Poetry

Some poems…

Always Was a Results-Driven Business

Finally, the experiment was collapsing
And new sound experiences were shielded from our ears.
Everyone accepted the cutting-edge tech
But wanted the old songs, the old results.
The mawkish weather was the only connection
With the past and everything else was changed.
The family albums were gone and that was so hard to bear.
It was all so cold.

And so A. left for Australia and B. stayed
Longer at the gym. No one had learned anything
And soon it would be time for the country, dogs, babies.
Oscillators, generators, amplification. Intuitive centres
Of expression were still to be approved
And previous goals of connection looked set
To be reanimated, foundational and strong.

The objections to the experiment
Had been made coherently. It was as if
The objections had been the objective all along.
Everyone had played their part.
Everyone got paid.
And the word used in summary was ‘controversial’.
It had been a controversial exercise.
Someone maybe said ‘brave’. All work was brave.
All language was brave. Love was braver still.
And no one could change a bit of this,
Which meant everything was normalised and just so.
Tomorrow was Tuesday and the forecast was for showers.
Someone had to make the dinner.
Was that the barn owl hooting again
Somewhere out by the woods?
The principles were all intact.

First published in Poetry Salzburg Review, 2024

Some Jazz

When they abandoned the lofts
What it really meant was the end of the mythic run
Of ragged freedoms. Someone said the western swing
May persist in the chromatic scales of regional vernaculars
But no one could remember what predated what.
Was this really a flamboyant tribute to the first clientele
Or just some way of making cash?

There lingered a feeling that these were times of sherbert and moonlight
But the performances had peaked and a steadily conservative
Change of guard limped into being and got cloistered
In the wharfside apartments with views of the creek.
Could long hair still be so offensive?
It was a complex arc of harmonies that freaked out the locals
And the foxes grew hungry and belligerent.

It was mid-life, and in mid-life we discovered the true
Domestic and baggy nature of the seasons,
The fickleness of ventures, once kaleidoscopic,
Now like a memento or a piece of old furniture
That recalls a song of possibility. But very few things
Are a prescription for change. A desire to lean
Into the backbeat comes with its own precautions.
The search for recognition was over and the wild
Dispatches hunkered down into the mud of the night
While reverie collapsed into realism.
It was time for the archives again.
It was time again to be beautiful.

First published in Objects (Dunlin Press, 2024)

Unsaid

What I meant in my last poem
was that I knew it would be cold as I waited for the train
and that I was expecting to shiver. I mean
so many things so unevenly,
and my pacing never quells them, and my fingers
search for pockets which, in a not-
quite-warm-enough coat, are all
sewn up. It is autumn, you see, and the sky
is crossed with black ribbons and there is a nervousness
at the corner where tied-up dogs turn
circles by the shop and every hour is vital.
The filament trees begin to glow
and it feels more important that we lock our doors
and take all the calls now in case we become
distracted or if the wind picks up and a signal
is lost. And so what I meant to say is that
it’s okay if you’re not here for the bonfire because I’m
not fond of them either. But just know that there is one
should you want. Something smouldering, licking
into light, or dark, or some other other.

First published by London Grip, 2018