A Poet’s Thoughts

21st Oct 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture: Bookshop: Hoi An, Vietnam

A late night,
or early morning
listening to Gill-Scott Heron
singing about prisons
and a sense of loss.
And the words keep coming.

I know about loss.

Each day I struggle with the
echoes of another world, imported
into dialogue.

A tired pen trying to catch an
errant voice passing by,
struggling to find the right words.
Now, suffering autumn’s castigation
lamenting in my awareness.

And Gill-Scott Heron, now he is
singing about no rain, no rain
and how to survive on sadness.

I get this…..

The strange death of poetry

20th Oct 201820th Oct 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture: Bookworm Bookshop: Hanoi, Vietnam.

“Do you write about love like Neruda?”

“Do you understand the nature of immortality
like Dickinson?”

“Have you read Robert Frost and Wallace Stevens?
“They are American you know?”

“What do you think of Dylan Thomas?”
“Oh…..but he is Welsh”

“And what about Sylvia Plath and the confessional
movement?”

“She is a woman, but an American woman right”

“Of course we cannot not accept you,
unless you tell us about Whitman and the
American epic”.

“Oh yes… one more thing.
We don’t want any poems that
caustically indict bourgeois poetic values,
or celebrate the desperate……
like that Bukowski fellow”.

“OK?”

“Yes Sir….”

Especially Time

19th Oct 201819th Oct 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture: Mỹ Sơn , Vietnam

I remember the loss,
streams of tears
mounted on elephants.
Pits of empty words.

No more roots to anchor me.
No one to lay with me.
Overseas and drifting forever.
But I’m not going to cry all the time.

A Journey Home

18th Oct 201818th Oct 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture

Some bus journeys are ordinary,
open windows and traffic running by.
People chewing the food,
watching the world photographed
on giant hoardings, the junkies junk.

Here, it doesn’t matter what Trump does
or how much oil and blood there is in the desert.
You just watch disinterestedly, and ask for more coffee.

The weather stays mostly the same.
And who cares about the Whooping crane
or the Eskimo curlew, they’re probably dead anyway.

So I listened to a podcast, David Byrne
on a desert Island and watched the world go by.
Passing unknown homes and people
screaming at each other.
Nothing left to fight for
and yet angry about the repeats on TV.

A Wandering Poet

As I walk around I like to record what I experience. Through poetry, ideas and thoughts I hope I can share some of these experiences with you.

Art

A Poet’s Thoughts

A late night,
or early morning
listening to Gill-Scott Heron
singing about prisons
and a sense of loss.
And the words keep coming.

I know about loss.

Each day I struggle with the
echoes of another world, imported
into dialogue.

A tired pen trying to catch an
errant voice passing by,
struggling to find the right words.
Now, suffering autumn’s castigation
lamenting in my awareness.

And Gill-Scott Heron, now he is
singing about no rain, no rain
and how to survive on sadness.

I get this…..

The strange death of poetry

“Do you write about love like Neruda?”

“Do you understand the nature of immortality
like Dickinson?”

“Have you read Robert Frost and Wallace Stevens?
“They are American you know?”

“What do you think of Dylan Thomas?”
“Oh…..but he is Welsh”

“And what about Sylvia Plath and the confessional
movement?”

“She is a woman, but an American woman right”

“Of course we cannot not accept you,
unless you tell us about Whitman and the
American epic”.

“Oh yes… one more thing.
We don’t want any poems that
caustically indict bourgeois poetic values,
or celebrate the desperate……
like that Bukowski fellow”.

“OK?”

“Yes Sir….”

Especially Time

I remember the loss,
streams of tears
mounted on elephants.
Pits of empty words.

No more roots to anchor me.
No one to lay with me.
Overseas and drifting forever.
But I’m not going to cry all the time.

A Journey Home

Some bus journeys are ordinary,
open windows and traffic running by.
People chewing the food,
watching the world photographed
on giant hoardings, the junkies junk.

