1304 - Under the hood

A cold day; spring seems to have retreated
Snowfall in Scotland and Northern Ireland
Sporadic rain in Manchester; I hid
Under my hood as I walked and listened
To music through headphones. Once more the sound
Of longing, disappointment, anger, soul
Reflects the inner self that remains bound
To this body that to most if not all
Seems at least okay if not wonderful
It’s nice, I guess, to stay beneath this lid
It’s comforting, though few can understand
But it’s really not too bad, on the whole
I’ve paid my dues, so let me spend my bread
Roaming at will, wanderer on the land

1303 - Rain over Belfast

Another trip to Ireland (for the day)
Fly-Be to the moon, I mean, to Belfast!
Couldn’t see the hills - rain was in the way
Snow had fallen overnight; overcast
Was the sky: the port cranes were lost in mist
Like thin yellow King Kongs. Got to the ten
O’clock meeting on time; taxi was fast
Sad news that Northern Ireland’s still a den
Of thieves, smugglers and drug-pushers, but then
There’s still folk working hard to make them pay
The sons of gangsters ply their trade; the cost
Is millions lost to fund education
Healthcare, transport, business. We try to lay
The foundations of peace upon the dust

1302 - We're all in the Wirral

A quick night out over in the Wirral
In Moreton, to be precisely precise
It’s quite an achievement to have gone all
That way, almost as far as Irish seas
And back home by 23:33’s
Of the clock, which went forward; now light nights
Are here for a few months, welcoming skies
Urge us out for an evening of delights
Even a motorway’s drive away; lights
Not needed: CD tracks quite readable
On the way there; and you may have surmised
It was a poetry event, and quite
Relaxed, and so I sang a song, a tall
Tale of cats and women; it went down nice

1301 - Adrift

I slept for twelve hours, dreamed of a new car
The radio had motor racing, news
And live football, all entering my ear
Like wriggly worms, perhaps seeking my views
But though they shook me, it was just no use
I drifted back and forth upon a sea
Almost as though I was delirious
Whatever was said just couldn’t reach me
Instead I was knee-deep in fantasy
Maybe resting’s the best thing to be, far
From places, faces, crisis and issues
Nice and easy, just like eternity
That really does exist somewhere out there
Slowly fermenting, now lighting our fuse

1300 - Up the Rams, down the Hams

Thank goodness, Derby have beaten Leicester
We’ve a good record against the Foxes
And Forest, too: the bragging rights are fair
And square with the Rams, although there still is
A chance our rivals could go up. Places
Are up for grabs at the top. At least we
Have now removed all possibilities
Of the drop and can plan confidently
For next season. Go Nigel! Meanwhile, the
News from Formula One of tax dodger
(Swiss-domiciled) millionaire Lewis
Hamilton is, he screwed up quite badly
He’s way back on the grid; Australia
Nicked him for speeding, and time trials were missed

1299 - Tales around the fire

This evening was one with quite a difference
First time for ages spent in New Brighton
It’s currently being rebuilt, all fence
And piles of aggregate along the front
But it was dark and hard to make out, hence
It would be worth revisiting. Drunk teens
From Wallasey staggered along the prom
Girls in short skirts and lads of slender means
Making out on the seafront benches, queens
And kings of nowhere. Know why we had come?
No, well I’ll tell you. There’s an old fort, on
A causeway, called Fort Perch Rock. The event
Was a story and poetry night, with song
In a small dark basement, a firelit scene

1298 - Strike, tattooist!

Strikes are this year’s thing; seventies retro
The civil servants yesterday; today
It’s the train drivers’ turn to have a go
And also the staff of British Airways
Getting around this Easter’s not child’s play
Thank God my trip to Ireland is finished
And the Greek trip is still two months away!
A friend at work who travels has furnished
Me with details of a Greek tattooist
Near the Parthenon. I’m there three days so
I might pop in and endure agony
For body art’s sake. I might even test
The tattooists in other countries, show
Their flags and emblems, a flash flesh display

1297 - Sonnet qui mal y pense

Having some good chats tonight, up online
Just thinking of what I can write about
It’s always hard to summon up the mind
To write to order, to deadlines, without
Spewing out any old tosh, and no doubt
I fail often - but then again, this is
Just a diary. It’s not an all-out
Attempt to storm the literary frontiers
Or impress the arty-farty types; yes
It’s just a list of what I do. I’ll whine
And sometimes cheer about things, or I’ll spout
About the latest news, such as Budgets
Or even the football. But now it’s time
To stretch legs and pour coffee in my mouth

