Archive for January, 2013

‘Found Art’

Posted: January 29, 2013 in Home


rats in trouble copy


book antiqua 10 jan_edited6_edited-1final_edited-1


These are found poems from the vocabulary in the pieces Michael gave us for the 23rd January seminar; interesting words for the collaborative work?

found 1

found 2

found 3

Not my voice!

Posted: January 19, 2013 in Home

Steve has suggested
“It might (or equally might not) be interesting to write a draft with no virtuoso imagery, just a purely comprehensible line of thought.”
but I have decided it’s not my voice to be honest; I love puns and word play too much to give up my pyrotechnics – it does not sound like me to me!

So this is the unadorned version:-

We went to see the psychic show at Blackfriars
ready for a laugh at the credulous audience.
But in the bar during the interval we talked about
the hows and whys of what we’d seen.Wonders?
Miracles? Speculated about research and fakery,
decided we’d only be convinced if he picked us out,
and so he did. He knew the impossible and said
the unthinkable. I had always been a cynic;
my world was dust and ashes, home to clever monkeys.
I needed tangible proof to believe, just like
Doubting Thomas who pushed his fingers into
the wounded side of the resurrected Christ.

For days my reality was shaken. All my dead lined up
and I was searching for some hint of an afterlife, something
to believe. Had I been stupid, with a brain that didn’t know
true from false? Were all the tears I cried for my dead father,
dead babies, over those years for nothing? Had I let my fear
of death and nothingness ruin my life and stifle my belief?
Was there a tiny chance that there was something after all?

thinking about the pamphlet…

Posted: January 18, 2013 in Home

Two versions of the same poem; it came from visiting a psychic show for entertainment and having a weird experience.
The first one is formal and rhyming and the second is free verse.

Seeing Psychics

All week I’ve been listening for voices from beyond ,
scared that the crying dead would leak through chinks
where time has loosened its cruel fingers. I think
my doubts are safe as houses, yet I join the fond
queue of relatives, hoping for post mortuary links.

The vampire of myself flits round those moonlit darks
but bones are dumb and silent in their mounds.
I’m in the red plush theatre, looking for a bloody wound
to soak my fingers in. But my expectations bark
their shins. My mangy werewolves stalk

my cemetery spaces, with flattened ears and tails
between their legs, past clouded figures, heads
tied up in shawls. Here is a bright thread
for me to follow though my heart fails
at the hiss of breath that stirs those veils.

Pumpkin-headed, running by my turnip light
if I had looked hard enough or looked at all
could I have seen past or through that seeming fall
into darkness? To a waking from annihilating night,
to that bright filament that leads you to the light?


All that week you’d been listening for voices from beyond
scared that the crying of the dead would leak through chinks
where time had lost its grip. You were looking for a bloody wound
to wash your fingers in. But your doubts were safe as houses.

Then the clouded mannequins of your salty, wrung-out years rushed
forward to parade bound heads and shawls, with the suspicion of a pattern
scattered on those silks. If you had looked at all, pumpkin-head, you
would have seen them running by your own dull sputter.

And have learned that the wolves at your heels were nothing but those
cringing dogs whose ears flatten as you pass the beating of their tails.
And the vampire of yourself? It was of course so busy feeding that,
once again, you missed the thread that leads you to the light.