This poem is one of the sonnets I wrote for the Radio 3 sonnet competition in 2001. See my post of 30 May 2011 for more on that. The poem found a home online at www.mywritingworld.org.uk , a not particularly prestigious site that has since been taken down.
SCIENCE FICTION
With this hand-held device that has the power
of drawing moisture from the atmosphere,
to concentrate it in a mobile shower,
what happens next? Round its first pioneer,
we find the gadget game for innovating.
Fear that the water is unfit to use
is the most-cited factor militating
against acceptance. But the few enthuse,
till the complaint is carriage seats awash
with watered flesh, and people shower in church.
Then mobile showers are linked to the new rash
of sunspots, hurricanes and ghosts. Research
goes on, with altered frames of reference,
in deepest Wilts., and funded by Defence.
Tuesday, 31 July 2012
Wednesday, 11 July 2012
Green
I had an access of poetry-writing in 1991, following a change of flat. This one was published in Cambridge University libraries information bulletin 35-36, 1994-1995, p. 10. The carpet tiles in question were in a library. CULIB's online presence doesn't go back that far, but is worth following.
GREEN
The green of the new carpet-tiles
so lightly matches that on dull
days it appears a windowful
of wan sunlight has smiled this pool
into the room. The edges are
so finely trimmed you're never sure
if they lap at a fixture or
have moved its rising from the floor.
GREEN
The green of the new carpet-tiles
so lightly matches that on dull
days it appears a windowful
of wan sunlight has smiled this pool
into the room. The edges are
so finely trimmed you're never sure
if they lap at a fixture or
have moved its rising from the floor.
The great computer security debate
The technology's a bit dated in this one, I know -- it was written in 2005 and looks back a few years beyond that. It was published in the last-ever issue of Streetwise, 68, Christmas/New Year 2007-2008, p. 7.
THE GREAT COMPUTER SECURITY DEBATE
Fire is for firewalls, which, despite the name,
are software held on disks, not bricks aflame.
Fire is for arguments: should we install
firewalls ourselves, or trust the main firewall?
Fire is for hell -- flickers and smoke whereby
the world looks as it does, with stakes so high.
Fire is for martyrs, taunted to a passion
by spam, flesh, money, Goblin-Market-fashion.
Fire is for blushes, since the martyrdom
was ended by the filtering of spam,
not by firewalls. The burn is from the embers
of martyrdom the martyred one remembers.
THE GREAT COMPUTER SECURITY DEBATE
Fire is for firewalls, which, despite the name,
are software held on disks, not bricks aflame.
Fire is for arguments: should we install
firewalls ourselves, or trust the main firewall?
Fire is for hell -- flickers and smoke whereby
the world looks as it does, with stakes so high.
Fire is for martyrs, taunted to a passion
by spam, flesh, money, Goblin-Market-fashion.
Fire is for blushes, since the martyrdom
was ended by the filtering of spam,
not by firewalls. The burn is from the embers
of martyrdom the martyred one remembers.
Saturday, 16 June 2012
By much too much
This one was written in 2005, I think for the Pier Pressure competition (now in abeyance). It was published in Streetwise 65, Christmas 2006, p. 17.
BY MUCH TOO MUCH
Bought in accordance with chocolate protocol
(bought on a day when a target's been met),
bought at my turn to buy eats for the meeting and
bought for the lunch that I haven't had yet,
bought in a shortage of metal and paper so
bought using plastic with four digits keyed,
bought two together (the credit card minimum
makes an excuse if you tax me with greed) --
CHOCOLATE FUDGE! And before I start minuting
matters arising and library plan,
heartened because others say they don't want any,
I get as much of it down as I can.
Chocolate fudge! and my biro is stickier
minuting, eating is not quite complete --
put to one side as the meeting is weightier,
nibbled more rarely for surfeit of sweet.
Chocolate fudge. Choc fudge. See, my line grows more slow;
I'd write what's left all spondees if I could
fit contractual obligation into any metre.
It is a sad decline for such a food.
The chocolate protocol referred to is a set of rules I have. I allow myself to buy chocolate, for consumption at a time to be determined by the diet, on calendar days when I have achieved one or more of a set of targets. At the moment I don't seem to be meeting any of them, so the protocol must be said to have been emptied of its power. Clare generously supplies me with chocolate not purchased by me -- a consequence not a cause of that loss.
