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The Holdfire Review

February 13, 2013

As I’ve posted recently I think for the press to go forward I have to focus on different projects such as live readings and events, an anthology and a new magazine called The Holdfire Review. Hopefully these things combined will act to bring the press more into people’s consciousness and then when I return to pamphlets I’ll have a wider sort of network of potential sales etc.

The magazine won’t just be poetry. As a poet and writer of fiction I would like to publish both poetry and fiction (I’m a big fan of speculative fiction). I’ll also be looking for artwork for the magazine.  Contributors will get a free copy and the look of the magazine will be minimal – no over the top covers. I won’t be doing reviews or any editorial stuff but I will promote other events, magazines in there – give over a page or two to anyone wishing to advertise their own literary ventures.

So I’ll be looking for contributors to the first issue as of now. I lean towards more experimental poems in my own reading but I do like a sense of narrative too. In short stories I really like Adam Marek but I like fantasy too (not like obvious fantasy – as I said, speculative is good).

Submissions can go to holdfirepress@yahoo.co.uk marked with ‘Submission – The Holdfire Review’.

I want to get the first issue of the magazine out by the summer so people don’t think Holdfire has died completely. Diversify and move forward I say.

A Pressing Concern

February 12, 2013

Today I’m thinking about closing the press as an entity publishing books and focusing on live readings, events instead.  I think that a combination of factors contribute to this; lack of sales, financial difficulties, the pressure it puts on me (I mean pressure to get books out etc), my need to concentrate on my own writing, disappointing reviews, lack of technical ability and financial ability to hire outside help, my preference to work on events/readings etc, how I feel I wanted to press to progress and how it has. I’ve had a tough couple of years and it’s difficult to deal with running a press when more important things get in the way. Saying that I do enjoy putting on events and I would like to push forward and work with bringing poets to Liverpool. I will spend the rest of the day thinking and mulling and brewing etc. Basically I’m doing everything myself and feel as a person it hasn’t given anything back apart from stress really and I think/thought running a small press would have some pleasures at least.

13: A Disconnected Anthology

February 12, 2013

The main hurdle for a press to jump is financial. But there is always the problem of time.  And will  power.  Since Holdfire’s first pamphlets I’ve struggled with all three. The finances don’t work out how you thought they would, there are difficult issues to overcome, time and life get in the way (especially when the press isn’t something you do full time in a shiny office) and as those things combine it becomes hard to keep on and hit deadlines you set yourself.  I’m behind with my next pamphlets mainly because of the financial and time elements.  I initially thought I’d make enough back from book sales to publish further books but it didn’t work out like that.  So the money has to be worked out from somewhere and then there is the question of whether that financial input will yield results – will I make the money back this time to publish more?  Also, once time has taken you away from publishing it’s hard to get back on track.  Hard to get back into the swing. Over the past year I’ve felt a certain annoyance with poetry – with poets, with attitudes, with vibrancy. I’ve questioned more than once whether I want to be in this game – be that as an editor or as a poet.  Take for instance the whole Christian Ward nonsense. I haven’t particularly liked the response of some poets to that – the sort of pack mentality (I’m not talking about finding more poems that were plagiarised,I don’t mind that too much – maybe it’s getting a bit over the top). There’s also just a general feel amongst poets I meet of self interest (of what is in this for me) rather than working together, building ideas.

