Remains

I continue to feel a real sense of loss at the departure of the 20 trees that were in the car park of my local swimming pool.  I wrote a poem a couple of days ago about my first reaction in 'Gone' and thought that would be it.  But it isn't.
          I think part of my resentment is based on the fact that not only have they cut down all those trees, but also the car park is going to be closed for the next month at least while they do something or other to it.  Parking is not easy in this area and the loss of the car park makes the situation very much worse.  So bad indeed that I may have to bring my bike out of retirement!  Now that is something.
          So, no trees and I will have to make an extra effort to go for my daily swim!  Such emotions are well worth an extra poem.  Which is what follows.
          I am bemused by the fact that, with the size of the lorry that they had, they have been unable to take away all the vegetation and some is left looking like bonfires waiting for the match!  There is also a certain amount of peripheral discusion/work/consultation going on and an amazing ballet of now-you-see-them-now-you-don't with the workers themselves.
          I hate the fact that the trees have gone and I feel that the ecology of the area of the centre has already been changed.  As I say in the poem,
Earth newly turned,
wind dries to dust,
already blown, unhindered,
through the empty space
It's as though I can see a new Dust Bowl being created in local centre before my very eyes!
          I felt that there was something very modern about seeing one workman on his phone with his back to the 'fresh, dead wood' and for a moment I saw a sort of television report of an incident where most of the action was concerned with media reporting the incident than the incident itself.  We live in a world where the selfie is seen an ordinary affirmation of reality rather than a very odd take on it indeed!  A sort of concept where nothing is real until you have taken a photo of it and put it all on social media.
          Anyway, all these ideas were in my head when I wrote this.  And I have an uneasy feeling that this latest addition to the 'Winter trees' sequence on this particular aspect will not be the last!

Winter trees

iii.     Remains                     

Earth newly turned,

wind dries to dust,

already blown, unhindered,

through the empty space

that once was filled

by what’s been cut away.

Some debris stubbornly remains

in incoherent heaps like

smashed, discarded toys,

with odd appendages

still reaching out,

untwitching,

in uneasy air.

The men who dug

are all engaged

in other tasks

around the edge

of that new waste.

One’s turned his back

on fresh, dead wood,

and on his phone

completes a modern scene

by foregrounding Facebook

and dancing thumbs.

While what is real   

lies just beyond the screen

soon to be cleared.

As I said with 'Gone' I am not sure that the numbers will remain the same when the sequence is edited and finished, but this is work in progress and it will do for now.

The single subject which is addressed most frequently in my poetry is - the swimming pool.  I wish my muse was a little more glamorous and academically acceptable, but my thirty-minute daily swim is a time when my mind is concentrated and a strange form of introspection takes place!
          My statutory cup of tea after my swim is a time when I take out my note book and write something, anything, in the hope that it might be of use later.
          Swimming in a public pool is a social activity which has as many rules and rituals as the Tea Ceremony.  From entering the reception area to changing, swimming, showering and dressing there are a whole series of 'ways of doing' which are as complex as they are pointless!  But they exist and I am prepared to bet that most people get dressed and undressed in a certain order; they shower in a certain way; they have their own swimming style and they interact clothed/bathing costume/naked in a set series of ways.  I feel that such things are worthy of note.
          The following poem was provoked because, irritatingly, there was not an empty lane for me to swim in and I had to share with another swimmer.  I am reminded of an old Ben Elton comedy routine about the need that people have to get a double seat to themselves when travelling on a train.  It's the same sort of thing in a swimming pool.
           This poem, if it survives the process of editing and drafting, will form part of 'Flesh Can Be Bright' to be published in the autumn, in the 'Swimming' section!

Crawl

Strokes that range

outside the body’s width

are territorial.

The bulldozer of butterfly, and

breaststroke’s lazy sweep.

Drifting, diagonals, unfocussed back

stroke, and the dawdling

of the rest.

They claim a space,

that breaches borders

set, unseen, between

the plastic floats.

The compact swimmer,

narrow groove confined,

may co-exist with ease

within a single lane

with all like-minded

souls, and pass,

untroubling, untouched

along the way

to meet the edge

and turn and seek

again something

the same and different.

The problem with poems like this, as I see it, is wondering whether this stands alone as a poem or whether it needs to be with other poems on a similar subject.  I hope that the specifics of swimming do not restrict the meaning of the poem and that it reaches outwards and makes some sort of point that can be appreciated by non-swimmers as well.

          To be frank, I am not sure that this poem makes it out of the water.  But I will return in time and look through it again with a more critical eye!

Winter trees ii. Gone

With no advance warning, the car park in the leisure centre was closed so that twenty trees growing there could be cut down and removed.
          Parking was always 'interesting' as there was supposed to be two car parking spaces between each pair of trees - though it has to be said that not everyone parked as if they believed that two cars could fit.
          Now, suddenly, all the trees are gone in that part of the centre and my feelings are complicated by the fact that those trees have been the inspiration for one and a half sequences of poems!

The following is my response to the removal and it will be part of the eventual sequence Winter Trees.



Winter Trees

ii.   Gone

The blossom headed grab

picks up what’s left of

twenty trees.

When this year’s growth

was not cut back,

I should have known

that something was afoot.

And now these winter-winnowed

twigs protrude from that

closed metal sphere

like so much wayward hair.

Spaced equally, the twenty

shallow pits share emptiness

concave, not deep.

How easy to remove. 

And cut. 

