City Sonnets - 37 and 38

It would have been nice to keep the idea of linking the two places going, but I don't think there's anything that links these two places ...

OXFORD

I slumped asleep three times on the way back,

To hate myself somewhere in Alperton

At five a.m., bemoaning the lost track

That started to unwind at half past one.

I drifted off when some student called Arthur

Began to bore me with his woman woes –

I’d not the patience nor the bitter heart for

Young Arthur’s dank misogynistic prose.

Before I knew it, I was at Victoria -

The driver nudged my shoulder, “off you pop”.

I stumbled to the night bus’s top floor where

I slept once, slept again, and missed my stop.

I waited for the first tube back my way,

Then slept through nearly all of the next day.

CAMBRIDGE

The time is right for fighting in the streets

Down by the Cam, then past the restless spires -

A bottle smashed, an idle threat, the heat

Is dimly on, you’d hardly fear such fires

Of peevish privilege. The lines are drawn,

You have to laugh - push barely comes to shove

The barely shaved, it’s only mutual scorn.

“Don’t fuck with us”. “Cambridge is our town, bruv”.

A cricket match, a casual annual sneer,

some dim insults, no great shift from the norm.

No grave threats squeaked you wouldn’t always hear,

But gloves are off. Come now, this is poor form.

The summer’s here, the time is right to fight

Then meekly shuffle back into the night.

City Sonnets - 35 and 36

So, as you can see, these two places almost rhyme, which has happened by happy accident, and raises the stakes considerably, and turns this whole thing into a ...
... MAJOR ARTISTIC ENTERPRISE!

HAMBURG

The Beatles we weren’t, shyly tiptoeing

The Reeperbahn in tepid daytime tasks

But still quietly unnerved by hovering

Blue neon guilt. That was the deadest mask

The crackling harbour city offered us.

We briefly sank down winded, even wished

Ourselves back home. A rush of sun, a gust

Of sea took hold, half-cleared our mourning mist.

I saw my first red squirrel! And like that

My Hamburg was exotic and ablaze

With promise kept, til finally we sat

By Binnenalster, sold on golden days.

We never saw the Beatles, or the darkening night

life of the city, kept it sober, clean and light.

BAMBURGH

I gleam with shame as I remember when

I ran to Bamburgh over rolling road,

Our first family holiday as men

And women, not just your four-headed load –

You’d still abide, of course, aglow with pride,

Still free of greater pains in waves to come …

Or maybe they’re already yours to hide

That year my way to Bamburgh was to run.

I ran to Bamburgh, just five miles, no more,

forth, back, but still too much for me that day.

I can’t remember what I ran there for

From our grand rented house on Budle Bay.

That was itself such a long time ago,

Though why I’m haunted now is mine to know.

City Sonnets - 33 and 34

Here are two more - I'm sure I'll stop some time.

I seem to be specialising in the pleasure of cold drinks, and walking, which is terribly imaginative ...

it's not for me to say right now, but there may be some personal interest in looking back at this and seeing what themes are inescapable ...

WUNDANYI

There’s not been better than a large cold coke

at Tsavo Hill Café, a sun-straight day

when shadows hide; shoes, shirts alike are soaked

in sweat, the hour’s walk up from Mbale

infused with “How are you”s and “Mzungu”s

and grimaced greetings barely whispered back,

The bursting thirst as you pass growing queues

And road replaces rutted red dirt track.

One task - no stopping yet at Aftab Khan’s

General Store for that week’s chocolate hoard.

No other business to take on, no plans

Beyond that loaded fridge, that first glass poured.

A panting mountaineer now on the brink -

You sit, you sigh, you wipe, you smile, you drink.

OLHAO

Let loose, I strode around that fishing town

As rainclouds glowered, the afternoon on edge

of sleep enforced; I could not batten down

my temper, had no compass, had no kedge

to yank me back to dry land. Squinting out

towards the lived-in isles across, I played

with all outcomes of solitude and drought,

but stood, thank goodness, wholly unafraid.