But on the other side of this is what I’ve enjoyed doing. I’ve enjoyed putting on the Villainelle Club and the next one will be on 13th March. I’ve enjoyed being involved in a production for the Bluecoat of Chris McCabe’s Mudflats and I’m enjoying putting together a poetry night for April.  I’ve been drawn to the idea of doing more of this – live performance, commissions, a poetry festival in Liverpool. Those things have made me think I should be doing something a bit different with publishing. Obviously I want to continue publishing pamphlets but the idea of publishing something a bit more exciting keeps coming to mind. An old idea I had from Holdfire’s beginnings was an anthology of 13 poets, completely devoid of barriers of age or style or influence etc. I like that idea. I like it more now what with all the anthologies of young poets we’ve had recently and all the moaning (and obviously missing the point) of older poets who take an anthology of younger poets as a personal attack. I think that gets at some truth in poetry – poets see themselves as the centre of their world view of poetry – who they like, what they read, who they know becomes their barometer for poetry. It’s like people commenting on the pope resigning – saying ‘I bet he won’t be a one-legged hedgehog with no defined sexuality’.  What I mean is, people want the world to reflect who they are even if they aren’t part of something or if that something is a something that don’t believe should be a something. Maybe that draws me back to the anthology – maybe 13 disconnected poets would be a good way to address contemporary poetry because there wouldn’t be anything to hold the anthology together, for poets to cling to and claim attachment to, other than that here we have 13 poets. The anthology only exists because someone, me, decided to make it and it makes no comment about poetry rather it offers a glimpse of poetry. But isn’t that suggesting that the poets would all be noticeably different? Surely if the process of bringing an anthology like this together was sort of loose, based on poetic free will, then it could end up being full of experimental poets no one has ‘heard of’ or just Simon Armitage.  Maybe it should be looked at as a Chaos Theory of Poetry. Or just 13 poets for 2013. 13 poets who have breathed in 2013.

Anyway, I hope to see a packed upstairs room at the Ship and Mitre at 7.30 on Wednesday, 13th March. It’s a n all male line up this time (I didn’t mean it honest) with readings from Bobby Parker, Steven Waling, Christopher Moore and Matt Fallaize.

And I suppose I could suggest to anyone who read this to compile a list for me of 13 poets who are breathing/writing poetry now. That would be helpful.

Everybody In This Room Is A Poet and a night for The Wolf

October 23, 2012

Two bits of poetry reading news here.  Firstly (but secondly in the title above) the next Villainelle Club will be sort of taken over by The Wolf magazine which is edited by James Byrne and Sandeep Parmar.  They’ll be launching both The Wolf 27 and their anthology The Wolf: A Decade.  It should be a great night and it’s happening on Thursday 28th November.  More details of readers etc to follow. There will be a regular Villainelle Club in mid December which I hope will have an all female line up to counter the rampant masculinity of the last reading in September.

The second reading is Everybody In This Room Is A Poet.  This is happening at 2.00pm on Saturday 24th November in The Belvedere Arms in Liverpool.  It’s invite only and the format will be that there will be around 22/23 poets in the snug of the Belvedere.  We’ll all read a few poems each and there will be no MC as such, rather we’ll all announce the next poet.  It’s been tricky coordinating so all the poets who wanted to come could come but I had to book a date. Hopefully it’ll be the start of more such nights/days.  I’m hoping to get some funding for future days so I can get poets from beyond the North West.  The poets confirmed so far are:

Me (Michael Egan)

Bobby Parker

Sheila Hamilton

Melissa Lee Houghton

Joanne Ashcroft

Angela Topping

Steve Van Hagen

Eleanor Rees

Nathan Jones

Sandeep Parmar

James Byrne

Richard Barrett

Eli Regan

Lindsey Holland

About another 6/7 are nearly confirmed so there are a few spaces left if any poets would be interested.  If you are then email me at river_swam@yahoo.co.uk

Blind Wine-Tasting etc by Jon Stone

October 23, 2012

Here’s something to think about. In 2002, French researcher Frédéric Brochet caused minor ripples with a paper called ‘Chemical Object Representation in the Field of Consciousness’. Brochet served a variety of wines to experienced wine tasters, recording the results. Not only did the resulting rankings tables prove to be as consistent as random numbers; the same wines provoked entirely different reactions when presented differently. A white wine dyed red suddenly became “intense, spicy, supple, deep” when earlier it had been “fresh, dry, honeyed, lively”. A mid-range Bordeaux was praised when labelled as a grand cru, decried as “short, light and faulty” when served as a table wine.

Brochet demonstrated that certain expectations and presumptions, often planted subconsciously by others, overrule the evidence of our senses. And If this applies to wine, why not to poetry? It’s a question that has particular application when evaluating prize culture, but it has wider relevance than that. If you’ve ever had cause to linger in the comments section below poetry articles in online newspapers, you’ll likely have encountered the sort of person who recites the names of the poets they remember from school, lamenting that contemporary poets are so comparatively inconsequential: a clear enough demonstration of how a vague awareness of cultural pre-eminence is sometimes the only thing that governs taste. The poet who is conscious of the way dominant and resurgent predilections factor into reception of their work risks a kind of madness. Does the fashion for ironised sentiment make me look stuffy? Are my interests too much at odds with other people’s? Must I wait for family members to start dying (or, at the very least, the birth of my first child) before my writing can be said to have the emotional heft of real experience?

