colours lie like tarantino bad men.
black and white films are carved from truth.
they are the books of a lost bible
the light of god is in the white bits
his voice is score, soundtrack and dialogue
and most of the prophets are dead
which is usually the case
and maybe just as well.
living prophets tend to get sectioned.
we could turn the churches into cinemas
‘now voyager’ on sunday,
‘blossoms in the dust’ the next.
‘the bride of frankenstein’ and ‘eraserhead’
at midnight mass.
jonathan ross could become
archbishop of canterbury and arbitrate
on obscure matters of theology
and all issues would be seen
as black and white.
what a difference it would make.
Today I took a walk up to the beach
all by myself, to face the Atlantic,
not like the surfers do, all challenging
but like a supplicant, with reverence.
This if anything is our creator
breaking like a wet heart upon the sand
oblivious to its driftwood offspring.
The exciting thing is knowing all this,
not bothering to share it with the world.
Let them keep their dry bibles and baked words.
I will hold this secret for their children
and the vision of their joyful fathers
skimmed like flat stones over the thoughts of God.
You remind me of that bible story about the drowning man
who expects God to save him.
He dies and asks why God didn’t save him
and God says ‘I sent you a motor boat and
You’re quite right
There were no helicopters in the bible…
Or motor boats.
It must have been made up later,
after helicopters were invented,
but that’s not the point.
The man did not see that God was
trying to save him.
Well, yes, the man was dead
when he found that out.
I don’t know how we know
what God said, but that’s not the point.
It’s a story.
I don’t see what’s funny about that!
You should be drowning, not laughing.
An angelwing was sprayed on to the blue;
a contrail streamered by a raking wind.
Some may, no doubt, see signs of the divine
in these flatulent remains, the sky’s dregs.
And yet, there’s something great there all the same.
I wondered as I watched if only I
had witnessed this. No one looks up these days
not unless a voice calls from above.
There was no voice, by the way, just in case
you think I’m heading in that direction,
just this great wing with its wind carved feathers
arcing to the left of the setting sun.
It was random, senseless, magnificent.
Then it was gone; didn’t leave a message.
is the struggle to awaken
the metaphor of watching
that poor beetle in the bathtub.
i shoved the tissue under him and
took him to the window.
he thinks i’m god. i’ve taken him
from purgatory to
he’ll tell the other beetles
of my godcup lake of godcoffee
my godly smoke, my godly frown,
my godly morning news
and my noisy godly craps.
i try to climb the god enamel.
god keeps turning on the taps.
god brought us together
so i can explain slowly
that he doesn’t exist
it’s a paradox i know
but the truest things are opposites
they’re strange attractors
believers and the godless
yearn to warp the needles
of the others’ knitting
my money’s on me
to be making the jumper
with the strongest wool
Still no sign of God.
I’ve called and left messages
and had no reply.
I even prayed for
a valid e-mail address
that I could write to.
He should move with the times
in a mysterious way
but mostly forward,
set up call centres,
Mumbai and New Delhi.
We could ring and
complain to ofGod
if we can’t get a response.
Then they can fine him.
There are no angels here
that will own up, come clean
and show their wings.
I’d thought them in hiding;
a kind of godless protection programme.
New names, a house. Jobs.
Maybe they have forgotten
who they are
and how to fly,
have grounded themselves
in houses drenched
with christmas lights
or else keep racing pigeons
lovingly housed in kits
on precarious ledges.
They will have blistered feet
no belly buttons
facial hair or nipples
I’ve tried to seek them out.
I’ve searched and searched.
But nothing… Nothing.
I was discussing Tom Waits earlier, having today listened to his ‘Real Gone’ album, an amazing bit of American Gothic Blues. I was thinking while listening to it that if David Lynch is stuck for someone to provide additional music for his new ‘Twin Peaks’ series (yes, it is coming back apparently) then Tom would be ideal. Indeed, Tom himself would make an ideal resident for this most surreal of American small towns.
Many years ago, I was having another discussion about music in general and was asked if I had any Tom Waits albums.
‘Yes,’ I replied, quite confidently. ‘I can’t remember what it’s called, but it’s a CD with a black and yellow cover.’
Later, the thought of the CD returned to me. After a fruitless search through the shelves, and through my memories to try and recall what tracks might have been on it, I came to the conclusion that I had never had the CD in the first place. Why I imagined I had was a bit of a mystery, but the mind is an odd thing and we can convince ourselves of all sorts of nonsense, particularly in regard to the past.
I started writing a poem about this incident which went through an amazing process of rewrites and revisions over a ridiculous number of years (during which I acquired a ridiculous number of Tom Waits albums and became a committed fan).
Serendipitously, the poem ended up as an extended metaphor for something else completely. It was published by London Grip in 2011.
tom waits is missing
we can’t recite our canon of cds
unless we have just three
or too much time on our hands.
but we know them when we see them
like the faces of celebrity saints
from the hello bible.
that tom waits was present,
safe as gospel
between the book of verve
and the books of whitesnake
but he’s not.
the title hovers at the edge of recall
like a maddening psalm. it tests my faith.
i pray for tracks
into empty silence, void.
then i reach that point of
the liberating moment when
i’m suddenly aware
of the loss of
something that was never there.
The online magazine Antiphon is featuring sonnets in its next issue (due out in September) and has accepted one of my bits of autobiographical whinging… which is nice.
Sonnets are very addictive. I’ve been writing at least one a month for years, usually named after the month, as there’s often references to the weather although the actual subject might be something quite different.
The good thing about this practice is that it assembles itself into a diary of mood and opinion.
Here’s one that was published a few years ago, in Anon 6
We usually have that Easter business
bouncing around the calendar each year,
like they have to make sure it doesn’t clash
with the X-Factor or a football match.
‘What are you doing for Easter?’ they say
once it’s crept up unannounced from behind;
clamped you to its cross of bleak tradition,
now that it’s too late to book a coma.
‘Not much,’ you say, and smile that weary smile
of suffering, the one that Jesus did
with idiots who thought it was the tricks
that made the difference. ‘I’m just staying home.’
Best take to your bed. Rise on the third day.
No witnesses. That just causes trouble.