BY MUCH TOO MUCH
Bought in accordance with chocolate protocol
(bought on a day when a target's been met),
bought at my turn to buy eats for the meeting and
bought for the lunch that I haven't had yet,
bought in a shortage of metal and paper so
bought using plastic with four digits keyed,
bought two together (the credit card minimum
makes an excuse if you tax me with greed) --
CHOCOLATE FUDGE! And before I start minuting
matters arising and library plan,
heartened because others say they don't want any,
I get as much of it down as I can.
Chocolate fudge! and my biro is stickier
minuting, eating is not quite complete --
put to one side as the meeting is weightier,
nibbled more rarely for surfeit of sweet.
Chocolate fudge. Choc fudge. See, my line grows more slow;
I'd write what's left all spondees if I could
fit contractual obligation into any metre.
It is a sad decline for such a food.
The chocolate protocol referred to is a set of rules I have. I allow myself to buy chocolate, for consumption at a time to be determined by the diet, on calendar days when I have achieved one or more of a set of targets. At the moment I don't seem to be meeting any of them, so the protocol must be said to have been emptied of its power. Clare generously supplies me with chocolate not purchased by me -- a consequence not a cause of that loss.
Sunday, 20 May 2012
Windozelle and Windosil
WINDOZELLE AND WINDOSIL
(an entry in the English National Opera Mini-Operas script competition; inspired by Neil Gaiman's The sweeper of dreams)
WINDOSIL's flat. Curtained window, with some light beyond it. Kitchen counter, with kettle and loaded toaster; table with cereal-and-toast breakfast setting for one. On the floor, the detritus of Windosil's dreams: toy dinosaurs, model railway tunnels, books with titles like The book of nasty photographs and 101 reasons you should commit suicide.
WINDOSIL sits at the table and stares glumly. WINDOZELLE stands, enjoying her complete mastery of WINDOSIL's life.
WINDOZELLE: On sister duty. I'm here for Windosil,
sticking up for her when the Sweeper of Dreams
arrives to take her nightmares. He's a bully.
I despise nobody more than him.
WINDOSIL: Oh Windozelle, you can't control the fall.
WINDOZELLE: The things he said drove Windosil
to drink and then it made her ill,
mad. She downed fifty of her pill.
She jumped from fifty feet and still
it wouldn't end.
WINDOSIL: Oh Windozelle, you can't control the fall.
WINDOZELLE: You never listen to me, Windosil,
and now all this. Do as your sister says
to keep the Dream Sweeper in his place –
five fruit a day
no travelling
no cheese at night
no tea at night
no wine by day
no consecutives
no adjectives and adverbs
no colour on colour
lie on your back, head to left, knees to right
avoid using the word got
don't talk to people you can't see
pull yourself together like a pair of curtains
dip the powdered bandage in water, every hour on the hour
reset the risk thermostat every night
and leave the morning reset to the Dream Sweeper.
WINDOSIL: Oh Windozelle, you can't control the fall.
Enter the SWEEPER OF DREAMS.
WINDOZELLE: Yes, you. I'd like a word. It must be dull
for you, monotonous, that broom.
I want to give you some variety,
make your life useful. That is why I told you,
when you come here, don't just sweep, but reset
Windosil's risk thermostat. The poor girl
finds it difficult, another cause of worry.
I told you this three months ago and yet
each day she has to make her own reset.
Not what I'd call too big a thing to do
for somebody just sweeping trash like you.
The SWEEPER OF DREAMS stops sweeping.
WINDOSIL: Oh Windozelle, you can't control the fall.
The SWEEPER OF DREAMS attacks WINDOZELLE with his broom. He knocks her over. Then he sweeps her, with the dreams, the entire length of the kitchen and out of sight.
Musical crescendo under the remaining action?
WINDOSIL goes to the window, opens the curtains, opens the window. Sunlight, birdsong, traffic noises. WINDOSIL moves over to the kitchen counter, and switches on the kettle and the toaster; then to the table, and pours some cereal into the bowl. You can't eat and sing at the same time; let's end there.
