Poetry : Sun 6th Aug
I went to see Luke Wright's show yesterday. It was mildly annoying that it started at 4.20, rather than late at night, 'cause night rhymes so well with Wright - it's apposite and I could have started a poem that way - ah well ...
Wearing a white
Poets' shirt
Standing in bright light
Stood up for his right
To be counted
As Poet Laureate
Or at least a contender.
A consummate
Bender of rules
Who made my laugh -
I want to see the show again.
It was great food for the brain.
Later on in the café, I watched two toddlers exploring the space with gusto. It turned out they were twins who would soon be two. They inspired this poem
They told us there'd be joy
At the twelve week scan,
When they said ...
'It's a boy ... And a boy'.
And now we're approaching
The terrible twos,
With double the trouble,
There's also good news.
There's double the joy -
Exploring and crawling -
A boy - and a boy.
I took a walk to get some supplies to restock some of the 'Buckets of Inspiration' that are put out daily in the café area at the Pleasance Dome. Walking down North Bridge, I was struck by the seagulls overhead which followed the direction of the traffic, coursing just above the roofs of the buildings, keeping to the layout of the streets and the people who I saw on my journey.
Back at the Pleasance I was struck by two things - the first, a gentleman sitting alone, finishing a pint of beer.
The umber glow of lines on hands and face
And the wave-foam forms of beer-foam traces in an emptied glass
Warming the inner canvas of the soul.
I watched people come and go - and remembered the seagulls - and worked on this
Chequer-patterned hair;
Half-orange or half-green faces;
Performers in T-Shirts;
Musicians with flair -
You'll see them all there.
Jokers and luvvies and players of games;
Comedians; Armenians;
Slavs; Poles and Finns;
Americans; Russians and Scots debonair -
You'll see them all there.
Not forgetting the English!
They walk down streets
Where seagulls
Trace their flight paths
Overhead, bemused,
Unaware that in this
Atmosphere, they seem
Chekhovian.
Towards the end of the evening, while talking to a group of Fringe people, one of them asked me to write a poem about carrots for him - so I did.
Grow in the ground
On my allotment.
Fragile green leaves
Start as little shoots
Borne on strong roots.
Most people would know
What a carrot looks like,
But how many would
Recognise a carrot seed?
Or look at a carrot
And know where to find one?