The headphones, as so often, filled my world;

I played that manifesto of homely

Contentment I had never sought, My Girls –

A life, as yet, which looked so far beyond me.

You know the rest, ten years have passed, my world

Is written by the words I heard – My Girls.

City Sonnets - 31 and 32

Two more:

HARLECH

Best place I’ve ever been is Harlech sands

The year before the girl was born, as sun

Burst through what we were led to understand

Had been a summer thereto underdone.

We seized the castle first, ransacked each tower,

 descended the world’s steepest road then crossed

the golf course fearlessly, where others cower

we braved the endless dunes … was our cause lost?

Eventually, we topped the final peak

and turned to see Snowdonia’s looming grace,

we turned again, had no words left to speak

confronted with the beauty of that place.

Best sight I’d ever seen was Harlech’s bay

Until that girl, the next year, came to stay.

NOORDWIJK

Of course, I hadn’t an adapter for

my laptop, which was quickly charging down

as I looked on the grimly gripping shore

of wild autumnal winds in this Dutch town

Where I forgot my shoes and listened to

Joanna Newsom’s brand new album Ys,

For want of something else to hear and do

For hours themselves reluctantly released.

I find some shoes which barely fit within

The quiet and quizless streets. And time finds speed

Towards the night, the murmured nerves begin

To churn, with just one lonely room to read.

The meteorite, the source of light, tonight -

I’m lost in space and can’t quite say it right.

City Sonnets - 29 and 30

So, for ages, I'd only done one for London, but then I realised that was just cutting off my London to spite my London. London is a lot of different places ... so this is one place in London ...

and the second one here is a nice example of a poem which is quite, quite bad ...

PECKHAM

The first pass went unnoticed till a beat

Of footsteps later – recognition took

A corner and a sigh to be complete.

The second time, there may have been a look

Before the crossing but the day ahead

Was long and daunting – eyes could not be met.

The third time was deliberate – a bowed head,

A pang of friendship hidden in regret.

The skill one learns in small towns - not offend,

just lightly ignore - sabotages luck

In London – to encounter an old friend.

An instinct to retreat and shun is stuck,

We walk with fear of people in our space

And miss the chance of small moments of grace.

NAIROBI

It’s fun to stay at the YMCA - 

The greeting’s warm, the board is great value.

The diocesan office calls to say

They have the paperwork to support you.

As if it’s the arc of the covenant

you bear the note from Bishop Mwaluda

to Kenya’s most generous government,

a welcome in store considerably ruder.

The arrogance of youth is blunted by

A bureaucrat called Kirui who scares

You half to death with threats you can’t defy

And, mocking, strips back all your bullish airs.

“But we came to do good”, you cry in vain.

You’ll never venture to do good again.

City Sonnets - 27 and 28

I'm actually not 100% certain it's Hickling, it could be one of the other ones, like Barton ...

HICKLING

As Hickling opened out, he took his place

Upon the prow, theatrically, and coughed,

Dramatically, before, full in the face

of growing autumn rain, he held aloft

His trumpet, sounded out an old refrain

As fine as ever heard throughout the Broad.

He knew we watched and smiled “aah, this again”,

But still, as much, we knew, played for his Lord.

That week, I first lost all my heart to Cohen

And Buckley, roar and whisper, back and forth

via Gods and lovers longed for yet unknown,

and forged a sermon for my journey north.

And yet, when I retrace, surpassing all,

The slow post in the rain’s what I recall.

RAWA MAZOWIECKA

The evening of my 31^st birthday

(In truth one could choose any birthday here),

By water, any water, but let’s say

It’s Polish water, with a Polish beer.

In truth it could be any beer so cold

It dims the sun (it could be any sun),

With lively conversation to unfold,

(In truth it could be held with anyone).

