The Curse

This poem is about dementia - not a specific condition but the general loss of memory and confusion that afflicts sufferers.



Memories glisten like a million stars
A million memories
She knows every single one
Recalls them at will
Polishes and refines them
A million secrets
Hopes and dreams

Today the panic grows
Again
More fading stars falling
Unique fragile snowflakes
Melting into the ground
Gone

And the strange people
Tell her not to worry
She just wants to go home
The strangers tell her
You are home
She doesn't think so
Not any more

The Dopers Lament

Doping in sport has been around for a long time. In cycling the first death attributable to doping was back in Arthur Linton back in 1896. He was trained by Chopper Warburton from Haslingden (just up the road from here) who trained three champion cyclists all of whom died before 40. The use of performance enhancing drugs wasn't banned until 1965!

At a time we are looking at the cheating side of drugs in sport I find myself thinking of the harm it has done to some many over the years. It's not just unfair it is genuinely tragic.


To be legends of dream, heroes
No way to win without the dope
They fuel the myth, recruit the young
The only way, the only hope

From strychnine to amphetamine
EPO, steroids, cortisone
Blood transfusions, needles and pills
HGH human growth hormone

The end of innocence came
Eighteen Ninety Six Linton died
Nineteen seventy’s new rules fell
Too late to turn this drug-fueled tide

As Tommy passed on Ventoux’ slopes
The pirate taken by cocaine
And fit young men died in their sleep
The knew the risks, we saw the pain

Fallen Heroes, battered beaten
Nowhere to go, nowhere to hide
Reputations gone, lives destroyed
The cost of greed the cost of pride

National Poetry Day 2012

Today is National Poetry Day and that serves as a good prompt to get back to my blogs which have been sadly neglected for quite a time. Although not blogging I've still been writing so for my first post back I'm posting a group of 5 recent poems.

I was one of seven poets commissioned to write poems inspired by Rochdale's Connect2 network as part of the Connect2 project. You'll be able to read more about the project on the Connect2Rochdale blog soon. So for my post tonight here are my five commissioned poems. They relate to the area around Milnrow, Kingsway Business Park through to Broad lane with a reference to Rochdale town centre in the last poem.

Bulrushes

Water lily pads fringe dark deep water

The heron stands

By the tall bulrushes

Statue still

Strikes

A knife blade splash

Languid ripples radiate

Slow wing-beats loft high

And the motorway rumbles

The long grass rustles

And the songbirds break through

Between

High hedges hide the secret places

Between nature and men’s meddling

Quiet places beside

Ivy clad cottages

Leading to

Victorian terraces and

Batch-built estates

And a present-day traveller

Traces history’s footsteps

Subway

Weavers’ cottages and

Ellenroad’s tall smoking stack

Overlook the hidden entrance

As walkers, cyclists and horses

Pass under fast traffic

Frequent frustrated queues

Heading North, South, East and West

The motorway rumbles

The long grass rustles

And the songbirds break through

The Larks

Skylarks soar their vertical columns

Echoing chimneys long gone

Yellow machines move earth

Tall cranes lower preformed concrete

And industry is reborn

In a northern town

Seat of a co-operative revolution

And the motorway rumbles

The long grass rustles

And the songbirds always break through

Seven Guardians

White turbines churning, lazy

On dark Peninne hills

While seven sisters guard the valley

Where weavers in 1844

Pioneered equity

Now East and West bound

Traffic doesn’t see

The motorway rumbles

The long grass still rustles

And the songbirds break through

Broken

I Live in a broken world

Where men never were equal

Where wealth never was shared

Where hunger never will end

Where politicians’ promises

Are not kept

Where lies are denied

Where money doesn’t just talk

It argues

It persuades

It rules

Generating wealth

Or generating greed

We no longer live

We consume

We no longer need

We want

While costs soar

And values fall

Where real lives

Real problems

Real pain

And real poverty

Are zero-rated

For interest

Where celebrity equals credibility

Where rich men feel poorer

As house prices fall

Though their roof

Still keeps the rain out

Where a man’s worth

Is defined

By possessions

Where a man’s words

Outweigh his actions

Where impressions

Supersede reality

Yes I live in a broken world

And if I let it

It would suck me in

And I’d be broken too

I am of this world

A cog, integral

A part

But this part

Is not broken

Mens’ spirits are hard to break

Some are impossible

A far cry

This is a poem I wrote some time ago when the campaign to ban foxhunting was underway. Although the campaign was successful it isn't necessarily permanent as another tory government would probably reverse the ban. I often used to see foxes whilst walking my dogs early in the morning or late at night and yes I really did smell them and watch their young play etc. These are impressive wild animals and have more right to be there than we do.

