Shameless plug

A plug, earlier today, and on the other side of the Atlantic

A while ago, Rosemary (my wife), Nash (internet-based friend) and I edited together a poetry collection from work contributed by members of the Poet's Graves Poetry Forum.  Ben (another internet-based friend) acted as publisher...

Skip forward three years or so and three of the above mentioned individuals meet up, quite by chance (and nearly a year's careful planning by Suzanne; another internet-based friend) with another seven or so members of the same forum, in the upstairs room of a central London pub.

Here we planned our inevitable takeover of Planet Earth.  Much eating, drinking, and poetry reading ensued.  And I also volunteered to plug the book.

Making Contact (Amazon)

There are great poems from twenty-five fascinating poets in there, including four from myself.  Just to prove the quality, peruse the following sample.

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Bottom Dead Centre


Intake

Ice-path uncles, sliding, come
to top-up stockings, sip sherry,
be knocked unconscious by the Queen.
The old year has been dripping
through the cracks in December,
now only one festival remains.


Compression

Fewer and smaller,
the uncles left for us to visit
dribbling in their rest-homes.
What troupe remains to get festive?
To turn up, unexpected? To decorate the tree
and give you socks?


Combustion

I give you socks
to wear outside your boots
wending from the crematorium
with the path caked in icing, decoration
a drain-pipe dribbled through its crack.
We spontaneously scatter Uncle Clive.


Exhaust

All the uncles scattered once,
when you aced and raced the new sled
of younger years. Now the pagan tree
is baubed with tears, as you tear the ribbon-paper.
Another pair of socks—useful. At our age
the ritual differs. The engine hesitates,
one year unsafely dead, and drawing-in
one drawn-out breath we wait
to long-live the new.

Jesse James Off Broadway

Jesse James, late of the nineteenth century

I was on a poetry course, and we were given a paragraph or two about Jesse James and asked to write a poem.


The single two things that struck me most about him were the manner of his death, and:

"...much of what was written about him

was made up, and toured as a stage show

within weeks of his death..."

I only hope when my time comes I can be remembered as creatively, and that somebody sells tickets.

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Jesse James Off Broadway

...murdered by a man who is in turn murdered
by a man who is murdered by “an outlaw”
about whom countless they say films insist
on the quote marks and who robs, not steals, trains
whilst representing as a Robin Hood
all Lincoln green and tights and neckerchief
carefully deployed, but... of the man himself
little now is known. A bounty is offered
and a stage show hurriedly prepared, the script
penned by a man, himself in patient line
for the scaffold where the hangman struggles
to get the whole damned chorus neatly dropped
before the interval. He needed shooting—
to keep the drama tense—and his cousin
Bob “Robert” Ford is just the man you'd choose
for a low-living, lily-livered coward's
excuse for a plot flourish. The date was set
for Saturday, the matinee, and Jesse
(as was his name) was lured to audition
for the part of his life. He takes the part, steps out—
is gunned down in cold blood and ironically
the part turns out a whole. Bob himself is...

Person or persons unknown

This is an experimental piece...  I confidently predict you'll either get it or shake your head sadly and walk away.


The inspiration for this was: "This they now do."  Again you'll either recognise the reference or you were born too late, sorry.

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Person or persons unknown


I

The story so far...


II

Fleeing her parent's tiny lives in Bootle—
she meets a confidence man called—
which they steal from a warehouse behind—
they hot-wire a car and flee.

Years later, her humdrum marriage—
by strangely precise anonymous messages—
an embarrassing previous life. She panics and—
small room above a shop in Manchester.

Brooding over her predicament she flounders—
searching everywhere without—
in desperation turns to her former—
a dangerous last-ditch plan.

This they now do.

Chances upon a derelict—
sneaks past the elderly night-watchman—
to at length discover me, who she blames for—
She demands: Tell me now.  What is my life about?


III

Clearing my throat, I explain:

Fleeing Bootle you left middle-class parents—
where you met an adventurer called—
which you acquired from a man in a pub—
you borrowed a car and left town.

Years later, with your husband—
disturbing anonymous messages—
an almost-forgotten previous life. Worried you—
a flat above a shop in Manchester.

Some time later you decide—
but were unable to find—
in desperation you turned to—
who hatched a plan.

This you now did.

You were able to find an abandoned—
avoided the caretaker—
so that you could meet me here—
But tell me in your own words, and maybe I can explain.


IV

Eyes wide, she licks her lips and speaks:

I was reluctant to leave Bootle, I missed my Mum and—
with a fascinating older man called—
which we found in sacks beneath the pier—
we bought a car and moved on.

Years later, I was happily—
wild and disturbing anonymous messages—
my exciting, early life.  I had to investigate and I—
an apartment in central Manchester.

After some thought I resolved—
but careful investigation did not—
until, inspired, I looked-up my old—
I conceived a daring plan.

This we now did.

Painstaking research uncovered a late Victorian—
past the guards and tricked my way into—
to finally confront you.
Now explain!  What is the meaning of my story?


V

She is ready.  There is no choice.
Gesturing her to an armchair,
I compose my thoughts and prepare to recount...


VI

...the story so far.