It’s the relative smallness of the poetry landscape that gives these kind of questions more bite than in other artforms. The individualistically-inclined director has the hope of finding an audience outside of that which exists for current mainstream and avant-garde genres or, at the very least, a judging panel who are no more familiar with the other entrants than they are with him. British poets live in a world in which prizes are regularly awarded to people who know the judges well, and where there seem to be few, if any, routes to a wider audience beyond these prizes. Internet culture has revolutionised that perception to an extent, though it remains the case that the best chance most poetry presses have of being noted in the mainstream media is in the form of, say, a brief shout-out alongside a dozen other organisations in a rambling survey of the lie of the land.

What makes it particularly likely, however, that poets are haunted by a need to please (and the consequent leashing of their wilder inclinations) is the concern that some of our leading poets have a controlling attitude towards cultural tastes. Last year, the Poetry Society entered a rocky period, resulting in an extraordinary general meeting being called and, ultimately, the resignation of the entire Board of Trustees. Although a subsequent statement laid the blame squarely at the feet of the board and exonerated both the Director and the then editor of Poetry Review, the only complete narrative currently offered by anyone asserts that the sequence of events amounted to an attempted coup, with several leading poets and poetry editors abandoning the Poetry Society following its failure.

One of those poets who resigned his post as honorary vice president was Don Paterson, the editor at Picador. It’s perhaps noteworthy that in a recent piece for Herald Scotland, which he words with characteristic forthrightness and gusto, he asserts that ‘art is not a democracy’, and then supplies these paragraphs:

As for the need for that consolidated expertise – a small anecdote: there was a young author, English but resident in Scotland, who made an application to a core-funded Scottish arts body for a small grant for new writers […]

 

The gatekeepers in this case were unqualified to judge. The poet received a letter saying that it had been a very competitive year, and there had been stronger entries. I saw some of those entries and they were, scrupulously, not. More personally galling was the fact that I’d gone to the trouble of writing a careful reference extolling the virtues of this individual.

 

I know very little, but have enough evidence to suggest I may be a reasonable judge of poetry. I decided to publish the author myself, in England, on the list I edit at Picador. [She] has gone on to be shortlisted for everything, and won the two main UK prizes for first collections; she has been hailed by everyone from Carol Ann Duffy to Seamus Heaney as an important new voice. She’s now based in Bristol.

 

But I won’t write another reference to that body again; my carefully-phrased opinion was entirely disregarded in the sole area where I have any proven expertise. I am certainly not arrogant enough to insist that it should have counted!

 

But it should have been dismissed by a peer, not a minor apparatchik brought up to think that all opinions in the arts are of equal value.

Paterson’s wider concerns about the problems with over-administration of the arts are well-grounded, but look at the aggression on display here. “The gatekeepers in this case were unqualified to judge.” He does not know who these gatekeepers are, or their qualifications, or the values they applied in their judgement. He only saw “some of” the other entries. Yet he is furious at a supposed “minor apparatchik” for having not kowtowed to his reputation as an eminent editor and poet. He went “to the trouble of writing a careful reference extolling the virtues of this individual” – does he believe that no one else supplying a similar quote could be similarly qualified to recommend a poet for an award? Those areas where the poet succeeded subsequently, which he cites here as proof of the poet’s virtues, are areas where he has considerable influence. He is galled, it seems, by the existence of an area in which he does not. He suggests that the submission should have been evaluated by a ‘peer’; by which we can take him to mean someone from those circles with which he is familiar.

It is fair, of course, for Paterson to consider himself a reasonable judge of poetry. But in what respect is he entirely like those wine experts who could be fooled by food colouring or a label on a bottle? To what extent is he capable of tainting the sense of others, where the label, for example, is ‘Picador’ rather than ‘grand cu’? His bolded statement – ‘art is not a democracy’ – is the clarion call of those who believe that standards are real, unshifting and absolute. Without pretending to read Paterson’s mind, the idea that people of influence believe wholeheartedly in the veracity of their own judgement is deeply troubling. To be sure (and as he rightly says), not all opinions are equal. But it is possible for many contradictory opinions to have an equal factual and experiential basis. It is possible (indeed, highly likely) for any person’s partiality to certain themes and subject matter to factor heavily in their judgement, even if they are an acknowledged expert. Brochet’s research strongly suggests that.