It’s a far cry
A far cry from nature
From humanity
From civilization

I know, ‘cause I smelled the foxes
In the cold morning breeze
‘Cause I watched them grow
‘Cause I saw them play
‘Cause I heard their cry
Far in the distance

And the foxhunters? They
Watched them die

The hunters
Caring, caring for the countryside
Caring for nature, caring with their hatred
Their seething anger, their aching lust
For blood, for fear, for power
And yes, their lust for death

All their fancy jackets
Expensive tweeds and shiny boots
Sitting high and mighty, toasting their success
With blood-red wine on a pedigree horse
A pedigree horse groomed by stable hands
Delivered by Range Rovers
Polished and paid for by the working classes

Charging through the countryside
Like some long lost cavalry
Red coats bright, bugle calls shrill
But these brave toy soldiers
They won’t see battle, they won’t feel fear
Or wonder when their final moment comes
They won’t lie forgotten
In some God-forsaken foreign desert

No! the hunters
Defending their privilege their “Way of life”
Looking after the peasants and paying a pittance
To keep them in their place
To keep up traditions
To keep flaunting their power

To race through your back yard, or mine
Hounds baying for blood
The blood of a fox, or a family pet
Who cares? “Stand aside! we’re coming through”

The hunters days are numbered
But they still can’t see the truth
That there never was a god-given right
To hunt the fox, to ride roughshod over our land
Over the working classes and over our laws
But they still can’t see

Because they never smelled the foxes
In the cold morning breeze
All they smell
Is diesel fumes, polished leather
Warm wine and horses and dogs
The pungent sweat, the sickly-sweet scent of blood
The sharp reek of fear and the stench of death

And all they hear is
Snorting horses, yelping hounds
Tearing flesh, breaking bones
A vixen’s cry and her last breath

I know, ‘cause I smelled the foxes
In the still night air

And the hunters? They
Watched them die

The Bottom of the Cup

This is a poem about the way some people can be lost in their thoughts. I saw a man sat with his drink, he looked so thoughtful and peaceful and as I thought about that afterwards I wrote this poem.

Silent, almost motionless,

Static as a statue,

Long, straggly grey hair,

Mirrored by a shaggy beard,

With blue striped suit, brown brogues,

A character from Joyce’s Dublin,

Perhaps a little out of place,

In Rochdale’s cold glass clad malls,

He looked, well stared, intently,

At what? The bottom of his,

Empty coffee cup,

Fifteen minutes passed,

In home-time haste,

His gaze, steady and calm,

Neither fades, nor shifts

Not one sliver of a fractured inch

A few more minutes passed,

I sneaked a look,

But all I saw,

Was the bottom of his empty coffee cup,

An empty, used receptacle,

I went back and looked again,

I saw no more than drying coffee dregs,

I wondered what his gaze could see,

But couldn’t bring myself to ask,

He looked so calm, at peace,

A peace my uninvited voice mustn’t break,

Instead I asked myself,

What can he see?

Has he practiced through the years?

Has he perfected the art of seeing?

Can he see beyond mere eyes?

Did he break the chains in which we live?

The cast-iron shackles of the everyday

Was his mind flying free?

Looking down on the ordinary

In the bottom of his cup

Had it flown to

Another place, or another time

An unlived future yet to be revealed

A past lived then and lived again

An unseen present exposed just for him

No need for diaries

Or photos

Or fancy DVDs

Sitting with his memories

Perhaps his hopes

His dreams

His life beyond my eyes

I watched him as I walked away,

And wondered, could I learn to see?

To really see!

