Grant Me This - for #nationalpoetryday

I was asked to be one of the #BBCLocalPoets - for #Cambridgeshire - to compose a new #poem as if from the point of view of a local landmark or geographical feature of the area.

After putting it out to people via social media, the one feature that came out again and again was that of the river (in various different ways - as visual feature, bridge-bearer, punt-vehicle, houseboat-home, wildlife-habitat, etc.) and, as it stretches across the whole county, it seemed a good way to celebrate and inhabit the character of the county (bearing in mind that the poem needed to be less than two minutes long and "not political").

It was recorded yesterday, down by the Chesterton Road stretch of the river, and you can see/ hear me read it (somewhat creakily - this is my fifth week of severe laryngitis) here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p04b4cpv



I also went on breakfast radio to be interviewed and to perform some of it live in the studio. I am not a mornings person. It was interesting... :)

(If you want to hear what I sound like early in the morning with laryngitis, check out this link http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p0482z92 - the segment starts at 01:46:55)

Full text below - enjoy! :D  (Credit needs to be given to Carla Keen for the line "Catch, catch, catch..." which I heartlessly stole from a beautiful poem she wrote about her love of rowing.)

Grant Me This

Birthed beyond borders,
I rise in the west,
Scrawl a course
Of eccentric penstrokes
Across this palimpsest.
With my sisters
I weave a drench of memories,
Stretching to the new day's edge.

I have carried you
On my broad back -
Gambolling new beginnings,
Fleece, stone, and corn meal,
Vellum and sand,
Two-tongued, poling solo,
Always with a weather eye
To the next angle.

You have inscribed me,
Drawing me deep into histories,
Gleaming lines sighing,
Igniting visions, lingering
In civilisation's litanies
For those who came before
And all who dream of
Divining mysteries.

I was named backwards,
Shaped by the town
Around which I curve,
A cupped palm,
A charm of siren sounds,
Enclosed and disclosing,
Ringing with myriad bell-tongues
Flooding this rich ground.

Cast me between walls
And I surge and curvette,
Beckon evolution's remedies and
Ambition's gravity,
Leaning into the gradient of Best,
Cresting sly wins at the
Narrowest of passes -
On your marks, get set.

I creak in the mornings -

Gasp and echo the endless
Catch, catch, catch…
Scratching glory etched deep
In the clutch and pull of legs,
Mist-rimed breaths, swelling shoulders,
Cold noses, and warm hearts,
Regardless of your team's net.

In the evening I chug,
Bank-huggers making fragrances
Of home - curtained and potted,
Dot-and-carry dance partners,
These happy-anchored vagrants,
Swaying, framed in gold paint,
Named for the way I spell freedom,
And tomorrow's chances

Your ancestors built me steps,
Bedecked me with loving chains,
Cross-stitching me with sighs and pigsties,
While monarchs, mathematics,
And dragons all stake their claims
As I stride on, lop-sided,
A reminder that, together,
We have made a grace of strangeness.

Hope in Dark Places

Poem written for Hammer & Tongue Bristol, November 2015 - inspired by the poems of the support act and the slammers, and with a pinch of Bristol itself thrown in.

Hope in Dark Places

We have gathered in the valley,
Growing slowly towards the sky,
Waving towards blue.
We twitch dream-tails,
Ancestral bones flowing together
In blood-waters thick as cream,
Leaving lonely alone for a while.
Because the beat won't stop.

And big pauses talk of
Big ideas, gleaming across
Broken glass reflecting red-hot coals.

Leaping over the perfect moment;
Meant to be? or only a blink,
A miniscule flicker of fate...

We reach to the stars,
Burn ourselves on the change
Of nature, consumed

Brewing confusion and black suspicion,
Sometimes mugging
For the sake of stability.

Committing to spicy variety,
Mourning meatier traditions
For the sake of serenity.

Short falls summon joy,
Tall tales flailing their ways
Into gifting hearts.

Dance steps teeter into
The next breath, beckoning
Yearnings for the rain's freedom song.

We shake free of tarry coils,
Boiling with bruises, losing
Nothing but weakness.

And we are super-powered,
Showering the nation with
Greatness, oblating haters.

We have come to the valley.
And we have left it
Better than ever.

Vaulting

This is one of those "tribute to everyone who performed before me tonight" poems from a gig at The Vaults in Cambridge last night that I headlined (and accidentally hosted - long story, all a bit strange). Poets included: Robin Lamboll, a lad called Nathan, Mark McGivern, J.S. Watts, Steve Oldham, Janis Ford, a lass called Katherine, and a feature set from Riaz Moola. In that order. Enjoy!

Vaulting

We have shuffled expressions,
Clocking spontaneity;
A hero strides,
Wider than widescreen,
While we curl into plumes
Of Utopian smoke,
Delicate as eggshells,
A clutch of hillside skies;
Butterflies dance,
Shy as snails,
While we are intoxicated,
Rose-blessed, accompanied,
Blissed-out in nature
As the colours turn.

And we turn in salt-rimed
Darkness, harkening to
The past, gifting history
With prophesy,
Making our own music.