The Politeness of Princes

Quite a few of you will have noticed that I have a bit of a problem with punctuality. I genuinely maintain that this is because I'm slightly time-dyslexic, but that might just be a feeble excuse masquerading as Greek-flavoured verisimilitude (and potentially offensive to actually dyslexic people). Anyway, turns out that I wrote (another) poem about this about 2 years ago. Have just found the notes for it today during a tidying binge; tidied version below:

This morning, time refused to function,
Fainting and failing,
Flapping like a Georgian hysteric,
Clutching at a shawl-draped,
Snow-white bosom, all fluttering eyelids.

I blinked and missed dollops of minutes,
Handfuls at a time while the lady
Gibbered, rolled her eyes, tore her hair,
Gasped for and pushed off attention.

You see, last night's sleep kept out of reach,
A stony suitor, all dark Byronic profile,
This morning's slumber all over me,
Hanging off extremities like a clingy second choice
I may have kissed once at a party.

Let them fight it out between themselves.
I pushed through chores and breakfast,
Dressing mechanically, commuting stoically,
Trudging past temptations
To make it into work on time. Just.

Earth Song - for Jill

Jill Eastland has an exhibition called "Our Land Our Lives" at The Six Bells in Covent Garden, Cambridge, 1-31 May. It's a series of statements inspired by and dedicated to the struggle of the Roma and other Traveller folk at Dale Farm and those who tried to defend them against their eviction. She asked me to perform at her opening private view tonight (along with the magnificent talents of host Johnny Marvel, poet Keely Mills, singer-songwriter Faith Taylor, and musician-sham David Crowbar) and I was inspired by her work (the titles of some of which turn up in the piece) to write the following tonight:

We are here.
On common land we stand
Entwined
Root and branch
Arc us earth to sky
And we fly - leaf-twist
On the good wind
Diving swift as hawk-stoop
To burrow underground.
We are rabbit-thump rumour,
The liquid trickle
Of brook-mimicking birdsong,
Soft and strong as running water.

And you cannot stop us,
Cannot choke the love
That is our breath.
We will erode you, drop by drop,
Weed-crack your concrete,
Rust you and reclaim you.
Entwined, eternal -
Root and branch, bird and rain -
We stand. Common land.
Forever.

7pm Regent Street

It's a long walk
Trotting clumsily
And late, carrying
My own beration
Until I choose
To let it go.
I'm the only one
Scurrying, muscles
Knotting, a clot
Of office-dressed
Momentum in a sea
Of those disposed
To partying.

And now, side-stepping,
Breath drowning in the
Aftershave scents,
Desperate stares
And cigarettes
Of early Friday
Summer evening,
Weaving my way
Through cleavage
And pecs, loud laughs
And gazes
Paving the way
For the after-dark...

I am smoke.
Or a tributary
With a different
Purpose.
I used to feel
Cursed but I know
I'm just a different
Verse of a song
That was being written
Long before I was conceived
And will echo long
Beyond these bones
Achieving dust.

I am not corruption,
Not rust on a pristine
Sheen, a blemish,
I am free. Not better
Either, just a different
Set of steps,
A counterpoint -
Belated and berated
Syncopation in this
Never-ending dance.
Chance led me
To this place and now,
By everything
That I hold dear,
I'll choose to live
The life that love
Has given me.