Old lore it was - a form of love - that held a mode for living: heed fast the roles to follow through en-route ascension, heaven. Band rates survived the loss of life; a ledge for new fry flown anew, as it was done (respectful sons). A guided stance, atrophied moves. To doff salute to ancient age, fall latest leaves from yester's trees, but men surge fast while women laugh emancipated, broken free. The hold of old ways cowelled and cowed by moolah-designed Me one, me first. My world you live in now, not then, Bright House a lighthouse before the hearse.
The poems Flit and For Sons of Daughters (below) were previously printed in #58 of The Journal in 2017 or so. To say they are representative of my work, well… I don’t know.
Flit concerns my local part of the country of Lancashire – and English to an extent – lives as lived out by families in the North-west of England. Growing up, I learnt about ‘flitting’ in a context of people fleeing the rent man or landlord. The poem isn’t about that – rather the opposite actually – but it is concerned with movement into the future with one eye on the past (or is that the other way around?)
The second poem focuses on my mother (and her now-passed husband) and my interactions with them. As ever with poetry, the success of these two pieces may well rest on the reader’s identification in spite of the possible danger of them appearing parochial in any way.
I would hope that my poems now display a progression and a greater ambition (in structure and syntax, increased clarity, variety of subjects, metrical flexing and so on), but an editor would be better placed to determine that rather than me (my oblique way of crying for help).
Pick up the pegs (avoid her bend) is my sole thought when I survey these colours splashed outside their house. This rained-down game without the rules - might next-door spurn this plastic vommed? Not corralled right... but they! Their backs look well broke, scrat. Corners ordinary destitute. There's scant chance of a friendly wave as each follows their own standard. Flower tips afore brought Eid offerings (hasty greets only then shown). Life is all narco-serene. Tiempo bought; last brews took in; a found array of old folk's things strewn willed-nil cross the sofa front. Instead of taking in a load of odds and sods for ma and her old man, it's my quiet turn to leave the scene and tool noise, kindly, for the clan.