What is the test then? How does one evaluate the evaluations? Here’s the real crux of the matter: in poetry, there are serious impediments to articulating the methodology one employs when assessing talent and worth. It’s hard to say exactly what they are, but review after review flails about in an effort to relate personal emotional responses and impressions in factual terms. Having read the book of poems Paterson mentions publishing in his article, and several of the reviews, I remain at a loss to understand what elevates it above numerous other debut collections that have arrived in recent years. It’s certainly not that I can’t detect any qualities whatsoever, but why those that are particular to this volume should be rated as more important than those in, say, any of the collections I have reviewed recently for our Sidekick Books site, is something that no one has convincingly argued. Least of all Paterson, whose efforts to describe why he had chosen to publish another Picador poet went this far:

… there was something in [his] turn of mind, the precision of his ear, the quiet strangeness of his imagery, the tenderness and clarity of his address, that made us want to read his poems again and again.

Something, but what, exactly? Paterson has talked in the past of ‘restoring the science of verse-making’ in order to bolster our self-confidence. There isn’t a scintilla of an allusion to science or scientific process in this description.

I don’t suggest we fret too much about this. Reviewers should continue to flail if we’re to make any progress in this area, and in the meantime, it’s not exactly a crushing blow to the artform that we have the potential for an array of competing tastes. If anything, therein lies the secret of a vast richness. What we should beware of is the wine expert mentality, the tendency to believe that because superior and inferior poets must objectively exist, and because we have strong inclinations, those strong inclinations are forever aiding us in parsing one from the other. We ought to beware the influence of anyone who affects to have expertise and the right to wield it, at least until their arguments alone impress us, not simply their standing. And that is a far-off thing in poetry.

Robert Sheppard on René Van Valckenborch

August 30, 2012

The ‘whole’ oeuvre of René Van Valckenborch is surrounded by mystery, perhaps of his own making. Published in fugitive publications in places as far apart as Cape Town and Montreal over the last decade, the poems of this Belgian are composed in Flemish and Walloon, and the stylistic divide between the two sets seems to reflect the societal linguistic divide of his troubled nation (although he never refers to this fact). These poems are translations from the Walloon of his ‘versions’ of Ovid, both from the unfashionable Tristia and the apocryphal ‘new’ Amores.

The entire project is due for publication by Shearsman in 2013.

Robert Sheppard

 

from ovid’s twistier & new amores

tristia bk 1: 7 the exiliad

                                 for phillipe thierry

 

bin the press cuttings the imperial poetry prize

wipe the tapes of the olympiad the shaky video

of my north sea pinings with exilic marvin gaye dear

 

friend delete my emails defriend me on facebook

for every time you see my thumbnail

you’ll weep & tweet

 

how unhappy he must be forever off-line in the

valley of bad signal hard drive wiped the final

draft of the book of ch-ch-ch-changes deleted

 

but i’ve kept a fair copy on pen-drive old friend & it

awaits my final tweaks but while

we’re on the subject if you’ll beg my pardon

 

(no i mean really beg my pardon did i not

explain the distinction between relegatio &

exilium?) that opus of mine (thank the odd

 

god or two that nicander is out of ©) could

remind you of me like the signet you wear

that bears my image but what i really want to say is

 

that book of the dead will survive unchanged my death

great friend: is there room in the rome that you roam in

for its twisted transpadane transformations?

 

 

new amores bk 1: 5 a.d. 4: 4 a.d.

 

into summer noon heat

of our shuttered crepuscule

you enter slip

 

tensible straps down

cleaving silk upon

sheeny stockings

 

tensing your back

against me you

hold back

 

halfmoon bra falls

from the afternoon &

i turn with moistened

 

lips musky fingers for em-

passioned meat deep below

your perfect slopes with

 

cavernous tang sucked

tongue & your lick-

spittle sphinx smile

 

until you shudder

release re-

joice & relax!