1296 - Too drunk to give a fuck

Got home at quarter to two, late last night
And listened to the music that we’d made
It sounded good, but I had to keep quiet
Listening on headphones; outside, an aubade
Was in full swing: the morning birdsong played
Accompaniment as the light drew near
A short rest, then straight to work, where I stayed
Till almost six, reluctant to leave: clear
From the office window the rain was here
To stay, and drowned rat status was the plight
I faced on the way home. Slightly afraid
I ventured out into the northern air
Sufficiently soaked, shopping done, I might
Just watch TV and retire into shade
Tue 23 March

1295 - Ireland: Dying scream of the banshee

Woke in an Irish bed, sun shining in
Then all went dark; ferocious wind picked up
Her banshee tones confining me within
Yet by the time I drained my coffee cup
Her skies had dried, turned bluer with each sip
As through my drink had revived her goodwill
And now at last she smiled, late in my trip
Instead of smouldering, wishing me ill
Each sally forth was beaten back until
The time had come to return to Dublin
The country lane unwound me to the top
Of its unbecoming finger, her shrill
And cutting wind becalmed. Bound for Bandon
Abandoning this country without hope
Mon 22 March

1294 - Ireland: View from the ridge

I took a walk up in the Irish hills
The clouds scraping their bellies on the ridge
Light rain of tears for a goddess long killed
Some red-haired beauty leaping from a ledge
(The old soaps are the best.) Here there’s no bridge
Nor need for one. Houses and cars are few
No streets out here - this is close to the edge
This is Sheep’s Head; that’s Mizen Head in view
A million droplets separate the two
The silver sound receives the haze and swells
Welcomes its brethren home without a grudge
So rain meets sea, while up here I try to
Locate the track. Please, trainers, don’t get filled
With muddy water on my return trudge!

1294 - Ireland: View from the ridge

I took a walk up in the Irish hills
The clouds scraping their bellies on the ridge
Light rain of tears for some goddess long killed
Some red-haired beauty leaping from a ledge
(The old soaps are the best.) Here there’s no bridge
Nor need for one. Houses and cars are few
No streets out here - this is close to the edge
This is Sheep’s Head; that’s Mizen Head in view
A million droplets separate the two
The silver sound receives the haze and swells
Welcomes its brethren home without a grudge
So rain meets sea, while up here I try to
Locate the track. Please, trainers, don’t get filled
With muddy water on my return trudge!
Sun 21 March

1293 - Ireland: Sheep may safely graze

No beer today, the cans have gone away
Drank mainly water and the odd coffee
We did two more improvised tracks today
The sun was warm, the house was still chilly
I took some pictures of the white lonely
Cottage on Sheep’s Head Peninsula where
I’m taking part in this recording spree
Last night we watched Heath Ledger as Joker
Tonight, a show called ‘Robot Chicken’ they’re
Familiar with, made in the USA
(Of course - what isn’t?) Bedtime’s more early
Tonight than previously for me. Up there
In the boys’ bedroom I’ll read on. Sunday
Will see the last tracks put down by us three
Sat 20 March

1292 - Ireland: Finish the Guinness

Oh my God - I drank six cans of Guinness
Those cans were meant to last for several days
But having got them, I went on the piss
At least they’re all gone now; end of the phase
Of drinking in Ireland; from now, my ways
Will have to revert to sobriety
Maybe that doesn’t go with holidays
But that’s the way that it will have to be
We’ve recorded four tracks fairly quickly
The first two Thursday night, and two more this
First full day here. The slight problem that stays
But I’m battling against, is how to be
Team player in a band. It is less
Easy than working alone in some ways
Fri 19 March

1291 - Ireland: a breakdown of the day's events

No sleep on the four-hour ferry journey
A nice Irish girl sleeping opposite
Stood on deck as Dublin’s lights neared, windy
On the port side. Drove down on the N8
Reaching Cork by nine - amazing! - but fate
Intervened. The clutch was ruined. I rang
The RAC and they towed me - short wait -
They asked a guy called Colin. In his van
Rode back to Cork, spending the day there on
Foot, walking the streets, recrossing its quays
While Dennis Henderson fixed new clutch plates
Four hundred euros, a financial bomb
Fast dusk drive to Sheep’s Head, once more to see
My musical comrades. Late night tonight
Thur 18 March

1290 - My own paddy wagon

St Patrick’s Day, and tonight I am bound
For Ireland once again, driving to Wales
All the way to Holyhead, tyres will pound
The tarmac, onto the ferry, which sails
At 2.30 in the morning, its trails
Of white waves unseen in the dead cold night
As I try to relax and doze; that fails
More often than not, however. I might
Read Saul Bellow, and maybe even write
A poem before we reach emerald ground
I’ve studied the road atlas, made detailed
Notes of the route that heads from Dublin right
Down to Cork, then west towards Bantry sound
Up Sheep’s Head, ready for musical tales

1289 - Remotely interested

A mate from work, Paul, popped round to help me
Access my pictures from earlier this year
And late last year; all hidden, couldn’t see
Them on my hard drive, or upload to the
Internet. They’re filed well now, and transferred
To the remote hard drive, backed up. One hitch:
Removing music from the computer’s
Near-full memory to remote storage
Has meant the loss of some recordings which
I can’t now tinker with. That is mostly
Okay, I’ve got the MP3s, but there
Is a lost half-finished recording; such
A shame. But on the good side, the memory
On this laptop’s now only half-full. Yeah!