(an entry in the English National Opera Mini-Operas script competition; inspired by Neil Gaiman's The sweeper of dreams)
WINDOSIL's flat. Curtained window, with some light beyond it. Kitchen counter, with kettle and loaded toaster; table with cereal-and-toast breakfast setting for one. On the floor, the detritus of Windosil's dreams: toy dinosaurs, model railway tunnels, books with titles like The book of nasty photographs and 101 reasons you should commit suicide.
WINDOSIL sits at the table and stares glumly. WINDOZELLE stands, enjoying her complete mastery of WINDOSIL's life.
WINDOZELLE: On sister duty. I'm here for Windosil,
sticking up for her when the Sweeper of Dreams
arrives to take her nightmares. He's a bully.
I despise nobody more than him.
WINDOSIL: Oh Windozelle, you can't control the fall.
WINDOZELLE: The things he said drove Windosil
to drink and then it made her ill,
mad. She downed fifty of her pill.
She jumped from fifty feet and still
it wouldn't end.
WINDOSIL: Oh Windozelle, you can't control the fall.
WINDOZELLE: You never listen to me, Windosil,
and now all this. Do as your sister says
to keep the Dream Sweeper in his place –
five fruit a day
no travelling
no cheese at night
no tea at night
no wine by day
no consecutives
no adjectives and adverbs
no colour on colour
lie on your back, head to left, knees to right
avoid using the word got
don't talk to people you can't see
pull yourself together like a pair of curtains
dip the powdered bandage in water, every hour on the hour
reset the risk thermostat every night
and leave the morning reset to the Dream Sweeper.
WINDOSIL: Oh Windozelle, you can't control the fall.
Enter the SWEEPER OF DREAMS.
WINDOZELLE: Yes, you. I'd like a word. It must be dull
for you, monotonous, that broom.
I want to give you some variety,
make your life useful. That is why I told you,
when you come here, don't just sweep, but reset
Windosil's risk thermostat. The poor girl
finds it difficult, another cause of worry.
I told you this three months ago and yet
each day she has to make her own reset.
Not what I'd call too big a thing to do
for somebody just sweeping trash like you.
The SWEEPER OF DREAMS stops sweeping.
WINDOSIL: Oh Windozelle, you can't control the fall.
The SWEEPER OF DREAMS attacks WINDOZELLE with his broom. He knocks her over. Then he sweeps her, with the dreams, the entire length of the kitchen and out of sight.
Musical crescendo under the remaining action?
WINDOSIL goes to the window, opens the curtains, opens the window. Sunlight, birdsong, traffic noises. WINDOSIL moves over to the kitchen counter, and switches on the kettle and the toaster; then to the table, and pours some cereal into the bowl. You can't eat and sing at the same time; let's end there.
Saturday, 5 May 2012
A sonnet and a villanelle
These two poems are six years apart. 'The exorcism of limping' was written in 1998 and published in The Poetry Now book of villanelles, edited by Heather Killingray (Peterborough: Poetry Now, 1998), p. 10.
I appeared in a number of Poetry Now anthologies in the 1990s. Be it admitted, I sometimes felt a tad embarrassed about the company I found myself in. But there was good stuff there as well.
THE EXORCISM OF LIMPING
Three things will soothe my twisted ankle best,
soothe it and strengthen it, if not repair –
massage by Clare, turns on the bike, and rest.
Since the chiropodist – please be impressed –
said "Crikey!", waived the cost, and stood to stare,
three things will soothe my twisted ankle best.
Clare lays in it her lap with manifest
enthusiasm to fulfil her share –
massage by Clare. Turns on the bike, and rest,
happen at other times. The bike's a test
of sight, quick thought, and turnings yelled to Clare.
Three things will soothe my twisted ankle best.
Rest blurs the role of invalid and guest –
a fault to keep in mind should I compare
massage by Clare, turns on the bike, and rest.
Rest's the most trouble, bike's the readiest,
Clare brings most happiness. But, to be fair,
three things will soothe my twisted ankle best:
massage by Clare, turns on the bike, and rest.
