Commonword Blogs

Thanks everyone for all your comments. Here's version 2....

Until I call your name
you speak with glass voice
make my slow sonnets fade and curl

The dry trees crackle with
unconscious blossoming

Conscious of brittle bones, of cracked teeth, sand scatters
It echoes dust

Will your grieving bed prevail?
Direct dry tongues to dying towns?

Your eager fingers grasp - and clutch
life measured with tales told, words sold
And how to calculate the weight of feathers, or of gold?

You unfurl dusty half-deserted sheets

Ordinary Men

They took us out into the bush at night
And made us sing liberation songs till dawn but they couldn’t –
Dismantle the image we'd built of white men as gods in our minds

They spoke of Independence
Of Ghana, of Nigeria, of guerrilla warfare but they still –
Couldn’t take the fear out of our hearts

Finally, they beat us
When world war two began they told us to resist but we still –
Went off to enlist

Until we saw them –
Ordinary men
Comforting weeping wives
Kissing screaming children on their cheeks
“Back before Christmas!”

This is an edited version of a poem I've been working on:

Make Love not War

Two women
One from the North of England
Saleha was her name
her parents good Muslims from Pakistan
she scattered Yorkshire vowels
drove a red, convertible babe-magnet

The other, her lover
from the South
we’ll call her Sangeeta,
her parents good Hindus from India
with a good Hindu daughter
Concentrating on work
Never chasing the boys

There are no crumbs, no bed to trace
Where your body once rested

There is a space in my apartment

No one to pour me tea, two lumps
Half a cup

Bathroom turned back to normal
No water to mop up

My yoga mat sits in the corner: Lonely, like a sheep on
Barren land

My walls weep: Missing your dangly feet and outstretched hands

My sides no longer ache, from sillies and laughter
Your recitals’ of dreams and of happy ever after

There is a space in my apartment.

Your voice singing the blues: Lingers, like the towel you left draped
Over the living room door -

I've performed no poetry since my last poetry blog, hence the silence.
I've also written no poetry, hence the silence. But I did write half a poem two months ago that I couldnt finish, until this week.

In Case of Emergency

When buses become boxes
That hide secret motives to control a nation
When buses become boxes
Where people are encouraged 2 sit next 2 each other & not notice
Communication opportunities – it may be time to stand up and ring the bell

When buses drive us not to but away from the action

When buses become trenches

Its been 9 weeks, 2 days, 8 hours, 37 minutes and 18 seconds since my last blog. I have NOT been on holiday. It’s been 4 weeks, 1 day, 2 hours, 3 minutes and 23 seconds since the last Speakeasy. 6 weeks, 3 days, 1 hours, 32 minutes and 5 seconds since I walked into the first session of Ben Mellor’s ‘Performance vs Content’ workshop one hour late intent on improving my performance skills in time for the Speakeasy stage.

There must have been about 3 or 4 of 'em. Maybe even 5. I cant really remember. Dont... really - want to remember.. But Anyway, I must, O Blog Master, oh horror of horrors. How can I say this? Second time on the stage & I forgot my lines. There, its out. Its taken me 2 weeks.
I'd spent all morning memorizing. Didn't really have to; I mean, it was my latest poem, therefore it was my best poem. I even went to the Urbis event without my sheets. I'd memorized not one but two poems! After all, Segun had said seven minutes...

It pleases me that the poetry reading is in a library. I imagine a small audience and when I walk into the room on time to find only fellow poet Nabila and her family, the emptiness lends an air of confidence to the soul. It hovers, expands. 30 minutes later the same soul has shrunk at the sight of the growing audience. The event begins and Anjum introduces Nabila. Beside me sit Kervin Charles and Tachia Newall, both experienced poets. I watch her as she stands up, smiles, reads. I hear nothing of the poetry I normally enjoy.

My Mother died in 1995. I was very young.
Months later, I sat in a classroom trying to describe the scene. My first attempt at independent creative writing.
Fast Forward to May, 2008. I’m in London, reaching for my vibrating phone. The message pops up on the screen before fading into the background: Yahoo Email. Anjum Malik. Usual niceties. Point: Poetry Reading in Rochdale. Pete said you dabble. Interested?

Or just very short poems. Actually I'm interested in at what point something becomes a poem and my way of investigating this is to write poems that if they were any shorter wouldn't be poems. The question are what makes something a poem, and also is it possible to agree that a piece is or isn't a poem? I have a feeling some of what I consider poetry other people wouldn't.