If there’s only one thing you’ll let me advise you do this week …
Explore your horizons
– they may be wider than you assume.
Originally,
we met thanks to people on Periscope – the live streaming App.
Scott was sitting on Dublin grass in the Phoenix Park. Drawing the obelix from Egypt that celebrates the military victories of Wellington.
I kept my eye on him. Every mark he made on paper – every single line. He was too good to ignore, too attractive.
Scott shuffled himself comfortable under the shade of a tree that might have been planted specially for him.
I heard him offer his drawing to anyone who wanted it. Anyone tuned in live to his “scope”.
The polite thing would have been to wait.
I said to myself in Cork:
“Me me me – I want that drawing – it’ll never happen again, boy”
So I whispered – in my loudest internet voice
“I’ll have it please. May I have it?”
The rest is history…
(Buy the authorised biography of Scott from Scotland, when it’s published. 45% reduction on published price – only through this site)
I found it in the Notes App on my iPhone – from 2013. Doubt I wrote it – I like it too much.
_________________
There once was the classic mother-in-law
Who considered she hadn’t a flaw
She knew all the answers
Crosswords and chancers
Until she found she had snot in her jaw
I’ve always been found
wanting more than a woodpecker carves
into the last tree
in the last forest,
wanting more
than my mother’s ever offered,
– even more than father bestowed
on one of his good days.
I was born wanting more time for love.
I’ve grown hungrier by the day,
thirstier by night,
always grasping for clean air.
There’s never been a father more loved,
ever since letters of infinity
were strung together
on a necklace
that shines with promise
and gradually shrinks
until it chokes
the living daylight out of me.
I’ve always wanted to beg.
Like most beggers,
my voice has been feeble
– barely enough courage
to pay the price father demanded.
I’ve always been found
wanting to trust more.
I’m used to starving.
Bless me Father,
for I have sinned
on a daily basis.
let me do penance
– only let me have time to pay.
I stand
against the crowd
I stand out from the crowd
I am an individual
Odd
Different
Singular
Misfit
Awkward in my comfort
Edgy in my skin
Alive in my own little way
I live my say
I give the best shot I can
Every day.
I stand against the crowd
of wasters who fritter
their life away their way.
I waste my life my way
I fritter my days into
the oblivion I fashion
every step I say.
Because I am who am
Me
Condemned to be myself
I stand out from the crowd
comfortable in my discomforting way
that comes from every pore
every sore
every score of my expressions.
It’s my art
The heart of my song
The liver that cleans my spleen
seen in all my glory every time
I stand against the crowd
Each and every difference
Friction
Grating
Unconforming
Uncomplying
Understandable me.
See that fella
hovering on the edge
the one who isn’t fitting in
the one with the shifty eyes
the glint of his own
You can smell that he’s
An outsider
A weirdo
An awkward one
An individual
Heart
A body of imagining
Power
Wealth
Stealth
Scheming to survive
The crowd
The collective view
The “what we all think”
Thinkers.
I stand against the crowd
I stand out from the crowd
Away from the crowd
Proud of my own way
Fiddling the melody
Composed of notes
I’ve assembled from the crowd
Playing the game I’ve invented
The rules I’ve annunciated
Predicated on the shoulders
of giants who have fallen
in battle
Against the crowd
Castigated on shoulders
Of heroes that have died
For the cause of being
Themselves.
I reject the way of the crowd
Every time my heart pumps
Blood from the flat of my soul
To the peak of my imagination.
Consternation
I will cause
Conflagration to
instigation of the self
Opinionated
Author of my fate
Creator of my faith
Born to be wild
Not filed away in a box
I defy
I stand against the crowd
That would
Categorise me
Classify me
Entomb me in place
where they could ignore me
where they could make me safe
from causing a splash
from making a difference
from changing
The course of history
The dreams of others
The Universe.
For such a cause
I stand against the crowd
I stand out from the crowd
to welcome you
Fellow traveller
Fellow awkward person
Follower battler
For your way.
For your way is my way too
Your way is yours
My way is mine
Our way stands out from the crowd
We stand against the crowd.
We stand up for ourselves
We stand who stand.
Against the crowd
Unto death.
_________________________
Notes:
it was a year that asked to be
buried
or burned on a pyre
constructed from the shyte
that held my year together.
Or was it …?
Surely there was more to it than that?