Like he can see,

In the bottom of a coffee cup

Only in my dreams

Another poem I wrote a few years ago. This is about a place that has always been special to me but it is also about the way that the human race has always messed with nature and continues to do so.

Carabeg,
A peat bog in Ireland’s West,
I travelled here every year,
Often more than once,

Sat there beside brackish pools,
Breathing that cool clear air,
I dreamed my dreams,
Deep in thought,
Totally at peace,
Light grey mist swirled in wispy veils,
And in the distance the curlew called,

Here once was a primeval forest,
Here there lived great trees,
Fearsome insect eating plants,
Early mammals and birds,
Then,
Long, long ago,
The forest died,

For thousands of years,
Below the surface,
The ancient forest remained,
Preserved in the peaty mass,

New life came to Carrabeg once more,
Frogs, newts, water dwelling beetles,
Butterflies flitting from flower to flower,
Dragonflies patrolled the ditches,
Horsetail grass that ancient survivor,
And the cotton-wool flax waved in the breeze,
Early men, hunter-gatherers lived nearby,

This was a mystical, magical place,
The earth shook under my footsteps,
Ancient tree trunks, bleached by the years,
Broke through the surface,
Like great white skeletons, long forgotten,
The Will-o-the-wisp,
Glowing eerily across the bog,
For thousands of years man and nature,
Shared this place, side by side,

Not now!
Those times are gone,

A plantation,
Man made!
Un-natural lines,
Of un-natural trees,
Men chose the trees,
Men drained the water,
Men killed off the frogs,
The dragonfly, the sundew,
And the cotton-wool flax,

We’ve thrown away our past,
Lost our link to those few, early hunter-gatherers,
We took away the mystery and magic,
Those beautiful plants,
And birds,
And animals,

That history!
That journey of a million lives,
Lies buried,
Lost, beneath the firs!

I still see the Will-o-the-Wisp,
I still smell the brackish pools,
I still taste the sweet, clear air,
I still feel the spongy earth beneath my feet,
I still hear the curlew call,
But only in my dreams

On the Edge

I wrote this poem a few years ago on the day my cousin Chris O'Grady died. I was out walking around Blackstone Edge above Rochdale and the poem almost wrote itself when I got home.

It’s wild up here, properly wild,
Surrounded by earth, rocks and sky,
Windy, always, even on the stillest days,
Rocks carved, smoothed by the elements,
But touch them with an un-gloved hand,
They’re sharp, rough; they’ll tear your skin,

An unforgiving piece of wilderness,
Not nature as a soft and comfy friend,
But powerful, strong and hard as nails,
Small loose stones that twist unwary ankles,
And should you fall the grit-stone rocks,
Will bruise your body, break your bones,

Here nature forms a wild frontier,
A watershed of life and death,
You’ll find your soul in a place like this,
I’m here today, seeking peace and inspiration
But memories, emotions flood my mind,
And I share them with nature, my old trusted friend,

Almost fourty years ago,
With my cherished childhood friend,
I played in rocky fields,
Ancient warriors roaming where they choose,
Raced across wide open places,
Prospectors seeking Klondike gold,

Built shelter of sticks and fronds,
Desert nomads hiding from the searing sun,
Watched our ships of twigs and leaves,
Rafts braving the wild Orinoco’s falls,
Hunted frogs among the rushes,
Pharaohs stalking crocodile beside the Nile,

Searching out eggs,
In the depths of King Solomon’s mines,
Jumping out from the ditches,
“Your money or your life!”,
“All for one and one for all”,
Culmore’s own small band of Musketeers,
Standing high on the wall,
Hilary and Tensing on top of the world,

Early today she died ….. we knew she would,
If not today then someday soon,
We all knew it was ….. “for the best”,
That’s what we like to say,

Emotions and body sheltered in our home, I heard the sad news,
We’re all grown up now, so I mustn’t cry,
Stood here on the moors, with my old trusted friend,
Like nature’s child, my heart unfettered, my mind runs free,
I mourn her loss, question, curse and finally I weep,
My dear cousin, my childhood friend, left our world today,

But for an hour this afternoon, Chris O’Grady is here with me,
Running and playing, hiding behind the ditches,
Hair blowing in the wind, around that freckled smile,
Here we stand, as we always will,
Facing West, on the Edge, drinking in the essence of life,
Its wild up here, properly wild

Nowhere and back again

This poem talks about the journey into and then back out of depression. I’ve been there, read the book, got the T-shirt, cried the tears. Oh Yes – I know the way to nowhere and I’ve had to learn the way back.

