Sunday, 2 November 2014

The Trial

I sat here to write it all down, now I can't remember the aim. 

For in the quiet stillness, all I could write was your name.

We clung to every word - eyes wide and bodies tense. 

But whichever way you measure it, it doesn't add up to sense. 
As picture motions from surreal, to searingly real, and back. 
That special song that brings you to mind, the moment light ventures a crack. 

And I don't know what the words are, and I can't quite find the aim. 
For in the quiet stillness, all I could write was your name. 

Parting brings its sorrow, but to know it was with such grief, 
Pulls heart with an aching that yearns for sweet relief. 
Sometimes the hand that's dealt, we will never understand, 
But perhaps there is a moment when peace lends her guiding hand. 

And I don't know what the words are, and I struggle to find the aim. 
For in the quiet stillness, all I could write was your name. 

And now we question it, feels like there's no affirmatives, 
No real rhyme or reason, nor distinct definitives. 
But when the darkness dwindles, deeper at least in its dwelling,
What will be left is you, and the stories we'll still be telling. 
For those who knew and loved you, and let's face it, it was the same thing -
Will laugh at those old memories that get their hearts stirring. 

And I don't know what the words are, and I don't even know the aim, 
But I know there is friendship and love in the mention of your name.

Tuesday, 29 July 2014

High-Rise Skies

I never truly saw the greatness of skies,
Until looking out from a London high-rise.

Watching mountains and rivers of clouds' formation,
Become tigers and doves with day's transformation.

Skyline silhouettes - Steeples, cranes, tower blocks,
As cliff-edge and castle and stoic mountain rocks.

Overhead, mighty seas thunderously crashing,
Huge eagle through orange mountain fiercely dashing.

The great palette ever-changing its spectrum of wonder,
While city of visions rolls busily under.

Pretty Words in Wilderness

Pretty words in wilderness
Would it pay to know just how little we know?

When children's eyes are battered
By raw flights of fireball fancy.

When quiet famine chips edges of china
Laid with olives, falaffel, rocket, houmous, finest cheeses and meats.

When democratising is dictated.

When the war wages - from our wages.

When we're booming

To the bust

When faces of Gaza reflect in our selfies.

And fracking, lining pockets - radiating, contaminating.

When new builds' innovation - one entry for rich and one for poor.
When we're talking to phones and texting people.
When our children learn only English writers in the name of progress

When banks trade in credit, make transactions in food.

While clutching fingers turn to bottle, or smokes, or pills, or skirt,
To fill that existential void -
In dark bars for that crack of light.
Where anything can be sold and nothing really bought.
Would it pay to know just how little we know?

No time for metaphor
Or pretty words

In wilderness

Tuesday, 15 July 2014

In The Shadows Of Silent Stadiums

Magnetic lights of great whirring stadiums' machinery,
Clicking, glowing, fading,
Switching off -
Like crowds, surging and dispersing.

Roaring red sun setting, rolling twilight -
Summer's night-skies, for weeks,
Illumined by blaze of magnetism,
Soar of spirits.
Dwindling into darkness,
Spotlight of world's eye -
Blinded by triumphs and disappointments,
Switching off -
Like crowds, surging and dispersing.

Yet still very much alive,
Through each passage of this mythical land.
From sweeping beaches to mystical mountains,
Vibrant colours, free as Igazu's waters.
Landscape of great gateways -
Mighty rivers, rich rainforest of Amazon.
Sparkling energy of Pantanal - rare species fleeing, forming, flying.
Vivid leaves of Tijuca
Past's sillouhettes laced gold, diamonds, precious gems of Minas Gerais.
And Christ the Redeemer watchful over Rio.
Switching off -
Like crowds, surging and dispersing.

Twelve mighty stadiums cast £2 billion shadows over favelas,

Namesake of their scrub plants.
Who absorbed magnetic lights.
Who busy and bustling sprawl.
Who, rich in history, teeter on hillside.
Who are subject of theorising
Of post-modern, new urbanism -
Who know its robust, communal, sustainable self-reliance.
Who are the very fabric of promised 'Smart cities' of civic assets.
Who gaze, thwarted
As the golden hand of investment diverts last-minute

And delves once more in wealthy expansion.
For glory is in grandeur and seldom to its people.
Who squat in darkened buildings
In Rio de Janeiro, São Paulo, Fortaleza, Copacabana
Who on street corners
Crowding, offering, bargaining
'50 reias'
The rabble, the rubble, the rouse.
The idle threat of police -
Driving on by.
Disappearing, reappearing.
Room by the hour,
Cheap rates for your dates,
No need for ID,
Just handed the key.
And scarring, bruising, bleeding.
In thousands and hundreds of thousands.
Switching off -
Like crowds, surging and dispersing.

Back at home, in the block.
Upstairs -
Wide, haunting eyes,
On gaunt faces
Who feel no pain for now.
As edges blur
And nights whir
And voices slur
It blots away.

Downstairs -
The guys
Making deals,
Staking deals,
Striking deals,
Handling deals,
Keeping deals,
No swerving deals.
Switching off -
Like crowds surging and dispersing

At the core of the sprawl,
Paraphernalia of factory of necessity.
And diagnoses of TB and HIV,
Dark damp of hot hit.
Children dancing in the rain,
Of free-flowing sewage-streets,
Cooling and soothing.
Tourist boards boasting spectacular views from up here -
Of prosperity so near.
Whimsical words of gentrifying glamour,
Hop on-board the tour
Of residents' reticence of retro-fit.
Like well-documented brief trips
Of big names,
On touring visits before the games.
Attempts to pacify
Much like the military
With their programmes and promises and guns on each side striking.
Some call it liberating,
Others disenfranchising.
We're yet to see,
Tense events transpiring.
The world's attention
Switching off -
Like crowds, surging and dispersing.

And across vast mountains
From Pico das Algulhas Negras,

Through Pedro da Mina,
Along Pico Alto
To Sugar Loaf -
The whisper of sons of this mighty land
Augusto Boal and Paulo Freire echo
'Conscientizacao' -
Through the peaks
Of a leading growth world economy.
As magnetic lights of great whirring stadiums' machinery
Clicking, glowing, fading,
Switching off -
And crowds, surging and dispersing.

Tuesday, 28 January 2014

And I Ain't Growing Any Wiser

The days are moving fast my friend,
And I ain't growing any wiser.
Looked in the mirror to etch a trace, 

But well, it was a forgotten face,
But the eyes, they gave the game away,
And the heart ventured a whisper.
And the crooked half-smiles of the night that beguiles,
As purity falls from grace.
And it's angles, angles, angles my friend,
Crooked and jagged and sure.
And it's angels, angels, angels my friend,
Fresh from dews' diamond skies.

The months are moving fast now ma,
And I ain't growing any wiser.
The days, and waves, and sun on your back,
The sands of time, how they shift, 

Each wave meets it's shore,
Indeed each grows, crests, then flows away.
And it's waves, and waves, and waves, now ma,
Fragile, tempestuous and pure.
Like waves, and waves, and waves now ma,
Of all those swift goodbyes.

The years are moving fast now pa,
And I ain't growing any wiser.
Though stillness, reflection, kindness, seeps -
Growing and unfolding.
And it's silence, silence, silence now pa,
Calm, consciousness, and pure
And it's echoes, echoes, echoes pa,
Of all those beautiful souls.