sweating through shafts of sunlight and fear

For colas and cocoa and beer!?

The dam burst through the eye of the storm

The slave ship sailed to the land of the free

With oil and napalm and power of spice

And a few phony CDs

If this here train leaves the track

I swear I’m never goin’ back

To the land of my father

To hear the plantation whip crack!

Traded!

For the disease of deceit

The weary wreath of commerce

Flyin’ like a union flag over a confederate grey sea

The first to pledge allegiance will divide the nation

A copper tinge of blood mingled with remembrance

Everything we buy is paid for in the currency of migration

So sing your song and take your stance

For children baptised by Christian arms

For the silence of freedom chimes

For flooding waters in which to bathe

The heathen hymns. The evil whims.

The blackened sins of everyday things

Crimes justified

Inhumanity

A cruel reality

Of ..

Import and Export ..

The Twin Truths of Trade.

*     *     *

Kevin Wallace 20-06-2007 Freedom Showcase

*

Many of us involved with the showcase have moved on to other things and developed beyond our night in the lights of the Phoenix, yet we stay in touch and meet up and work together on various projects .. and I know we were all happy to receive the opportunities associated with this successful production ..

Where poets gather ..