I checked my notes:- this here’s the life that’s good

It could be any life but this one’s mine,

It’s not unique, that’s known and understood,

It’s simple, universal, and that’s fine.

A bar, a Polish shack, a summer night,

I shut my mind down and I saw a light.

City Sonnets - 25 and 26

Two more - they might as well be in the same country but in the wrong order

BARCELONA

Sangria-shot, that selfish summer low,

Scrambling in vain for adulthood, cards lost

In camping scrub, indulged, nowhere to go

In Gaudi’s city, racking up the cost

Of kindness, slouching to an Irish pub

Of English slobs just off La Rambla’s traps,

On edge, their braying sparks off stub on stub

And pint on pint of spiritual collapse.

Where came redemption, or at least the lift

Required? That curious racist London girl?

the slow dawn of contempt perhaps helped shift

the fog and reset my place in the world.

The cricket’s on, I’m going home to wash, to hide

From this wrecked boy, and wait with hope for turning tide.

VALENCIA

A vital childhood story built from clips

Inside my brain, Valencia, the flash

Of wildling light, we shelter quick for chips,

Tortilla tears, the calm after the crash

And sand too hot for feet, they stumble, bridge

Half broken down at Montenejos, stones

Thrown, smell of drains and orangeade, a fridge

Stocked cold with meat, red cheese and ice cream cones.

We sing Prince Charming, jumping chair to chair - 

A Spanish soap that stings, a bandaged boy,

I learn to cry, the football’s gone, resolve in air

Planes, prawns to scare, clay figures, home ahoy.

I am all leaping memories too sharp to crack

And some days all that I can do’s jump back.

City Sonnets - 23 and 24

Two more ...

TREGUIER

A boy who died was hidden in my thoughts

That week, but I was too ashamed, or young,

To say. I sat, set loose in vest and shorts

Outside the café, toying with trite tongue-

twisters, annoying poor sisters, who took

to talking more advanced Francais than I

could match. Our mother, buried in a book

would gently snap or, sometimes, fiercely sigh.

One afternoon, to quell my threat, we crossed

the square. The old cathedral burned with peace.

And I, just twelve, at once grew old, and lost

My grip. Hot tears, not for myself, released.

I’d be a child so many times again,

But grace and wisdom first waylaid me then.

BRIDGETOWN

So … first, I burnt, of course - a patch on shin,

A swirl on wrist, the gift of cream applied

In haste, yet when I turned that wrist to spin

I spun for fun, arc-sharp, packed the off side

And earnt a scalp. Then – Desmond Haynes

Strode to the crease, two decades past his best,

of course, our beaming host, but class remains -

His friendly knockabout, my prime, my test.

I bowled … as well as I have done, and twice

I forced false shots, but twice the chance was spilled.

When I withdrew to calm my wrath, the price

Of fate and failure was at once distilled.

A towering strike up, down, through hands, through shades, skull crack,

Des, laughing transport, and my prize that won’t come back.

City Sonnets - 21 and 22

Two more:

EDINBURGH

They stood on secret bridges spying down

On long lost lovers, mapless, staying lost,

All fresh regret they both chose the Old Town,

Forgetting its renown for live wires crossed.

The winter chill came early as the rain

Laid waste their make up, he chased all the length

Of Chambers Street and Cowgate, while his brain

Surrendered meekly to its draining strength.

She wants to be a writer, he’s not sure

The money’s in it, he’ll cross Princes Street

Tomorrow, on the path to being mature;

tonight though, he’s supportive and discreet.

Tonight, they find each other, after all

The wasted time, it slows, finally, to a crawl.

ASHFORD

“They like it tropical” she rasped, just one

On the production line of firm but kind

Midwives with slightly changed advice. The sun

Ensured her words were heard. No fan, no blind

could quell the ward’s oppressive shrouding heat.

The new girl squirmed, she blinked and howled her blues

while my calves swelled like former hells thought beat –

We begged in vain a spare bed I could use.

