shower

The night was up.

The moon revolved

above white flowers.

Rain fall on glass

lifted me from sleep;

you stayed still, within it.

Cocooned in this water,

I waited;

stared into the weft.

A morning began.

White flowers retreated.

I rose and left.

Fascism

Titillate or titivate?

Zippedy do da

Amoral or immoral

Am currently rather unwell and have the shakes and the fevers like an Elvis Presley record.

However, I have spent the whole morning chasing up, responding to and trying to sort out work via email.

It has all gone rather well.

Am I needed at all.

I rather hope not.

we would like you to know that we are not them

don paterson signed my/his book

Aid Foran

For Aidan

Harvest

Harvest time: the trees,

mottled in dying colours,

hang out their new found

beauty in a final farewell.

The fields are turned earth,

smelling real or shorn to

sharp stalks. The sunlight

returns to us, yet the cattle

keep their coats; root crops

populate new recipes and

fruit weighs on the boughs.

The water is alive, is teaming.

An Autumn mess, in all its

comfort, circles the fireplaces

of the evening and settles in

a chair that, of course, creaks

as it relaxes. New meaning

comes to a vocabulary put

aside for the summer months;

the season exhales, it reclines

into a colder sleep wherein

the silent promise of full

foison is finally whispered:

we shall die, you know, we

shall all die. Yet in that silence;

that desuetude, in the deep

uncanniness of sudden familiarity,

the two seasons fuse. And

in the weft of before and

after the nature of love

is revalued and, in thanks,

prepares, gives, makes ready.

Up at five this morning and then a two hour commute into work. Suddenly developed splitting headache at 10.43 that I know will not let up.

I only have one class today but they are at the end of the day when all that will be left will be absolute fatigue and the hope that they are completely silent and offer no resistance to learning as i am liable to be at best, short tempered.

Unfair.

On them.

Here we see that possibilities open to us all if we would only get up off the floor.

My father had a pet parrot called Peter who would crap all over the kitchen and learnt swear words and this was all part of his charm. Have a paying lodger that would do the same would you?

We had two notable lodgers in my house as a child. The first among them was Tony who my parents dubbed 'Powder Boy' because of the amount of talc he left all over the bathroom. He was bearded and used pounds of butter on the meals that he ate and I have to say that I disliked him intensely.

The second was called Alan and was a university student. He had a folder that he put his notes in that was covered in photographs. One of these 'snaps' was of him wearing nothing but a straw hat. I didn't like him much either.

check hairs check plugs leave

roar creation!

zinc

wotsonzebox

my eyes! my eyes!

My new job at one of the top schools in the country began yesterday - all seems to be very good. A well oiled machine that runs smoothly. That starts in cold mornings and moves faultlessly through the gears.

However, there may be, if you listen closely, if you close your eyes and let the murmur of overheard conversations wash over you, there may be an unexplainable high pitched noise - yes - there is - and its so faint - yet it is constant. Like slight feedback from a badly wired amp.

The dogs are quiet; the horses stamp and whine; the winds whips up the leaves and I check my watch again and again. What this place is missing is pupils . I hope that perhaps they will silence the drone.

This could all be wrong of course. It could all be my nerves talking. But there is tension here. A television headache. It could be mine. Who knows?

Lapsum ne timeat

Blind Justice

The statue stands in a small square in Seville. It is in a fairly industrial area. Tilt the camera, all is forgotten. The difference between law and justice.

The statue is of the flamenco virtuoso

Nino Ricardo

National Gallery of Modern Art

well fine...

http://www.nationalgalleries.org/visit/page/2:118:4

edinburgh festival

Been here for a few days now; plays have been working at about 40 : 60 annoying to good ratio. Recommendations:

• 3women - sylvia plath - acted with conviction; nuanced performances; uneven at times but well worth it.
• Diary of a Madman - Gogol - failbetter theatre company; great performance of a classic. Amazing feat of concentration.
• Woody Sez - slightly cheesy but well intentioned musical exploration of Woody Guthrie's life and legacy.

Saint James

This apostle appeared

once before the Spanish

king and lead their army

into Moorish slaughter.

Or so Raoul would have

us believe. His shadow

falls in the cool of this

dark, stone church;

on the immense gold altar

piece that has at its heart

the horse-backed apostle;

an echo of lost violence.

These churches are all

along the way. Simple,

robust buildings that hide

these tremendous structures.

Christ in creativity;

materials serving

the metaphor. All

in interpretation.

Another transubstantiation:

the bread and wine

into body and blood;

the saints into generals:

flowers now mask the blood

at his feet that open like

mouths to hymn simple

praise and prayer in peace.

Ownership

 

And so I walked

away from the

city towards the

convex horizon,

crossing fields and

streams and hills.

 

My companions?

 

Two hawks;

seven walkers;

a photographer;

a grass snake;

various cattle;

some dogs and

 

the evidence of others:

 

sawn logs in piles;

fences, the hum

and snap of

telephone wires;

the distant rumble

of Sunday-straight roads.

 

But all mine (in that

I spoke to no one: no

one broke the spell)

 

It all belongs to me.

 

Pipes

 

We would walk past

a fairly ragged track

to blue flood gates

and a sandstone wall

that lines the tow path.

 

It was here that we used

to go to smoke at school.

Among the lime trees that

were planted in the tarmac:

good visibility.  Protected.

 

The first cigarette I smoked

was a Dunhill stolen from my

Grandmother in the days

when she still lived with us,

shortly before the fire.

 

But really we smoked what

we could: cigars, cigarettes,

loosely built roll-ups and

some of us even bought

pipes. Short-stalked-adults.

 

And so we would stand,

four of us, all but gone

now, our pipes filled with

flotsam, grimacing through

the enjoyment of it all;

 

unsure of what we were

doing: whether it was right

or wrong, but, haloed

in our exhausted cloud,

another world was opening.

 

one week

One week until the Easter holidays at the moment it feels an eternity away!

wha.......

thu.....

ain't it just like the night to play tricks when you're trying to be so quiet. We sit here stranded though we're all doing our best to deny it