Sunday 20 October 2013

Winter ~ a nonet

In this, my hour of broken sleep,
Empty silence in a cold room,
Moonbeam sheen white blade across
This bed I lay upon ~
Such peace of heart I
Find in this time,
To think of
You and
Dream.

Millie and the Moon

Woke up from dreams of being photocopied and having to deal with several hundred paper versions of myself jostling for attention, to find Millie staring at the moon. Quite beautiful. A kitten, new to the world, staring in fascination at something I could never possibly make her understand, myself too in awe of the morning moonfall...existing in that moment, a human and a cat, no language to link us, yet both animals on the Earth, dumbfounded by the beauty of our ancient companion; on a journey through time and space ~ Until I realised that she was infact stalking a spider on the ceiling.

Tuesday 15 October 2013

winter morning ~

still the sun rises
behind the veil
morning shows
a painting undone
of colours
love is barren
fields hammered flat
under cold steel
invisible unless
the strings of this knotted
heart relent

Sunday 6 October 2013

After an image in 'A Body Lain Out' by Lorca ~

The summer in a foreign dusk.
Close heat that grows everywhere
From the skin, breathed.
A balmy silence towards the lain loved one -
Alive in degradation!
The smell of seas emptying
It's cold shoals on the sense -
History gathers at last to rest
On pebbles, red stone as warm as a heart,
Whispering grasses -
The shudders of the mourning.

untitled ~

in my dream
love was onfire -
walls were aflame and
time had no meaning.
the whole world stopped
for the musics i heard -
a distance that evolved
from my heartbeat.
i looked up at your face -
a bone white mirror -
it broke into pieces upon the air.

Saturday in the Roman City ~

The dog screams in it's lust,

Emptying the bowels of the

Dark vowels it knows,

Around the streets, cascade,

Slapping like flesh on steel each word,

An echo torment like me

Waiting for the turns,

The love comes, coming

Not known any other way

Someone controls, always

It stops, the driven take over,

Each machine shudders terror silk,

The sound a million hearts

And each one beating breaks.


The Load ~ (for Mahmoud Darwish)

I carry a load and
Now I am afraid of doorways,
The passage makes new parts
Of my condition bleed-

Her pains, I am carrying

Her, her load creaks in my
Bones so that they snap inside
The flesh of me.


Stone burnt in sun-
Water made thin on the
Scorched ground of Gaza,
Hurt, as ice moves on the
Ebb of the tide,
Ice melts on the worn tongue.

I ask her to leave me alone

So I am not so hurt by
Her sudden objections
As she jabs her nails

Into my side and rips in

Between my ribs, the nettles
Of viens wrapped around them,
Stabbing and stabbing.

Rain that must dance

With the winds,
As pebbles rush back
With the waves,
Paper runs from the flames,

I gave my life to her unknowing;


To her my life I gave.


The Nile ~


It has never been so quiet
The night as still as a dead serpent
In the rushes-
A car breaks the sound and
Vanishes, do dark the dawn
May never come.

I have lain here in

Awe of cherished sleep
Folded myself over and over
On the river bed, unclean
With the moan of bones.

I rose to drink from famished lips

From dreams aching with the colour and light,
Water as warm as spent wax my words
Burning speechless onto a page.

What dark matter is that

That whistles so close to the eye?

What scuttled over my face?

A bat that rushed to
Sear me with it’s wing-

A scarab beetle, beloved, that
Bore claws minute into my brain.

your want of me ~

i am 
i a
i am your better self
encroached by wit in the sidelines
the shadows
i watch your indiscretions
your losses
you counter my better judgements
act on a behalf alone
it is in the glass you see me
i stare with your thoughts
sprawling on my face
you catch me in car windows
a better shade of self from another world
at night i settle
and talk to you
but you scream in snores and sweats
have you ever slept well
knowing i am so close behind the veil
i sleep often i dont have to be awake
the years meander and i live
in my distant palace
made grand by your want of me
occasionally you pass my gates
unaware i live there
you live there
waiting to awaken in the first morning
and walk
stride through any glass
even a finger
to touch me


Salvation ~


These are the beginnings
The walk after seeing
My mother sat; not on the bed in tears
But crouched by the radiator
Crying - " What have I done?"
I thought that then,
Intially, as I have always thought,
As they have felt they have always had it harder
Than most; Mother, in '91,
Was one of the first to get the,
'New fangled cancer treatment',
She should be famous, of the 1100 women
To recieve it, to push the stats of survival upwards.

I became a drinker and lost
Lots of dear but isolated things; the dances
Of love where music faded without song-
Couldn't remember much anyway,
Aside from the sex, why?
Why not the touches, the held
Softness of her love to me?
I reached for her but she wasn't there.