 

then your turn

turns spine line lifting to

taut sharp shoulders

 

till we’re complete & i

fall apart exiled shade

twinned in twilight for jove

 

knows tangled hair & cleft

flesh must return to roma-

ny scarf & sensible skirt

 

high heels & tight lips

carry off my wanton

verses in your departing wiggle

 

each evening you absorb

applause for

persistence from your

 

husband lukewarm

like a courtesan

before supper all

 

night he guards your shallow

moat with his rubber sword

dry as a bone in its defence

 

 

See further information and links to other Van Valckenborch ‘fictional poems’ at

http://www.robertsheppard.blogspot.co.uk/2012_07_01_archive.html

From Protest of the Physical by Andrew McMillan

August 12, 2012

 

from ii

 

I didn’t know it would be the last      love

is giving everything too easily

then staying to try and claw it back

 

nail   spine   pulling at you from inside

clothes still on   the verge of undressing

and everything we were was your hoodie

 

hallway up your body

and my cock half out in your hand

and your stop it in a way that meant don’t stop

 

at least not yet and the swift tug

of shirt over head for the soundless spill

and the door      your dad

 

*

 

town that lost something

town dropping the biggest lump of itself

watching as it rolls into a split in the earth

 

town on its knees trying to find it

town that shrank into a clenched fist

that sweated on itself

 

that slowly closed one day so that the roads

tied up together and people were crushed

shouldertoshoulder as in a lift waiting to descend

 

town that sunk from its centre

like a man winded by a punch

town that bent double    carried

 

young men   and women   and younger men and women

as long as it could but   spinebroken 

had to let them go

 

 

 

from iii

 

qualitative research into pub names in Barnsley

The Mount   The Corner Pin   The Closed Since the Smoking Ban

The cross Keys   The Smashed Glass    The Bridge    The Soviet

 

The Echo of the Stopped Machine   The Station

The Longbow   The Wheel’s Reinvention   The Junction

The Room   The Glass Still Half-Full

 

The Walkabout   The Joseph Bramah   The Keep Drinking

The Mill of the Black Monks   The White Bear

The We’re Still Here

*

mist frosts across the ploughlines

fires smoke themselves irrelevant

your most loved song is overplayed

 

and worn by too many singers

waking to a stomach fresh dug   churning   forgetting

all but the briefest inflections of your voice

 

your mother called me to the window   fox in the road

it seemed young but maybe foxes age more gracefully

than us   it was early afternoon   you were sleeping

 

it seemed lost   wrong place   wrong time

we just watched it burning

down the avenue   red scar

 

a field on the way home

Mrs Ford with her dog   a man flying

a model aircraft   just like a real plane   only smaller

 

 

from iv

 

drunk man to the drunker woman

where you from     Barnsley

Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarnslie

 

Dragging the word out   the way people do

stretching the tighpacked line of vowels until there are gaps

that could be rode through      can ya spell it?

 

station   walkhome    man in the doorway

of The Mount looking up   g night luv

theory   the moon isn’t just for poets

 

glimpses of books on trains   C.S Lewis’

Mere Christianity   we will all be cured of our sin

at whatever cost to us   at whatever cost to him

The Purple Haystack – A Sequence by Joanne Ashcroft

August 6, 2012

The Purple Haystack

 

Step Forward to Tell the Tale

 

presented

not-doll sized neck-

cradled by over anxious

is

her image in the mouth forehead

smiling

 

embark

3 to 4 and 6

separately at least once

children home and away 3

if local and previous partners

to panel

 

mirrored salted

grit

and grin

 

perform-feed in a secure bucket change

rose buds   hoots a pass

 

equipped for independence review powers by whim their lack

a far miss her smirk

            to engage in public play

 

I heard

no-one is immune to

the use of emotive

language to edit

get strong

legal

 

medical

head to toe waist

being 16 is asked do you

drink cut yourself no

allergies medication

 

lay down that paper and

look

and write that

if you can

 

can renege

won’t retract

stop

out loud

in writing

 

(numbers apply are turned away abort)

 

uninvited to

hear court jesting say we

are on

 

thing of pins itching

side-pitching in tongues

stitch listlongs

knit the eye cranial

tacking left to right

stinging ratworm

wrung and out in

casts dripping spit

divine lipsmith

puppet caster

forging glitter-traps

silence blown in

thorny breaths

beating cabbage whites

red drenched concrete

made paper

artless and lies

witless eyes raking

spring out

of time

 

baa baa cocker hoople doo

 

and still

 

the tug

 