Surely there was a before and an after?
Before was wintertime.
Before was the joy of the city of big shoulders,
the invitation to excitement desired,
hope retained,
an event looked forward to.
There was a new year
full of hope
a future to celebrate with Revolution.
There was a period of time
when I prospered.
The joys of March.
Days when my lover’s offer
came to Cork
were an unmitigated blessing
– before that offer was too much.
All those early days,
all those days before the French holiday,
before the paintbrush
wiped away the smile from my face
– I sat by a stream.
I imagined the whispering flow
of water over stone.
I imagined paint on canvas
and fell down in the field
during the drama of women
confronting the god.
Oh how terrible that field,
how awful
until
months later.
Bless Netflix, bless Breaking Bad.
You were so wonderful.
Where would I have been without …
______________________
Composed on 31 December 2014
__________________________
List compiled in February 2015 (under review)
Tis time for daisy-chains and dandelions,
the thrush with gangly legs has gone to wind,
hostas, risen, pushed aside the shale,
and clover back to torment dreams of lawn.
There’s a cherry blossom behind my back,
the baby oak’s grown leaves on time
………………… in rowan and hawthorn writ
with showers for ink, lavender for paint.
The black dog tastes an apple core,
licks the fly and sucks for more.
The black dog’s in the grass,
…………… paws, panting fast.
She sleeps below the windline stretched,
out of senses, out of mind,
no rush to untangle the rest of the deep.
The black dog’s dead. The black dog’s dead.
The daisy chains are broken,
the dandelion’s divine.
There’s a place we know as light.
There’s a home we know is right.
_____________________
Unfinished: you see the bits that I’m sleeping on. Waiting to approach this fresh.
The two poets who give me quotes these days are Walt Whitman (1819-92) & Mary Oliver (1935 -).
1. We all love travel
2. We all love Paris & the idea of Paris
3. We love women who listen & attend
4. We love to be educated
5. We love to experience another person’s style
6. We love stories of a day in the life
7. We love someone being a bit riske
8. We love people who are generous towards others
9. We love daybreak & sunset
10. We love people who are reliable
______________________________________
Claire Waddington live streams from Paris on Periscope – every day. Her Twitter name is @clairewad. Right now she is visiting her dad in New Zealand
It would be easy to miss the poets
in the Farmgate Cafe
encased behind glass
as you sip espressoed coffee
on a Saturday afternoon
in the English Market.
Poems slip by without fuss,
prefer to let you pass
until you’re ready to listen
to your breathing heart
– the minute they sense you ache
for a set of fingernails
with which to grip on to fragile life
ticking like a fading metronome.
Poems are used to coffee drinkers
who turn their backs on them.
Poems become taken forgranted
even when handwritten and hung.
Poets never have the last laugh.
Ink fades gradually away.
I wonder whether the spirits stay
hidden among fushia encased in a water jug.
____________________
This was composed in the English Market Farmgate Cafe in Cork Ireland in May 2015
Click on this link please – it leads to “The Walt Whitman Show (14 September)
Warning: it’ll take a minute to load up.
http://katch.me/embed/v/5b71d1a1-7f30-34c5-804c-6e5956882bbe
_______________________
I submit for your consideration:
Note: I shall publish my readings of Cantos 1-6 in the next few days. My plan is to read, record & share all 34 cantos of “Inferno” by Dante.
This was a bit of an experiment: to learn how to embed a file from Audioboom.com into a WordPress.com blog.
______________________________________________________
To write a poem now
To write a poem now
forgotten how,
fingers all too stale,
grown pale.
Unused soul went to sleep,
troubled deep.
Christ rose from the dead,
threw off sheets drenched in blood,
woke up, pushed the stone –
back –
so light and birdsong dawned,
his dream made flesh,
again.
Fear revisited,
traces linger instead,
as if painted over.
Whitewashed over…
Jesus wrote his poem
on the road to Emmaus,
recovered from Gethsemane.
The words even ascended into Heaven
and were repeated.
To write a poem now…
the least I could do.
_______________________________________________
“To write a poem now” – read by the poet – my first effort since depression lifted (mp3)
First published 10 November 2011 in “From Bath to Cork with baby Grace (1)”. This was my first effort to write a poem since the lifting of depression. I began it in Ely, near Cambridge UK, & finished the first draft in Cafe Beva, Glanmire, Co Cork.