I walked the streets.

The blood flowed,
Like the sheen rain pavement
Mirrors that held no image
In the stones,

There wasn't a room at the hostel, but
Kevin shared a joke or two, his hands
Were burnt from something
On the pads of his thumbs, like
He had wanted to erase something 
From a hard surface quickly-
He smelt of cheap whisky, not on the breath
But through the pores, bleary eyed, frayed hair,
His jeans stained - he asked me if I used and I
Thought of my mother; her back towards me suddenly.
He gave me a blanket, no room, directing me
To Andrew who took me by the hand,
A burly 30 something and told me of the solace
To be found in a man-
But I needed sleep.
So, he took me to the underpass of the motorway,
The lights hurt my eyes, he toppled a burnt out sofa
For me to stand on, a key to open
The door- I had my blanket, my torch, my mother like
A sygil and I rose.
Thunderous, he left me there. I lit the candles.
Around, the room was a service tunnel blocked off.
At one end, a mattress, human waste, an old woman there.
Doubling up, I wrapped close, lent to the task of self love
Of heart, she watched me, passed me her bottle.
To show comradery yet distance, I wiped the lip
Throughly and swung.

Seven am came quickly.

She rolled, snug in defeat, I was amazed I had climbed
So high and surely would sprain my ankle on the drop!
There is nothing like it, the stark morning air,
I felt more alive than ever before.
Near this motorway place were new houses, developments
That reminded me of Loutraki and Greece, Ikea based and I laughed.
I needed food so went and had some -
The Salvation Army took me in. 
( Who the hell serves mashed potato for brekkie?? )
Toothless knuckle red men, stinking of whatever
They could afford. I wandered in having been told
Of the place and was viewed like a pariah
Even of them.

Slight stubble.
Second night on the streets -
Cold eyes, dead eyes-
The woman I shared the filth with
Sank slowly down next to me to eat.                             Newport 2010.

Celtic Enchantment / Love Has Found Me


Celtic Enchantment

Takest to form a fish or hare,
Or whispers on the evening air,
Takest to form a bully bear
In the forsets of the dawning.

Takest to form the woodland trees,
And leap with ease from leaf to leaf,
Takest to form the summer breeze,
And listen in the evening.

When thy enemy is close at last,
Takest to form the swaying grass,
Make him of his wit to ask,
And confusion send him reeling.

Takest to form the darkest night,
Deprive him of all strength and sight,
Run him down with all your might,
To the silent river moving.                              Reading, 2008.


Love has found me

Love has found me,
Made me hungry for it's taste,
Shuddering humble in it's gaze,
Love has found me.

Let me hold you,
Keep you safe and warm,
Keep you safe from harm,
As I hold you.

Our time is precious,
A jewel sacred in your hand,
From it I carve a wedding band,
Our time is precious.

The rhythm of our rhyme,
Love can find, love can find,
Command the beating of a heart,
Love draws as distance parts.

                                                           Scotland 2007

Loss ~



What do I lose,
Everytime your crystal fire
Widens to attempt
Your closures -

Pieces of my sharpnel life,
My silver of tears,
Through your perfect grace
And my hope, our years?


-Lincoln 2007

Flt. Lt ~ Scottow Cemetary


From a photograph run of colour,
Some twenty seven years of rains;
Laid at the stone of his grave,

His eyes spoke to me.

I remembered 1988 and was ten,
Older now than he ever reached;
His death at twenty six,

"All my grief will be endless
Until we meet again" ~ Mum.

His passing close,
An anniversary in September,
Approaching on winter's air,
Flying as new leaves that spiral.

I laid a broke stone,
To join the rubble;

Because I do not understand grief.

1st Sep 2013

Saturday 5 October 2013

Iske ja murra ~

Iske ja murra ~


The Winter War of 1940 was as harsh and unforgiving as the men who fought in it. The Finnish Army repelled in fit and starts the onslaught of the Russians. Wiley and understandably patriotic, the Finns fought without the murmuring disquiet that had led their enemy to revolution so many years before.
The Red Army were brutes by nature and took no prisoners. Already word abounded of atrocities by these men and the Finns, outnumbered and angry, met these outrages with a determination beyond the guerrilla like tactics that kept the Reds guessing and on the move. The forests were thick with snow and a cold emptiness unlike anything even the Russians had seen before. Trees, black from the winter harshness, clawed the dead sky like the cracks in a skull and all was so unnaturally quiet one could almost hear the heartbeat of the other man in the foxhole. When a skirmish happened, it was an outrage of sound. Blood was the only colour, the redness bright and alluring to look at for days afterwards on the never thawing ground.