Anxiety skulks in

Through the chinks of normality

Lurking un-noticed

Hiding in corners of the mind

Gaining strength

Feeding on itself

Undermining reason

Just a small spark

Fuelled by uncertainty

Consuming belief

Doubting even doubt itself

The spark ignites a fuse

Bonfires in the soul

A dark rocket bursts

Showering its shards of despair

A nebulous crescendo

Of pain, of fear

Of nothing, of nowhere

A blinding flash

Of darkness

Leads you into

The void

A place of nothingness

Not even fear

Just darkness

Darker

Deeper

Colder

Engulfed

A living death

With no way back

Imprisoned in oneself

Nowhere going nowhere

One day hope steals back

Seeping through the pores of despair

A silent blossoming

A faint whiff

A ghost of a scent

A little healing

A little light

Almost lost against the enormity of hurt

Given time, lots of time

The scent of hope pervades

Settling in corners of the mind

Gaining strength

Feeding on itself

Undermining nothingness

An exit

A way forward

Something grows

A vision

Clearer

Stronger

A future

It will come

And maybe

Just maybe

It might linger

Something

Another poem for Maggie. Don't need to say anything more. 

There’s something about your eyes, 

the way they move, 

the way they smile, 

something about the way they look at me.

There’s something about your voice, 

the way you talk, 

the way you laugh, 

something about the things you say. 

There’s something about your hands, 

the way they hold mine. 

Something about your hair,

catching the light, 

catching my eye. 

There’s something about the way you walk, 

the way you stand, 

Something about the things you do, 

and there’s something about .... 

Something about, 

the who you are, 

the who I am, 

the who we’ll be. 

And all the somethings, 

about everything, 

about anything. 

All the somethings, 

they all add up, 

add up, 

to everything, 

everything. 

And that’s what I love about you.

Seahorses

This poem is about how things were when I was at primary school. I've changed the name of the teacher but he could be one of thousands. We no longer see his harsh methods as either acceptable or effective but when people were brought up in such times and did as was expected of them did it make them bad people? I don't really think so.

Mr O’Brien

Sir to you and me

Had a strap

A collection of straps
Different colours
Different lengths and widths
All stung outstretched hands
When Mr O’Brien spoke
Everybody listened
And he drank warm milky coffee
With skin on
And he had seahorses

Mr. O’Brien

Stood straighter than straight
He had two pens for marking
Red and green
Hard and soft
Red crosses stung hands
Green a chance to correct
Good! Meant good!
In any colour

Mr. O’Brien
Taught right from wrong
Imposed his discipline
With fairness
In an old fashioned
Outdates, discredited way
Mr. O’Brien was never wrong
And he drank warm milky coffee
With skin on
And he had seahorses

Mr O’Brien
Taught what he knew
Knew what he taught
Held his beliefs firmly
Led by example
Cared deeply
Seldom showed it

Jack O’Brien
Was an old man
With steely eyes
Age set free a thin
Wry smile
And bent his once
Rod straight back
And his hands shook
As he spoke
and he spoke of the past
and the pupils he taught

When Jack O’Brien spoke
Everybody listened
No more straps
And he drank warm milky coffee
With skin on
But the seahorse
Were gone

Reawoken

Yes I can do romantic - wrote this one for Maggie 

Happy Valentine's Day XXX


I'm awake
Not un-sleeping
But awake
More awake than ever
Awake to today
Awake to tomorrow
Awake to life
Awake with your voice in my ears
Awake with your smile on my face
Awake with your hair in my fingers
Awake with your fragrance in my mind
Awake with your taste on my lips
Awake with your wonder in my heart

You may sleep
Wrapped in my arms
Head on my chest
Breathing shared air
Skin under my skin
Scent on my body
Warmth by my side

I’m awake
Watching, dreaming
Hoping, holding
Shielding, protecting

I’m awake
Don’t ever let me sleep