Freckled Cauliflower

I have decided to commit my poetry to the pages of my blog.
Over the next few days, weeks, months I will post a poem here and there.

To be honest, I have not written anything since those poetry-writing days in London circa 1997. And when I look at them now I feel a little awkward and also a little unsure of them. I ask myself whether I could have done better, whether I should have written more.

But that is the thing you see with me and things. I get wrapped up in them for a while and then it fizzles out as it were. Like an electric current that gets weaker and weaker until it eventually dies.

My writing has not died really - it comes out at odd moments and usually I stuff it back into wherever it was kept. In the back of my mind there is the nagging question of how many times can you refuse your inspiration until it goes forever?

It is similar with this blog. In the beginning I was thrilled with the idea.
But I realised it takes work, dedication and said inspiration to do this. (Don't get me wrong, I am not a complete moron. Honest. Even if I feel like one most of the time.)

Actually, I feel like I am a person with no goal.
No vision.
That is why I keep meandering. Often that is considered a good thing, isn't it. That saying about the journey being more important than the actual destination.

But to be completely clueless? Not being able to decide and stick to one thing? That is scary and it simply takes the wind out of me and my endeavours.

Is this what they call commitment issues? Yup.

I am rambling.

Let's get back to the writing.
It is very amateur. I never took a creative writing course in my life. I never discussed with others whether any of my work was any good. I have never exposed it to any criticism. I have always taken the easy way out.
Sure, there was the odd reading here and there. Open-mic session where anyone could get up on stage and flaunt their stuff as it were.
Some of my fellow writers were impressive, they drew you in. Some others were simply crippled by self-doubt and it showed. I myself was usually a mix of insecurity and arrogance.
If you wanted to you could have watched me decompose right in front of your eyes had you subjected me to your criticism. But in some part of my brain I sincerely believed I deserved to be heard. And more astonishingly, I also believed I deserved to be considered good. Talk about delusions of grandeur.
I am actually a bit ashamed of myself here, I must say.

But I often catch myself thinking - I can do THAT! Geez.
Well, maybe I could. But as mentioned before, THAT takes dedication, hard work. And I never seemed able to stick to anything. I wander here and there, nibble a bit from this, try a bit of that. But dedicating myself fully - naw, never gonna happen. In the crucial moment I pull back, even away. And I may even have muttered occasionally - Well, I didn't like it anyway.

HOW FICKLE, how superficial and self-absorbed can one person get?!

I am not trying to ingratiate myself here - Hm, spilling one's guts about how sad one actually is smacks a little of  "Please take pity and ...oh, look, here's what I prepared earlier. Now like me, like me. Like me, dammit!

I might just get away with it - because this blog is most likely to go unnoticed for all eternity.

No, I shall simply try - humbly - to send my words into the void. That is what this blog is for, after all.

So watch this space. Or not.

Speaking Of Which

I like living in big cities. I lived in London for a while. It was marvellous. And even then I would wonder what is it that makes a city come to life. Why do people say for example that New York is competitive? It is not, really. It's the people there that are.

Anyway, my point was that London would get to me sometimes - like no other town ever has - it would really envelop me, eat me up in a way. I would lose myself in the streets - not for want of maps - I simply could dive in. It is difficult to describe. And it is a little late tonight. And I have never written a love declaration for a city. I should have though. For this one, for London.

Ah, let's not get sentimental. I wrote something once, though. A little thing without a title. I was not quite confident enough for that at the time. I was never sure about this piece. It is like a love letter that you write and you are made to read out loud. And it all sounds less romantic once you have spoken the words. It all sounded better in your head there where the pictures are that go with the sounds and syllables.

I am committing it yet again to a page, I am not reading it aloud, I am just copying it from my notebook into my notebook. Silently speaking it to myself in my head while typing.

Give me the Greens

give me the Grays

give me all the In-betweens

Give me the sweetness of

Ealing on Friday mornings

Show me the eyes of Hammersmith

when I rush past on iron tracks

Dilute Piccadilly’s thick blood

for just one day

and let Hungerford Bridge

moan once more when the

last train’s gone

You won’t mistake the Thames

for the Mississippi

and they can’t make you

believe London never sleeps

for she does - when you don’t watch

Close your eyes

you can hear her breathe.

Wander with me through

awakening Clerkenwell

Loose yourself in Chelsea’s mirrors

and meet your Guardian Angel

over a cup of coffee

in Shepherd Market.

Steal all the needles from Saville Row

Pop their balloons in

Covent Garden

and then

stop

Run away towards the sea

like this muddy band

Towards the sky

on dirty pigeon wings

Show me the freckles on the

pavement when the sun

breaks through

St. James’s trees

Give me one single

rain drop

I’d sprinkle

across this night time beauty

Give me South Ken’s pale

Venetian mask

and King’s Cross’s bright red lips

You never hear

nightingales singing

in Berkeley Square

but

you won’t mistake the Thames

for the Mississippi

and they can’t make you believe

that London never sleeps

for she does - when you don’t watch

close your eyes

you can hear her breathe

Brussels

It is a quiet sadness

which comes over me

i look at dead leaves of yesteryear

4 pigeons

flapping their wings

noisily

across 4 adjacent strips of garden

like 4 girlfriends

lined up

at the beach

those pigeons their thoughts

It's not quiet around me.

Radios - not blaring but
gently crooning

mothers - shushing naughty
sons and daughters

there's the breeze rustling through the bamboo

hammers hammering

drills drilling

planes overheard

birds

butterflies

but

quietly

quietly

the tiny tufts

of

poplar tree seeds

settle

everywhere

as does my sadness