Now and Then

I am wondering how rock’n’roll

this Brummie rock’n’roll bar is

when the barman passes me

my bottle of apple and mango J2O

 

and moves on to the next punter

without such much as a whisper

of the word ‘glass’.

Ah, that rock’n’roll.

 

As I ponder what might have happened

had I ordered a Jack Daniel’s,

 

I watch the first in a triumvirate 

of hardcore beatdown bands

whose earnest endeavour

it is to redefine the word loud.

 

The new loud leaves eleven stranded

in a mosh pit with vaporised ear drums,

as it travels towards the outer reaches

of infinity.

 

The audience-mob responds

by beating to a pulp

the spaces in between them (mainly).

Blurry, amphetamine, windmill arms flail,

like a 1984 Morrissey on fast forward,

and a small army of boots stamp

on what I am convinced

 

must be some form of fire,

invisible to my tired, middle-aged eyes.

 

Courtesy of a text from an old band mate,

my mind rewinds to the brief rock’n’roll adventures

of my own youth.

 

Ah, how charmingly jejune we were

back in the day

when we tried to conjure up

such a thing as melody

 

and drank whisky

from a bottle.

Irked/Not Irked

I am good at being irked by the world

to such an extent that

I have written about my irked-ness

in more than a few poems.

 

‘Look,’ people will one day say,

when they’ve finally got round

to discovering my poetic output,

‘there goes Fergus the so-called poet,

 

transforming the petty wretchedness of the world

into his little wordy works of art,

one minor irritation at a time!’

And, being me, I would take this as an opportunity

 

to be irked at their presumption

that I was writing about some irky thing or other.

For there is only so much irk poetry

which one may tolerably create

 

before a poem about flowers, or trees,

or the movement of clouds in the sky

makes its unwritten presence felt,

as it struggles to emerge from the nowhere of ideas.

 

Here comes a flock of birds, painted black

on the canvas of today’s blue-grey sky,

heading for the familiar horizon of the Malvern Hills,

a line of poetry more poetic than any I will ever write.

Today

It’s a shame today isn’t a person,

then I could ask it

why it was being such an insufferable arsehole,

such a dick, such a total and utter twat.

 

‘I’m not just a list of slightly taboo body parts,

you know,’ it might reply.

‘Fuck off, you ingrowing toenail,’

would be the start of my retort.

 

‘You receding hairline; you beer gut overhang;

you slightly too long and crooked nose;

you troublesome, arthritic knee.’

 

But the day would just sit there,

with its clear blue sky, its bright November sun,

and its slightly above average temperature

for this time of year.

 

As I took a break from insulting the day,

I would look out of the window

to follow the flight of a crow

as it disappeared into the branches of a tree.

 

‘Are you going to continue your list?’

it would ask, ‘Because I have better things to do.’

I would let the day know that it had nothing to do

as it was just a day; a mere abstract noun.

 

‘Poets who live in glass houses

shouldn’t throw stones,’ it would reply,

before saying something really profound

which rather undermined the force of my tirade.

 

But, as I’m the one with the pencil and the notebook,

I wouldn’t write it down, and what does today have,

apart from the upper hand

and a rapidly decreasing lifespan?

 

After spending every hour not getting along

with the day, I finally arrived at tomorrow.

It’s a better day than yesterday, even with all of the grey,

and the cold, and the threat of rain.

 

‘You see?’ the day would have said,

‘It was you all along,’ and I realise that, maybe,

we could have been friends after all.

Mistaken Identity

Do you remember that time

when I mistook our red watering can

for a cat?

 

No, of course you don’t,

because I never mentioned it,

(‘Until now!’ as my class of 2000

used to joke),

out of the embarrassment which comes

from confusing red watering cans

with tortoiseshell cats.

 

Rather like the time

when I mistook a pot plant

for a cat (catalogued

in a poem some years ago),

and the time, just now,

when I mistook my black shoes

in the hall

for a cat.

 

All of which has me thinking

that maybe I could mistake anything

for a cat,

like those times in the past,

when everyone mistook my smile

for a smile.

Lions Don’t Wear Sunglasses

is the unlikely phrase which crashed on to

my consciousness as it was receding last night,

like an outgoing tide, but an outgoing tide

 

which was determined to have one last unwelcome surge

of wakefulness before the nothingness

of slumber got the upper hand.

 

‘Ignore it,’ I say. ‘It’s meaningless tosh.’

‘Meaningless tosh,’ I say, ‘is just the sort

of tosh upon which much of what I write

 

is founded. Also, good luck trying to sleep

without committing it to paper.’

Admitting that I have a point (or two),

 

I turn the light on, get my notebook out,

and scribble down the words: Lions don’t wear

sunglasses. Put the book down. Turn the light off.

 

I close my eyes and hope the tide of consciousness

will once again recede. Count backwards from five hundred,

getting sleepier… getting sleepier…

 

when, out of nowhere, You are made of custard.

‘Stay back!’ I say, like some poetic King Canute.

But this won’t work; the tide will not be told.

 

‘Don’t turn the light on. Do not write it down,’ I say.

‘It’ll only encourage the idiot

who keeps throwing you these morsels of madness.’

 

But it’s too late. The light is on. The notebook

is out. The words are being scribbled down.

I wonder if the cause of this sleep delay

 

is the basis of poetry,

or the basis of poetic angst,

as the light beside my bed goes out for good.

 

The tide stays out as I sail away to sleep,

where, eventually, I meet a pride of lions.

What if the crazy people are right? they say,

 

raising their eyebrows from

behind their spectacular

sunglasses.