The Finns advantage over their enemy went beyond numbers and force. They had wit and an understanding of their environment. Using the terrain, they stung and hit the larger divisions of the enemy. They adopted a successful sniper campaign that dispersed the oncoming columns into broken lines, evening the score a little. The Russians responded with their own small bands of snipers, to hunt the Finns. What followed was delicate cat and mouse tactics against the background of a larger conflict, a separate war between the forces. Sometimes, two or three men would be simply hunting another. The lone soldier would use all his knowledge and every weapon to hand; skill with his rifle, patience, subterfuge, opportunism, cowardice; all to survive.

So it was in the eve of that year. Winter held court like a god and all were in its sway.

He looked up. The trees were beautiful he thought. Against the sky, they were defined and reassuring, stark and solid. Aarne, 23, Finnish, looked around at his companions. The score of men squatted on the earth or stood sharing cigarettes. They were vermin, Aarne thought gently, ants or dust, swarming in clumps for rations, without purpose save firing at the enemy. Confused and tired. Every man was exhausted. It created a hard edge to every discourse that required speech. By now, after over two months pushing and pulling with the Russians, these men need only exchange the briefest of looks to convey understanding. And when they lost a man from their number it was as if a new language had been born from the fear and the exhaustion. Men of rank conveyed orders but behind the words, the true feelings bled for all to see. Aarne went down to a small group to share a cigarette. It was morning. Cold and grey but not snowing. Aarne liked it when there was snow. It gave pace to the day. And it was beautiful the way each flake was so delicate and danced on the air.

“They skinned two of them and hung the skin on a tree” a private continued, “the third man was tied to a tree and had been made to watch it before being torn open.. At least they hadn’t done it to him. But these Russians are cruel, they are not men. They are damned hiisi”. News of further tortures had reached these bands of Finns by hearsay and rumour, no one knew exactly what the Russians were capable of,
“But why not shoot him? Why torture, what can be gained?” This man had been a law student Aarne remembered, so he always contrived to present a logical argument.
“They do not care, it was for their own amusement” Aarne wanted to speak too, to talk about his grandfather. On the lake where he grew up, his Grampa had said of the beasts that roamed the forests at night, feeding on the fear of men. Great beasts, born of evil he said, that fed on flesh and screams. Without realising it, Aarne had opened his mouth and spoken these words he had thought.The other men looked at him cautiously, “Yes” the private said, “I have heard of these stories. These are stories to frighten children. These Hirviö are not as dangerous as these men we now fight.” Had they thought him mad? Aarne wondered and kept quiet. As children they had played in the forests now as men they fought.

He checked his rifle, a 7.62mm M-91. He never laid this gun on the ground. It was always in his grasp or placed across his arms. He slept with the wood and iron clutched to his chest. It never left him. Sometimes, when he couldn’t find merciful sleep on the freezing ground, he gazed at it. It had no colour then. It looked like bone, packed ash. At the beginning of the year, he had laid it on the ground next to him and the Russians had come through, using a big 20mm on them, flushing forward through the chaos with troops. He had been dazed and separated from the rifle. The Russian who had tried to kill him had fired his sub, as scared as Aarne was. Much younger. The bullets scattered around, peppering the snow, missing him; an undisciplined discharge of the weapon. Then, the enemy had jammed the gun and in a fit of panic and fear, Aarne had driven into him, bringing him down. When he had recovered his sense, the man was face down in the dirt, dead. All had been numb, like the world had stopped. There had been no sounds, just Aarne and the dead man. This delirium troubled him still and from that point he never let go of the weapon. He had spoken his thoughts aloud and Aarne knew they thought him mad.

Soon, the men would gather to listen to their captain. Aarne disliked this man. A man of little skill, he relied upon brash statements and even brasher tactics. Aarne had seen something in the man’s eyes once. They were all afraid of course, a fear that pressed on them constantly, so that they were strained to breaking point; so that each mind was exhausted with keeping the fear from it. But the captain’s fear was not something that he could control. In his eyes, Aarne had witnessed the blind primordial panic under fire that got men killed. Sometimes his own fear helped Aarne, made him focus all the more; in this sense he was a functioning soldier. He took away consequence of his actions save survival. His self fear became an engine of focus. It drove every nerve of him to kill without mercy in the melees. Like that first soldier he thought. That was the first.

