Asphalt Sky

The first issue of Asphalt Sky is up — an online literary journal conceived by Jessica Fox-Wilson (9 to 5 poet). I’m one of the editors and am very proud of it as there’s some fantastic poetry and prose and some wonderful art. A big thank you and well done to all the contributors. And take note that the next deadline for submissions is 1 September, so get writing/painting/clicking !

floe

not an iceberg calved
creaking
from snowfields but

crystallised saltwater,
a constellation of atomic stars
shooting, careening into
each other like chaos

till fragments settle into a slick
skin that skims the ocean,

stratum upon strata

drifting slowly South,

a whale, humpbacked,
poised at the moment
of breaching, by the time

it reaches the Chukchi Sea
ribs have arched into rafters
and it’s a cathedral,
a vast ice edifice spired,
traversing blue, shadowing

the submarine flicker of fish
on into meltwater.

Gingerbread?

I do not act alone you understand,
my way, my voice is hers.

As children we are imprinted
like the ammonite’s coil,

learn what we know of
mothering there –

in this case to sharpen life
and place it on a high shelf,
what might have a refrain,

hovering fretfully till they
fall asleep swathed in fairytales,
sentry crows blackeyed in the eaves.

I am a distillation in a bottle,
pipette fully loaded,
antidote and poison both.
k
k

For read write poem.

Heat-waving

I should be trying to write something, instead I am listening to Beethoven and eating strawberries.

England’s in the middle of a heatwave, sky echoing blue, sun searing and I’ve spent the weekend in gardens and parks and am freckly, sleepy and not capable of deep thought.

It’s different here in sunshine, people smile, talk to strangers, drink Pimms, sunbathe on patches of grass the size of postage stamps listening to hiphop and humming bees……it’s a good place to be.

So no writing tonight, I’m going to read and have a glass of very cold white wine.

Mutations

Swathed in sun,
sky sheer,
the sighing sift of air then

windrushes,

grass blades flickering lightfast
like metronomes,

two magpies mewling
in the gutter, sneering moss
onto the lawn. Beaks,

I think of scissors poised
to slice,

place a drink to my lips
and as the warm liquid flows
it is not clear where it
ends and I begin,

skin dissolves
into motion,

my face follows,

a solution,

flowing,
I am flowing
through a pinhole.

For Totally Optional Prompts on transformation.

Music meme

Mariacristina had this meme up and as I love music, I wanted to play along.

Think of THE song that most inspires you to write, whether it gives you an idea for a story, script or just puts you into a better frame of mind AND/OR peek into the lyrics and find a verse that sums up the theme of whatever project it is you’re working on. If possible, post a video of the song to convey to readers the full context of the song and the mood it puts you into. Finally, send the assignment to five other writers to do as well.

Like her, I can’t do it to the letter, but I will put up the three tracks which I listen to when I’m writing, and when inspiration is low, they usually work.

The Doors: Touch Me……there will never be another band to touch them. And the lyrics, perfect poetry, I’m gonna love you, till the heavens stop the rain, I’m gonna love you till the stars fall from the sky for you and I.

The Stone Roses: I am the Resurrection, sorry no decent movie for this, but it is the best song ever made in my ever so humble opinion. It needs to be full blast.

Razorlight: Somewhere Else

 

There’s lots of other stuff I listen to, most all of it indie, though I do love opera, classical, but these three are my motivators. If you want to play along, go for it.
 

ending

silence
absolute
then the crash of hands
on keys echoing out

a door slamming

I am still am
only my heart’s
rhythmic pursuit

fluent fingers flying

prestissimo

ribboned sound like
fallen leaves swirling
a swarm in sudden wind

till the tempo changes again

is restrained
gentler now

insect wings on
window panes

diminuendo

sssssshhhhhh

softly breathing
curling into myself

a niente

Pssssssssst

You can read today’s offering over at qarrtsiluni………..and a big thankyou to those of you who already did.

Miramon

Edouard Manet, copyright The National Gallery

Maximillian stands in the centre
flanked by two generals,
jerks as the bullet rips through
Mejia the unseen third,
squeezing Miramon’s hand,
his thumb a trigger curve,
the soldiers in French uniform
though Mexican –
surely a commentary on
Napoleon’s decision to withdraw.
The firing squad, was the blood
louder in their ears than gunpowder
or were they thinking of national pride,
or of the last time they shot a man?
Perhaps one needed to piss,
another had an unsteady hand
after a night of mescal,
here only one shows his face,
eyes down, caught up
in the mechanics of his rifle.
They are not standing in a row
as I would have imagined them,
no the only straight lines are
where the canvas has been cut
and reassembled
like the frames of a film,
giving the scene an
ironic momentum,
Miramon facing his killers,
execution stayed
ad infinitum.

Standing in front of the painting, the canvas huge, mesmerising, another cluster of people staring at him, and his eyes not afraid, no, resigned, expectant. My own drift to the blue hills beyond, to the sky clouded by the breath of smoking guns, to shadowed ground, these things are easier to look on than Miramon.

A woman with headphones pushes through the small crowd to the front, is taking hurried notes, I want to know what she is writing but do not ask, only move away subdued, feeling as if I had been there looking on.

Arteries

I was in London on Wednesday, went to the National Gallery and then to see a play, Fram, by the poet Tony Harrison — an intelligent, irreverent, often very funny look at the role of poetry in society – does it have the power to change the way we think, particularly about big issues…well if the audience was anything to go by then the answer is a loud, seatsqueaking no. It was composed of the sort of theatre patrons who go because it’s theeearrrr-t, not for any love of poetry, that was apparent by their restlessness and failure to recognise the humour and cleverness in the writing. Oh well, at least they go.
But back to the National, I spent about two hours walking the gallery’s timeline, 1200 to 1900, and it was a strange experience, religious art and patron’s portraits, many of which seem to me to have a place based on having survived rather than any intrinsic value, brushstroked away by the impressionists, okay that’s a little simplistic in terms of art history, but as you walk through this monumental space, marble floors, vaulted ceilings, hallowed lighting, you suddenly find yourself in front of Monet’s Irises and the fluorescent light goes on: you’re staring at a canvas that for me perfectly embodies that shift, is almost a matrix of the genre, for though I’ve always loved impressionist art, I’ve tended to dismiss them as a little too pretty pretty, not enough fire, but seeing them in context I realised how revolutionary they were, major movers and shakers.
I left and walked out into a crazy rainstorm and was glad for once to be swallowed by the underground at rush hour, strange though it was to be back in the pushshove of tired, aggressive people breathing into your face, noses millimetres from early evening armpits hanging from ceiling straps, nobody making eye contact, the opposite of intimate which ironically is distant. From Waterloo we walked along the South Bank in the rain, the sky lightening, wet paving stones silvered, like the river was seeping through the city’s defences. London’s an amazing city, the architecture, the arts and running through it, a beautiful artery.