Here, it doesn’t matter what Trump does
or how much oil and blood there is in the desert.
You just watch disinterestedly, and ask for more coffee.

The weather stays mostly the same.
And who cares about the Whooping crane
or the Eskimo curlew, they’re probably dead anyway.

So I listened to a podcast, David Byrne
on a desert Island and watched the world go by.
Passing unknown homes and people
screaming at each other.
Nothing left to fight for
and yet angry about the repeats on TV.

A late night, or early morning listening to Gill-Scott Heron singing about prisons and a sense of loss. And the words keep coming.

I know about loss.

Each day I struggle with the echoes of another world, imported into dialogue.

A tired pen trying to catch an errant voice passing by, struggling to find the right words. Now, suffering autumn’s castigation lamenting in my awareness.

And Gill-Scott Heron, now he is singing about no rain, no rain and how to survive on sadness.

I get this…..

“Do you write about love like Neruda?”

“Do you understand the nature of immortality like Dickinson?”

“Have you read Robert Frost and Wallace Stevens? “They are American you know?”

“What do you think of Dylan Thomas?” “Oh…..but he is Welsh”

“And what about Sylvia Plath and the confessional movement?”

“She is a woman, but an American woman right”

“Of course we cannot not accept you, unless you tell us about Whitman and the American epic”.

“Oh yes… one more thing. We don’t want any poems that caustically indict bourgeois poetic values, or celebrate the desperate…… like that Bukowski fellow”.

“OK?”

“Yes Sir….”

I remember the loss, streams of tears mounted on elephants. Pits of empty words.

No more roots to anchor me. No one to lay with me. Overseas and drifting forever. But I’m not going to cry all the time.

Some bus journeys are ordinary, open windows and traffic running by. People chewing the food, watching the world photographed on giant hoardings, the junkies junk.

Here, it doesn’t matter what Trump does or how much oil and blood there is in the desert. You just watch disinterestedly, and ask for more coffee.

The weather stays mostly the same. And who cares about the Whooping crane or the Eskimo curlew, they’re probably dead anyway.

So I listened to a podcast, David Byrne on a desert Island and watched the world go by. Passing unknown homes and people screaming at each other. Nothing left to fight for and yet angry about the repeats on TV.

A late night,
or early morning
listening to Gill-Scott Heron
singing about prisons
and a sense of loss.
And the words keep coming.

Each day I struggle with the
echoes of another world, imported
into dialogue.

A tired pen trying to catch an
errant voice passing by,
struggling to find the right words.
Now, suffering autumn’s castigation
lamenting in my awareness.

And Gill-Scott Heron, now he is
singing about no rain, no rain
and how to survive on sadness.

“Do you understand the nature of immortality
like Dickinson?”

“Have you read Robert Frost and Wallace Stevens?
“They are American you know?”

“What do you think of Dylan Thomas?”
“Oh…..but he is Welsh”

“And what about Sylvia Plath and the confessional
movement?”

“Of course we cannot not accept you,
unless you tell us about Whitman and the
American epic”.

“Oh yes… one more thing.
We don’t want any poems that
caustically indict bourgeois poetic values,
or celebrate the desperate……
like that Bukowski fellow”.

I remember the loss,
streams of tears
mounted on elephants.
Pits of empty words.

No more roots to anchor me.
No one to lay with me.
Overseas and drifting forever.
But I’m not going to cry all the time.

Some bus journeys are ordinary,
open windows and traffic running by.
People chewing the food,
watching the world photographed
on giant hoardings, the junkies junk.

Here, it doesn’t matter what Trump does
or how much oil and blood there is in the desert.
You just watch disinterestedly, and ask for more coffee.

The weather stays mostly the same.
And who cares about the Whooping crane
or the Eskimo curlew, they’re probably dead anyway.

So I listened to a podcast, David Byrne
on a desert Island and watched the world go by.
Passing unknown homes and people
screaming at each other.
Nothing left to fight for
and yet angry about the repeats on TV.