“Today” The captain said, “we travel to our brothers, north” He pointed a full gloved flat hand out, like he was signalling on a bicycle,
“Or enemy is weakening, they are weakening!” He pounded his hand into the other for effect,
“It is now only a matter of time” He stood on top of an ammunition box, so precious few left. When this speech ended, Aarne took his place in the queue for bullets. Six today. But then he was called by the captain,
“It now falls to you to stay behind with the safety of your comrades in your thoughts, position yourself in the trees and pick off the enemy. You are best of us Aarne.” He was breathless and afraid as he spoke, handing Aarne the sniper’s rifle, a thin sleek line of steel and wood. Aarne was stunned and looked around him. The twenty men simply stared. All were quiet. So it was his turn. But he knew. Each of them would come to this in the weeks ahead, even the captain, shielded from his duty by men that were slowly dying in his charge. The machine gun was taken from him and he felt naked. The sniping gun was lighter, it felt to him as if he could not kill a fly with it, let alone halt the advance of an armoured division. He thought of the Russian he had killed again.This gave him strength. So it was his turn,
“If I was the last of our countrymen, I would defend until my final breath.” He said to them all.
“ Iske ja murra!” and turned away from them. He did not help them pack the camp and no more was said. In his dirty white fatigues, he climbed a tree that was behind a line of trees. He would not have much of a chance and could only hope to kill the enemy commander and maybe the medic before his himself was shot. Killed outright he hoped as he climbed. He felt nothing. He watched the men move away, watched the captain linger by the Bren gun, carried on the back of a horsedrawn cart. Noone spoke. Such a weapon was vital to their defences. It had the power of several soldiers and as their number dwindled, the captain would order it set up on it’s tripod where he would sit behind it, eating his rations, eyes always scanning for the next attack. It was the last time he saw the captain and any of the men. Later that day they were wiped out by an equally numbered band of Russians. The captain finally breaking, running headlong into the line of fire. None of them were skinned, they fought each other and fell on the cold earth. Aarne, around the time night fell, had heard gunfire, swallowed by the dense air and maybe guessed as much. By the time that the band of men had reached him, he had been waiting for several hours.

The sight on his rifle gave him an air of unreality, like seeing moving images on a screen. He had fired and killed several men, who had been running through the trees. Then something  happened. Instead of coming forward and spreading out to find him, the Russian soldiers simply panicked and fled in all directions. Aarne watched for a moment and then, like a child throwing stones at ducks, he fired at will, picking off the men, who screamed and ran into the trees. Aarne stopped and watched; the men were terrified. Coming through the trees they had been fleeing he thought, and this disordered rout was surely not to do with his captain. There was something else. He  slid down the tree. One Russian simply ran past him in blind panic, screaming and running into the darkness of the forest. The Finn watched as the Russian was suddenly gripped in the half light and ripped open. The man spun then went rigid, falling to his knees. The mess of his stomach boiled in the air, a steaming grey tangle of tubes. There was a grunt, then something like hooves pounding the hard ground, clearing off in the direction of the other fleeing soldiers. The screaming and shouting died away as the remaining men disappeared into the gloom. His breath was the only sound and his heartbeat pounded in his ears. Aarne ran to the Russian and cradled him, watching the man die. He thought of the first man he had killed.  Then he heard a soft whine, like air escaping from a balloon. It was several hundred yards ahead of him but distinct. Then a sound of ripping leather, a sound of soaking linen being torn. Then nothing. He checked a round in the breach and edged forward, eyes wide. In the darkness he saw minimally, but enough to find the source. There, on a tree, a blanket of canvass was strewn from a branch to a trunk. Aarne stared at it. Carefully, he went forward and touched it. It was warm, wet. In the dim light, he saw hair, then a nipple, part of an ear. He spun around and went down on his knee, rifle poised. There was a stench in the air, and Aarne was afraid. In the darkness of the forest, surrounded by these slain men, he felt the same wonder and fear he had felt as a child, his Grampa telling him his stories, his Grampa telling him.

Aarne ran into the forest, away from the death, his feet pounded hard ground and he stumbled. His rifle was heavy.  How far could he hope to get? The forest around him was still quite black. His direction was undisciplined, so he stumbled on. He should make a stand, he thought, with a sudden revival. But he ran on, a deep horror in him now, the Russian who had been torn spinning through his mind, that Russian he had killed, only a boy maybe, like he was with his Grampa at the lake...He stopped and again went down on his knee, the weapon clutched and ready. The tree in the lightening gloom seemed to have a face, a crunched thing, frozen there. Maybe that would be him. Where he would go, frozen in his agony.