Another admission to make is that all those three methods of soothing the ankle had to yield place, shortly afterwards, to physiotherapy. I am ashamed to say I have forgotten the name of the medic who gave me a set of exercises in April 1998. Their application brought the ten-month agony of my left foot under control in a few weeks. But massage by Clare, turns on the bike, and rest still have much appeal.
'Take' was written in 2004 for the Spire competition on the theme 'Welcoming strangers', and published in Poetry Nottingham 62(2), 2008, p.3.
TAKE
So take Aziz – Christian in flight, with grounds
for flight – and think of how he used your phone,
unbidden, to run up eight hundred pounds
of calls to Tehran in one bill alone.
Take Charles and Sharon, whose bizarre eloping
stretched a tea invite to a six-week stay
in a North Midlands vicarage, and hoping
goodwill had somehow not been worn away.
Or take the woman who told everywhere
that everybody hated me. I waited,
anxious, and hoping she had not been fair,
to see if I’d drawn hate for being hated.
All these were welcomed strangers once; but so
were you, was I, was everyone I know.
I appeared in a number of Poetry Now anthologies in the 1990s. Be it admitted, I sometimes felt a tad embarrassed about the company I found myself in. But there was good stuff there as well.
THE EXORCISM OF LIMPING
Three things will soothe my twisted ankle best,
soothe it and strengthen it, if not repair –
massage by Clare, turns on the bike, and rest.
Since the chiropodist – please be impressed –
said "Crikey!", waived the cost, and stood to stare,
three things will soothe my twisted ankle best.
Clare lays in it her lap with manifest
enthusiasm to fulfil her share –
massage by Clare. Turns on the bike, and rest,
happen at other times. The bike's a test
of sight, quick thought, and turnings yelled to Clare.
Three things will soothe my twisted ankle best.
Rest blurs the role of invalid and guest –
a fault to keep in mind should I compare
massage by Clare, turns on the bike, and rest.
Rest's the most trouble, bike's the readiest,
Clare brings most happiness. But, to be fair,
three things will soothe my twisted ankle best:
massage by Clare, turns on the bike, and rest.
Another admission to make is that all those three methods of soothing the ankle had to yield place, shortly afterwards, to physiotherapy. I am ashamed to say I have forgotten the name of the medic who gave me a set of exercises in April 1998. Their application brought the ten-month agony of my left foot under control in a few weeks. But massage by Clare, turns on the bike, and rest still have much appeal.
'Take' was written in 2004 for the Spire competition on the theme 'Welcoming strangers', and published in Poetry Nottingham 62(2), 2008, p.3.
TAKE
So take Aziz – Christian in flight, with grounds
for flight – and think of how he used your phone,
unbidden, to run up eight hundred pounds
of calls to Tehran in one bill alone.
Take Charles and Sharon, whose bizarre eloping
stretched a tea invite to a six-week stay
in a North Midlands vicarage, and hoping
goodwill had somehow not been worn away.
Or take the woman who told everywhere
that everybody hated me. I waited,
anxious, and hoping she had not been fair,
to see if I’d drawn hate for being hated.
All these were welcomed strangers once; but so
were you, was I, was everyone I know.
Monday, 16 April 2012
The thought
This poem was written in 2000. It has been published temporarily (15-22 April 2012) by the24project.
THE THOUGHT
(After Humbert Wolfe; concerning one who no longer appears publicly in a wheelchair.)
You need not tell her story again.
Recycled stories, even the curiest,
with no new data in the pen,
dilute and stir what should now rest.
Nor need you beat her for a fraud.
We all use props. A tic, a fear,
a stammer, can grow hard as board,
then fall apart and disappear.
But you may hold in thought the day —
ending who knows what span of days? —
she chose to throw her prop away,
and found that there was no such place.
THE THOUGHT
(After Humbert Wolfe; concerning one who no longer appears publicly in a wheelchair.)
You need not tell her story again.
Recycled stories, even the curiest,
with no new data in the pen,
dilute and stir what should now rest.
Nor need you beat her for a fraud.
We all use props. A tic, a fear,
a stammer, can grow hard as board,
then fall apart and disappear.
But you may hold in thought the day —
ending who knows what span of days? —
she chose to throw her prop away,
and found that there was no such place.
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