1288 - Busy bees of London

Where did you go today, where did you go?
I went to London, that’s where I have been
Did you see anybody that you know?
No, nobody famous, and not the Queen
Saw lots of long-legged girls, most in their teens
LSE students, many. Also passed
The green square and chambers of Lincoln’s Inn
Fields, but Abraham wasn’t in. We gassed
As we sought our building; found it at last
Down Chancery Lane. Not so long ago
Dr Johnson walked here, and Charles Dickens
There seems no time for slow, only for fast
In Starbucks, phones in use, squeezed in a row
Behind the window pane, stressed out sardines

1287 - Tone's bones moans

This month the cold wind marches through my bones
A brittle feeling encroaches at length
The coldest winter for some years, someone
On TV said on February the tenth
The daffodils remain in their green tents
The crocuses and snowdrops top the bill
Still; infernally non-vernal events
Cry hocus pocus to scientists’ shrill
Sermons of global warning. Ate my fill
Of mushy cauliflower at Mum’s home
But the chicken was yummy. Just a glimpse
Of brother and his kids. They took a ball
To the wind-blasted beach, while from my phone
I read Mum some jokes that could give offence

1286 - Mad Mid March

A cold March day to chill the bones, but fun
Was had with Josie, leading a pony
Around a busy car park; folk looked on
With wide-eyed surprise outside Sainsbury’s!
Next, after that unexpected treat, we
Hopped in the car, with bike, and drove to Hale
For Josie to practice her cycling: the
Safe and quiet park pathways letting her sail
Along with no cars pounding past; just tails
Wagging upright as excited dogs ran
About, stopping and sniffing post and tree
After the swings, roundabout, monkey rails
I took Josie home. Tired as night came on
But guitar strum must precede the TV!
Sat 13 March

1285 - Threshold of the weekend

Another long day at work, but Friday
Means it doesn’t really matter that much
The weekend beckons, if only to say
These next two days are yours, so seize them; clutch
Whatever you can, and hang on; it’s such
A short time till you slip back down into
That dark chasm; feel sunlight’s warmer touch
On your face that you see on weekdays through
The office windows. Walk the hills, the blue
Infinite ceiling of nature displayed
For your pleasure, revealing like a torch
In the dark, brilliant corners, dazzling hues
And sensual smells; creatures that run or lay
As you take part in evolution’s search

1284 - Ohhh Yesss!

Tonight I was in the front row, centre
To see the guitar god that is Steve Howe
And two young guys: collective moniker
‘The Steve Howe Trio’… Only had to go
To ‘The Band on the Wall,’ Swan Street, all so
Easy and relaxed. It was like a cross
Between Wes Montgomery and also
Kenny Burrell, a touch of Miles Davis
Bizarrely alongside some songs by Yes
From Howe’s heyday, Fragile and Close To The
Edge. Good view of his flying fingers, though
Attention was also grabbed both by Ross
On keys and Dylan on drums. A slight scare
As loud bass drum booms disturbed the guys’ flow

1283 - Football and work, in that order

Two great nights in Europe for English teams
Last night Arsenal beat Porto four nil
And that score’s become a recurrent theme
Man United beating Milan four nil
Tonight at Old Trafford, only a mile
Away from me, back home from Southampton
Where the meeting passed off today in style
A cold sea wind blew, fluttering flags on
Flagpoles, bending bushes. Conversation
Continued with coats worn by some. Canteen
Break, pork chop eaten, stomach nicely filled
A lift to Southampton Central Station
Then the long train ride home. Flying now seems
A quicker way; no need for a hotel

1282 - Docked in Southampton

Broken sleep, but okay: office first; then
Just in the nick of time, as usual
Caught the inter-city to Southampton
Where I write this in the Jury’s Hotel…
Talking of juries, I’ll be there as well
Next month, but more on that when the time comes
More immediately, a meeting’s held
On Romsey Road tomorrow, when I’ll sum
Up Policy’s latest news for our chums
In the Southern region, covering Maidstone
In the east to Plymouth in the west. Still
Not seen much of Southampton. From my room
On the seventh floor, glimpsed the top of one
Docked liner or ferry waiting to sail
Tue 9 March