Then, a howl in the twilight. He froze, his heart the only moving thing in his body. Each beat pained him like nails driven home. It was coming. A bear perhaps. But what had ripped that man and displayed him. Another howl, almost mocking. The darkness was stealing away. If he were to die, he would make a stand. He was a man, no doubt, one of the last of his countrymen. Iske ja murra, Iske ja murra, Iske ja murra.
He reached his hand, a ghost hand, onto the bark of the tree and drew the palm down, Shards fell to the ground and he did it again and again, harder then harder, he went to it frantically, with both hands onto his knees, drawing them up and down, tearing, not noticing the pain, the blood sowing into the snow to remain there, bright and clear. On his knees he threw his hands to the sky and yelled.There was a pounding over the ground towards him. Aarne saw nothing, he fired twice and his heart was  gouged, still beating from his chest, and he saw his Grampa at the lake and saw no more.

The morning was silent and the sun shone, relaxing the winter’s hold on the land. The Russian commander hoped this was the thaw finally, hoped that the end was near. His men were as tired as was he. And what of this, he thought, the madness of it. Two men skinned and displayed on the trees and a third made to watch then bayoneted open, to die like this, he thought. He ordered a photograph to be taken to record the blasted Finns and their dishonour.

He ordered the remains cut down and buried.

The Third of October, Two Thousand and Thirteen.



The Third of October, Two Thousand and Thirteen.

Oh, let me not hear that black noise again,
The thunderous sound of the small digger,
So brutal it caught me under the skin,
The council have sold us down the river ~

The council have smashed the mural down;
With it the heritage of our city,
A work of art to the fight of welshmen,
That I grew to love in pity,

Pity that the way of things is always
For the common man to have suffered ~
For history is so replete with days,
On which innocents spilled blood for others.

So we will not forget the now silent
Legacy of those men born of violence.


http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-wales-south-east-wales-24386566?SThisFB

Sonnet One.

I think I can see what a sonnet is,
And how I may achieve this technique,
Based upon observing how other's
Form them quite easily and complete.

That was a clumsy way to start I think,
I am getting too bogged down in form,
Ignoring the paths of my heart to link
Any beauty I might like to have shown.

For poetry is about the desire,
To express a feeling, of love or hate,
Or emptiness forlorn, or to conspire
To put society right in a beat ~

But I would like to be free as a bird,
And not be worried about rhyming words.

Thursday 3 October 2013

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-wales-south-east-wales-24386566?SThisFB


http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-wales-south-east-wales-24386566?SThisFB

Why is this important to you?

I was born and raised in Newport. To have this important and historical document destroyed would be a travesty upon the altar of freedom. Without the Chartist Movement, society would not have advanced towards the democracy that is rapidly being taken away from us, the people, by acts of suppression such as this. The people of Newport want this mural to remain. To have the mural destroyed would rob the future of a specific piece of artistic history that documents an important and defining moment in Newport's history, the history of Wales and Great Britain.
That is important to me and the future of anyone who cherishes freedom of speech.

Jogging ~

My fitness regime has been on and off for a few years now, so it's more of a crumbling infrastructure, with expelled diplomats and hyperinflation than a regime. However, as Daisy is away, I wanted to increase my 'core strength' for the next theatre tour and generally improve the look, not to mention the stamina, of my body.

For the last two weeks I have been very active in the morning and the evening, sit ups, press ups, lifts with weights and an early morning jog around the base. Living on an old RAF base means that there are lots of straight roads with which to throw myself up and down, the relative isolation away from a main road means at half five in the morning, all is still. I believe today I hit the wall. Adorned as usual in my karrimor hiking top and cycling shorts, I bopped down the road on my 'fwams' ~ the name for my large white nike air trainers that I own; wearing them, I feel like the Michelin man or Mr. Soft...and 'fwam' is the sound they make in my head.

My joints became lead and my heart pounded in my chest. I powered on however but I admit, the power wasn't there this morning. I finally staggered back to the house, joints burning and solid, head swimming and a feeling sweeping my senses akin to standing up too quickly after smoking a joint. In short, I was buggered. I spent the next twenty minutes gasping for breath, collapsed on the sofa. Even Millie, my kitten, stayed at the living room door, eyeing me as if I was some dying sea creature. The wall.

Even now, an hour later, I feel as if I have recently recovered from some major surgery. Maybe I'm not meant to be fit and the horrid pear shaped torso I am developing is simply nature's plan for me. Maybe I should stick to the wholly successful development of my mind, through reading and writing. But then I catch a sight of my podge, my borderline moobs and the rolls of skin when I sit down...I am determined to get rid of those at least. Daisy thinks that this exercise is a good thing. She is twenty six and a size 6. I'm not so shallow to think that unless I get ripped like Hugh Jackman I will lose her beautiful self, but I think she would appreciate a boyfriend who needs a belt for his trousers, as opposed to a paunch sitting like an outcrop of proud headland.

Walls can be scaled after all.