Fresh, pungent stumps

that flaunt their age

in death.

Those trees were never huggable.

The rough, stained, ulcered bark

defied caress.  And yet.

Will asphalt fill the cavities

where roots once were?

And cars park easily

on obstacle free ground?

And memory forget

that there were ever trees?

Although I have given this poem the designation of 'ii.' in the sequence I do not think that it will necessarily end up being second in the finished work.  At least the trees which form a sort of canopy for the 'outside' tables have been left!

I'm not sure that this poem stands by itself, but it certainly forms part of a growing sequence which centres on my swimming.

Justified ire

Rough beard and garish briefs

do not a swimmer make!

His hairy chest and

yawing crawl, with feet

and legs awry and

clumsy stroke which

splashed and dragged

redundant spray –

inelegant

and, unrefined!

And he left me behind.

With ease.  

          

          Even with board

between his legs,

to work the arms,

I could not match his speed.

And did he even know

it was a race?

I tell myself, 

          though slower,

I’m the one with, ‘style’.

I would though,

wouldn’t I?

Another poem, just like the rest, that needs to be set aside for consideration at a later date.

Winter trees - i. Dead leaves

I have been making notes for a new series of poems on 'Winter trees' to link to the series on 'Autumn trees' - you can see where this is going.  I like the challenge of writing linked shorter poems on a topic which has been so central to poetry for as long as we have been around.
          This is the first that I have written from a whole backlog of notes and I have found it very hard going.  What you see here is very much a draft and I imagine that it will undergo a whole series of edits before it makes it to a book.  But I do think that there is something here worth working on.  I think.

Winter trees

i.  Dead leaves

Dust-delicate, thin

fallen, lace reveals

the scaffold’s shards

and splinters.  Sharp,

root-clawing into blue,

the branches show us

what can not be seen.

And distant spring

is coiled into the trunk

for the surprise that’s

old, and always new.

Already I have edited this poem and redrafted it - perhaps that is a sign of the 'hard going' I mentioned!  I think this is an improvement, but it has a way to go yet.

i.  Dead leaves

Dust-delicate,

thin, fallen lace

reveals

the scaffold’s shards and

splinters. 

Sharp,

root-clawing into blue,

the branches show

what isn’t seen.

And distant Spring

coiling

inside the trunk

for the surprise

that will be old,

yet always new.

I will probably not post another version of this unless there are real and substantive differences.

So much, for what I said in the last sentence.  This is a third version and I am going to give my editing zeal a rest and look back on this some time in the future.

i.  Dead?

Dust-delicate,

thin, fallen lace

of weathered leaves

denudes

the stark geometry. 

Naked,

root-clawing into blue,

the branches strain

from hidden depths.

And distant Spring

coils deep

inside the trunk

and waits for the

surprise

that’s ages old,

and yet, each time,
is new.

I'm sure these versions say something about the way I work, but perhaps I need to press on with other poems and give the thoughts here time to settle!

Visitor

I read myself in writing,

where, sometimes, I discover

I’m revealed as little more than

‘tourist’ in my life. 

I write, sometimes,

as though my eyes don’t have a link

to that odd force that moves my pen.

And when I realise I’m writing

what I know I knew, I feel

as though my words are orchestra

and each new letter’s on a stave

where chord by chord Abide with me

plays on while the Titanic sinks.

My gaze deflects,

and carnival is turned
into the main event.

Scare

Day 1

Nothing was there.

Because only undifferentiated skin

was there before.  
                            A vague

but tactile, little lump

filled ‘nothing’ with a

budding fear that grew

quite circumstanially:

it’s in the danger area, armpit and

lymph-nodes-cancer-death –

screamed behind cold logic which

averred that all this fuss was

just a simple pimple’s pus.

Day 2

Do I recall an itch, a vague

uncomfortableness

under the arm, before

an object formed for touch?

Perhaps.  But what is not a question

is the fact that there is now a

new off-centre focus to my

universe which radiates to

utter dark and tightens to a

limb: the arm, arm pit, on

the left side.

Day 3

So, I have shown it off,
or rather shown it to,

and I’ve been told to wait

and see if it gets worse.

When I touch, there is no pain.

But it is something

foreign I don’t want.

This thing has crawled out from

my skin and scrawled on paper.

It is now a character, as in a tale.

But you can close a book;

the page within my arm

still turns.

Day 4

In spite of everything
I have been told,

my questing fingers seem to lead

a life which is their own.

‘Leave it alone’ is right

and proper and impossible. 

So what was just a slight

protuberance is now a thing

of rage. 

And I can sense the vessels

in my arm are skirmishing;

or are they digging in

for a much longer war?

Day 5

The thing is not positioned

so the view’s direct.

The bathroom light is dim,

the mirror misted and

there’s so much more
imagination tells

than I can see.

The Savlon’s not to hand, and so

I try a Spanish salve which uses

iodine to rub in confidence.

Such ointments help to soothe

away the cancerous fear - 

if not cancer itself.

Day 6

I know the thing is there,

by sense, if not by feel.

There is no pain,

just doubt.

Day 7

Still there.

Though now there is a need

to search.  I want it gone,

and yet it centres my concern.

I trace a finger round the

contours of unease

and speculate about beneath.

Day 8

The passing blimp.

The small and giving dirigible

just waiting for the slicing light

and corpuscular ack-ack to

see it off.

The Jabberwock is slain -

although my soft and silent thought
still wonders.