Words in the dark: a collection of writings

I don’t like to call what I write ‘poetry’. I’ll let others decide on that… But these words are important to me, especially at this stage of my life. I’m still learning how best to express myself, something not helped by periods of writer’s block. But I want to get better at painting pictures or capturing moments, as opposed merely to expressing emotions, which are generally dark and unhappy, retired goth that I am.

Writer's block

So here’s a short collection, generally written late at night. And probably often whilst being the worse for wear. Sorry if that shows. These are celebrations of friends, late night laments and pictures from other places. Hope they’re at least worth a read.

Down the road

At the close of the day
“May I have a pint of Asahi please?”
I asked
The music was too loud
But he heard and nodded
The golden flask was placed before me
And another day’s trying was swallowed away

Beside me the smiling woman leaned into the bearded man and laughed when he said he was from Guildford
Well you would, wouldn’t you?
They talked about Aldi and Lidl
Others milled about
Ordering more beer-filled vessels
Their conversations swallowed by Rihanna’s croon and general atmosphere

“There’s a form of solitude” I said
To the next untethered phantom
“That feels so good. Because everyone is everywhere”.
He/she laughed but didn’t reply
A companion in name alone

It was nearly 2am
On a Tuesday.
“I shouldn’t be here” I whispered to the wraith
As the happy woman described London to one of its inhabitants
Inside, an eye stretched towards
A flat I only glimpsed but had become a golem
Knowing it was close brought me back to my neighbour
And to another Asahi
Memories become heavy in this place

At 2am
Another man listened against all odds
To his own song
As Billy Idol blared down from above
The happy woman’s endless chat
Punctuated by “fucks” and “shits”
Turned more bitter

A man sat down beside me
Ordered a beer
I wanted to ask him “what’s up?”
But turned to glances instead and
He walked away
Such a hubbub, even so late
Words about football, lager, “that cunt” and more swirled around

As the clock ticked down
And I tried to forget that flat, that face
The happy woman stopped smiling
Rightfully angry but lost for words
The place started emptying
And then it’s just us few
And now that bell tolls
How long have I been here?
The shades have got bigger
And tomorrow’s still to come

last orders

It’s hard being an industrial-scale twat

It’s hard being an industrial-scale twat
You think you have the answers
And collapse the moment that
Reality screams upwards and bites
You on your suddenly massive arse

It’s hard being an industrial-scale twat
You believe your lover’s words
He says he loves you
You think “this is it, solution found”
And then no

It’s hard being an industrial-scale twat
The beautiful man swans through your life
Making you believe the lies you’d thought long gone
Now you’re hot, sexy, young
Oh wait, maybe not

It’s hard being an industrial-scale twat
When all you want is to not spend
Another night alone
Music is a great companion
But doesn’t deign draw breath
So as lovely as it is
The mattress remains cold on the other side

It’s hard being an industrial-scale twat
But what else can you do?
Your loves won’t take pity
And nor should you want them to
How about owning being that twat?
And then see how you go

Listening to Bernstein in Greece (for Jimmy)

Aeolus sighs a gentle caress
From Delos this way bound
It’s so late but this taverna
Perched over the water
Needs to last forever

Channel your anger
Sweet, kind, fragile nymph
And for every doubt please remember
You are loved

As the translucent azure
Winks traces of our species’ defiance
A lost American woman
Serenades us at the last
Cast off your doubts and fears
For they have no power over you here

mykonos

Listening to Billy (for my beloved AA)

It’s ridiculous
Just a loop
Potentially ad infinitum
And yet so perfect
It’s our not-song

A moment frozen in time
You and me, talking so long
Yet never saying “I love you” enough

Then we’d go to sleep
Wrapped around each other
In our own little parcel of London
A haven I wish I’d recognised

Now you have someone better
But you can’t see your own reflection
Not as I do
So I reiterate that stupendous loop
Wishing time would go back
That room, those gorgeous loops
Are our jewellery forever
Please hold on to them and him
Because I still want to celebrate
You

On an island

“How are you liking Mykonos?”
The friendly man asked
Of course, I said I liked it
And I did
Such a beautiful sea, pearlescent water lapping at the feet
Of albino towers and those windmills
The food – succulently unhealthy gyros, too little tzatziki and so much fish.
Ever that orb screaming its healthiness down at me
And I’m forced to admit – I’m glad.
I avoid the pool, but not the other liquids
So many names I can’t remember as the haze takes hold
Oh now I’m enjoying Mykonos!
And so many men, in shorts, tank-tops and designer t-shirts
Hunger drips from lascivious lips
Eyes roam each stretch of land
Potentials open like lilies blooming
I hope I’m brave to turn away
But maybe foolish
The end in sight I look for a reminder
Rembetika maybe, or a bottle of overpriced Ouzo
Or a photo, on this crap phone
That captures a fragmented cloud
A tired-eyed glimpse
I think he would have liked it here
How he loved to swim
And that’s mostly what’s all to do
At least before the drinks and men turn your brain to mush
I recommend you come here, raven
With whomever’s next
Say hi to Kostas, Kathy and Christina
Maybe some of the other guys will be back
Like every year
Either way – enjoy
Because I liked Mykonos
The beers by the piano under the windmills
The terrace laced with sass and Aperol Spritz
That food again
That luscious sea I avoided with admiration
That catwalk of strange folks parading against my cynicism
The cats, the gypsum, the cobbles, always the sun
Even though my inner words
Carried your name with me like a wretched mnemonic
I found smiles inside and laughter without
“How are you liking Mykonos?” the man -could have been a waiter, a passerby or a regular queen of the island- asked. Another man, maybe.
“Very much” I said, and it was so true
But how nice it would be with my raven’s feathers in my arms
That I couldn’t say
So I didn’t
I ate gyros, drank beer and watched the blue, blue sea instead

cropped-CE-night-GV-1.png

A night walk in Crouch End

Heads bowed, illuminated by miniature windows
A view into a world so wide, so irresistible that
The immediate path is rendered
Insignificant and unworthy
Two souls close enough to touch, passing a whisker from each other and me
A whisker from love, or friendship?
Those precious metals we so poorly mine? Or maybe from indifference and boredom,
eternal resources to plunder.

Overhead red lights scream unrelenting progress
The night pierced by emerging ziggurats and the wings of travels ending
Down this quiet hill my path keeps winding
Sliding past my bowed companions
More lights and tender destructive amber
Clamour for me

And I can’t sleep without them
Later, wrapped in dry cotton
Away from all brightness
I fly back to those two potentials
Feeling them multiply like rice on a chessboard
Climbing up and up as the night shivers with unheard voices
Stories that never unfolded tantalise my senses
They so dulled by another evening’s excesses
And remind me to prepare anew for more snatched meetings
That will never coalesce into something to hold on to

I’ve also reworked an older piece

On a village green (Dedicated to Sheila and Esther)

It’s spring
The balmy weather always threatens rain but
When the sun pierces it illuminates everything
No cricket here
Not here, Major, with your myth of England
Wrapped in colonial, aristocratic entitlement
But the grass grows green
And I think of how this warm and contradictory public house
Is open to us all, from my inevitable privilege
To those less fortunate from anywhere they’re found
This green is ours
We bask in the dwindling sunlight
In an oft-divided country, we defy and
bring the all together
Beyond our differences
A barn owl swoops over the Green
A reminder of what went before
Young Tegan and I relish its languid flight
And picture a future for this village green
That doesn’t depend on the myth of England

IMG_0898(c) Joe Burnett, 2018

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