 

Not on My Watch Tale

 

now love

we’ll bond

and I

shall show you how

to and how you

and no-one else can

do what I do

 

I make fives

top lunged

tic tack toe

goggle and

yak

you can’t do

anything

I can’t do

 

 

Too Far to Tell Her Tale

 

evil looks ruin

her luck

a slurred signature

incontinence (both)

seal

the depth

 

arrive to woman leaving

the crackle of blister

as sweets

and washing

 

a face mostly eyes

a voice raising

 

clouds black rolling in rolling out

can’t say a difference

risk ruffling in a single number

 

a flea

minus sandwich

don’t crash

voiced

wished upon

the slipping surface

a hair away

 

give us her number so we can increase hope and confusion

no use to

ask who is prime minister

Tuesday

December

as breathing

 

well

guts see

clouds black

an abduction

out to lunch

 

Too Busy to Tell a Tale

 

sits opposite an ear

feeding a nose kissing

thick skin

 

who closest

was important

is

remember it

make changes

how do you feel

 

enjoy school

have any regrets

any qualifications

did you continue

value education

previous jobs / your current

how important

enjoy it

ambitious

fit into family life

 

(she said she saw

her over-stepping her

words a bloody cascade)

 

what hobbies

and why

how much time

alone or with others

 

describe your personality

see yourself

with key words

(yours and others)

your strengths

aspects you do not like

 

marriages / relationships

give details

length

who leads

supports / strengths

stress / decisions

what effect

 

children   write briefly

how do they feel

anxieties

 

is this end

verbatim

Four Poems by Richard Barrett

August 6, 2012

POEM

1.

 

What? Morning                                    Remember? Morning

And falling, almost                into the car to        Boost sales

I suppose, I mean           Why else give away        A free CD

 

                                                                                     Of 80s

                                                                                     Heavy

                                                                                       Rock

 

                                                                                  Classics

 

2.

 

See that settee? (We sat there together)

See that carpet? (We played Tetris on it)

And right out of bed it takes, precisely

Half an hour now to remember                        I’m out of bed

 

Disaster averted though

You self dramatising nob                                          Lurching

 

From one disaster to      A N OT H E R (indented randomly /

 

What’s a disaster?

 

 

3.

 

See the shape of this – could it be better?                Well

Of course it bloody could             We could do it ‘open-field’

 

 

4.

 

And in the kitchen –                                                       What

                                                                                Happened

                                                                         In the kitchen?

 

We cooked omelettes together

Then ate them                                              Whilst T4 was on

 

 

LAKE DISTRICT HOLIDAY POEM

 

This pub

Is not the only pub 

Round here. Or even

On this street

 

But this conversation

Is the only possible one

Now. Given the circumstances

Of just me, you and him talking

 

They’re the only circumstances

 

I want ‘another conversation’ please

In a different pub

I feel some distress

I am not famous

Nor are you

Though he was famous in the 80s

 

Me. At the bar

Me. Carrying two beers and a coke

       Deftly

Me. Thinking what to say

Me. On the subject of Lake District holidays

Me. Silent

Me. ‘Oh yes, I went there once

       With my girlfriend

       And we walked round Coniston water

       Stoned

       And it was fun’

 

In one of these pubs nearby

Some pub less ‘down at heel’

With a younger crowd maybe

Working in the media and IT

Would that have been an interesting thing to say?

Or is it just boring

                  boring

                  boring

From whichever direction?

 

POEM

for Cheralyn

 

Then you were stood, waving

And we hugged

We’re hugging here

This is us hugging

In a café, meeting up again

After several years

3, I think

 

Hugs will enclose the evening

In brackets

 

With, the other side of them

2012 to welcome

 

from YES SIR, SIR

 

[1]

Can confirm nothing

From here, just that you could spit there

                                 (the precinct)

From here

                                 (the office)

Just that

 

To ask ‘what’s the news?’