1281 - The heroes of '61

Last night, at the Oscars ceremony
‘The Hurt Locker’ won several statuettes
I’ve just watched an earlier film by the
Same director, Kathryn Bigelow, that’s
Set in a nuclear sub manned by Soviets
During the Cold War, suffering meltdown
In the Atlantic. Some sailors had fixed
The onboard reactor, but all fell down
Sick with radiation soon as they’d found
Their way back to their cabins. Narrowly,
Explosion was prevented, the impact
Of which could have triggered war. We’re all bound
To thank them for their stunning bravery
In ’61, at the time kept secret

1280 - Greece, piece by piece

(On trying to plan my holiday there in May)

Feels like I’ve spent all day thinking about
Greek bus timetables and hiring of cars
And where to stay, and when I should set out
And on what route! It’s quite tricky because
Greece has no national rail network in parts
Of its west and its centre. Still not sure
If I’ll see Delphi or not; if I cross
Into Albania, most advisors are
Agreed driving’s risky, bus is better
That way it’s more likely I’ll be allowed
Across the border. And getting across
Greece from west to east seems even harder
Once in Thessaloniki, though, there’s great
Access by train to the Turks and Bulgars

1279 - Spring song

The word ‘spring’ suggests coiled energy
The time of year when all’s at last released
That’s been suppressed, frozen frigidity
Melting; the fat burned off from winter’s feast
Spurred by new light and heat; the rising yeast
Responds to stimulation from nature
The crocus symbolises our new lease
To wander in search of some adventure
New places, new faces to discover
Refocusing our minds afresh to see
The richness of earth that seemed to have ceased
Luxuriating in our finds, once more
Enmeshing us in curiosity
Refreshing, liberating man and beast

1278 - Forever young

There is no soul, there is no afterlife
There’s only the central nervous system
And flesh and bone, and selfishness and strife
And politics and greed and religion
Desire to procreate daughter or son
Disguised as lust, which we can circumvent
By means of various contraception
Methods, though Catholics believe they’re sent
To hell if they do, but they’re not. Death’s meant
To improve, as opposed to stagnate, life
By means of gradual evolution
It’s possible that by intelligent
Science we may end up prolonging life
Indefinitely: selfish to the bone

1277 - Twilight of the Gods of the Seventies

Michael Foot died yesterday: names of old
Names of my youth, so many departed
Tony Benn's still here; Thatcher's not yet cold
But Ted Heath's long gone; Wilson, too, is dead
Scargill's not too ill; the same can't be said
For Vic Feather or Jack Jones, union greats
Kinnock and Major are not aged yet
Compared to those seventies heavyweights
Nixon and Brezhnev decided our fates
God (or Lenin) help us; the war stayed cold
Like Berlin in December; Helmut Schmidt
And co can take credit. Student debates
Defending Mao - remember being embroiled?
Posters of Che, by history now hid

1276 - All quiet on the domestic front

I’m looking forward to an early night
My energy level a little dipped
But first I’ve got this small sonnet to write
Having just watched England defeat Egypt
Why do they pick Lampard? He’s always picked
And yet clearly can’t play in the white shirt
And why pick Gerrard? Perhaps he has nicked
The odd goal now and then, but seems to shirk
Responsibility, scared of being hurt
Maybe. Been busy at work, so I’m quite
Tired, and think I’ll shave and then get stripped
For a late-night shower; then it’s a cert
I’ll slip into bed, radio on quiet
And soon into deep sleep I will have slipped

1275 - Walking working talking shirking

A lovely spring morning’s walk into work
Capped by a special treat, a pretty girl
Who looks pretty neat from far off; a perk
Of work, though, is seeing her close-up. Well,
Work-wise it’s been busy busy since ill
Colleagues got ill and took their pills and stayed
Away recuperating; some are still
Ill and will stay so, so I’d say that’s made
Sure I’ll stay busy busy. A parade
Of emails to read; stuff I’d love to shirk
But I plough through them while the chatting swirls
All around; I dull their sound, concentrate
On what matters today, what issues lurk
Perhaps heating up, coming to the boil

1274 - Monday miscellany

It was still light and warm when I got home
I did my exercises pretty quick
As my tea lay waiting and cooling down
Some tasty chicken flavoured with garlic
And herbs. Watched BBC News, domestic
And foreign. The aftershocks of Chile’s
Earthquake; end of the Winter Olympics
That produced one gold for Britain: Amy’s
Skeleton bobsleigh triumph was a tease -
Nothing much followed. Most of Britain groaned
Again yesterday, when that Scottish prick
Ferguson won another trophy. Please,
No more United victories. I’ve shown
You how things lie; think I’ve not missed a trick