When no one knows the news

Is stupid, no? See how warm it looks out

For Autumn

 

According to official sources

And GM police’s Twitter-feed earlier

 

2 cups of coffee drunk

12 sugars in total

1 packet of crisps consumed

1 banana, unfinished. As the news that I care about

Not The Money Shop

 

[2]

On Friday then, late, speak –

And speak properly

Not like that

 

Lose the word ‘love’

Or not

If not

Clarify your meaning

 

Look now –

Something 6 sided, heavy

And brick-like

Is probably a brick

 

Amongst desks

 

And desks and desks and desks

And amongst office-workers

 

[4]

This feels exciting

People are acting excited

And saying they’re excited

I am definitely excited

I don’t know if more or less excited

Than anyone else

In this network

In this excitement network

 

Extracted from this network

Would my excitement remain?

 

Is an interesting question

But one which at this moment

         I am just far too excited to ask

 

Maybe dangerously excited

 

It looks warm out

And it’s warm in as well

The air-conditioning is broken

 

 [5]

A knot of

Downward pressure from the boss

And intuitive knowledge

Of who can be manipulated, plus

A tick-like flirt response

To the opposite sex

So, not ‘love’ then

Clearly not

The word was badly chosen

 

Unlike off-white lounge suits

Off the court

Kit stowed in a scuffed Head sports bag –

 

No, it isn’t ‘love’

 

I said that!

I said that!

 

[10]

Which might be true now but

Can’t always have been true

 

A contradiction exists

 

Between the sanctioned version

And that coming from the scene direct

A ‘re-imagining’

 

As of the precinct’s main tower

 

Having told the driver:

                                      You know the one

                                      With the arrow

                                      Pointing down

                                      And in red?

 

Obelisk-like, heralding the next big step

Up evolution’s ladder

 

This gorgeous day

 

Music playing                       

                        But those noticing it notice just

 

Its unfamiliarity, and wonder

 

Is this a prologue of some sort?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Five Poems by Steve VanHagen

August 4, 2012

a little knowledge

two tramps almost sober alongside us at St. Pancras as they put you in the ground

 

in my mind’s eye a young scientist determined

to discover; careless of the reality of discovery 

of the Price to be paid

 

turns to a life of being disappointed not surprised

by the duplicity of drunks   a final sad embrace in a Euston bedsit

of rusty scissors by the carotid artery                   everything given away

 

as earth hits wood, your epitaph: ‘killed by the dangerous pursuit of altruism’

 

 

honourable option

unreally crisp crunch of gravel as the auto leaves Herrlingen

 

the car leaving feels dangerously routine, mundane, but I see grains of sand

echoes of desert      some die some survive      

 

I know I must stay calm and not look back

my fingers on leather                      I feel my wallet in my coat pocket

and the breathing of Burgdorf next to me

 

the road will run out at the edge of woods up the hill where pills await

after twenty minutes the telephone will ring at Herrlingen

 

in Dallas

drizzle early morning           then bright sunshine         

cheering, waving crowds   we round a curve

 

a little girl catches, takes my eye

face cruelly disfigured but wearing stars and stripes pinned to her lapel

 

as sudden a flurry of firecrackers as ever heard from a school book depository

gala celebrations     ticker tape flying

 

let’s get out of here              men jump      cavalcade accelerates

Camelot lies bleeding slumped on the seat, cradled by a bundle of pink

 

window finger jigger

they must be Sainsburys bags you use

to prepare for window finger dancing,

bags gained, earned on weekly Monday

ventures out, past a door with no lock since

the police broke it down, past self-created

altercations on the stairs

with the gay couple from #54

 

the excitement’s in the ritual

of pinioning bags to the window

cutting out the oval, just big enough

for the finger, erotic touch of sellotape

against hands (like an origami-loving

Mrs. Doyle), anticipation

of unsuspecting pedestrians below

 

sometimes he wonders what mommy

would make of his inheritance,

the purchase of his unlocked haven,

den from which to launch finger affronts upon

the passing world; though not for long, too many

pedestrians, too much finger-raising

jouissance to be relished

 

 

Frank Randle RIP

Bombing bloody Blackpool with bogroll from an aircraft

would have been a good enough way of spending

a Sunday morning if I’d been thrown out of some

place in Blackpool for being pissed the night before.

 

But I wasn’t and I didn’t even though later they said

I was and I did. So I wasn’t bombing bloody Blackpool

with bogroll from an aircraft and it wasn’t a good way

of spending the morning after being thrown out for being

pissed there the night before.

 

It were bloody Accrington I bombed with the bogroll instead.