As evening came to calm the sweltering blast

The room, as if by magic, lost its crowd

And we were left, us three, us three! at last

To feel it, breathe out, tell her loud and proud,

To play that bright-eyed girl that Bright Eyes song.

The moment passed. We weren’t alone for long.

City Sonnets - 19 and 20

Two more ... such times ... both involve running

IWERNE MINSTER

Till summer dusk I ran and ran like Christ

On childhood holiday. He cramped and fell,

But seeing hell, he rose with blood, he iced

The bruise, and, hark, his friends could never tell.

Till chapel hour, I ducked and dived like Saul

Before the road was clear. He fell and cried,

Then changed his name; like me, he heard the call,

Still, small, but kept his nerve to spread it wide.

In bare feet I stepped carelessly on grass

And stones ‘til cracks appeared. I held my pain

‘Til night time came - one holy moment passed

In vain was not a thought I’d entertain.

I ran and stumbled, hit the floor, flushed red

With shame, while my scratched palms solemnly bled.

CHICAGO

Grant Park, October 2008 -

a multitude collects in hope unbound,

while I’m hot off the plane, a little late

To understand this hope the city’s found.

For twenty-six miles the crowd will be one

On this unjustly sultry Autumn day.

Though, fooled by lake breeze and dim morning sun,

We start undaunted by the price we’ll pay.

I greet the Tower at halfway, spry and strong,

Then one mile later, cramp first comes to call.

The next twelve miles last just about as long

As fits a pride that comes before its fall.

Grant Park, Chicago, next month, yet more pride.

The multitude convenes in hope. Hope died.

City Sonnets - 17 and 18

Two more - one of them's about Virginia Woolf kind of, one's not ...

NEW YORK

Ribs rattled by the Cyclone circling rough

And undersupervised, we’re half bereft

In summer desolation stark enough

To fall in love with the ghost park that’s left.

If asked, we would be thrilled to “Shoot the Freak

Live Human Target”, but the freak’s not here

Today, he’s scared the Island is too bleak …

For him, but not for us. We have no fear

To eat the hot dogs, hog the boardwalk stalls,

Look out for monsters on their holiday

Or mobster kids in beach huts. But the balls

Are bouncing stories from a long gone day

When Coney Island rocked and rolled all summer long –

At least, the Coney Island I entrusted to a song.

SEVENOAKS

A last straight mile incline to that last oak

And loop it back. Then, if I’m lucky, deer

To scatter as I reset what was broke

And like a slowly boldening Alpine skier

I gather pace to pass the house, which takes

Its time. I count to three six five, intone

My prayer, and ask the guest of ghosts what makes

A single room here wholly of her own.

Down there, that home is small and never ours,

where I abide, expand from front to back

unconscious so long of the blackened hours

the ivy hides as brickwork starts to crack.

Those hills we climbed; no need to climb again.

Those rooms were never filled; not now, not then.

City Sonnets - 15 and 16

The former is, for what it's worth, the funniest thing that's ever happened ...

LLANFAIR CAEREINION

The llaugh that llasted … shared hysteria, half

Delayed to minutes after we creep past

The window of the farmhouse, on the path

To where we’ll tooth-brush. He is framed and cast

As hero of his own unprivate show.

We share our double takes, purse lips, bite tongues

‘Til certain we are out of earshot, blow

Our tops and roar each last laugh from our lungs.

Two decades slip and slide away, I’ve kept

No contact with those boys I shared that shock

Of shallow joy with, but the memory crept

Up, now … the laugh, I mean, no, not the … other thing.

But, men, I have this one word to give you

Peace be with you, and, yes, also with you.

FLORENCE

An Englishman, in any circumstance

must be unflustered, dignified and droll.

Whatever he’d not realised in advance,

He should emerge as one born to the role.

In forty-one degrees of Tuscan heat

His morning suit should linger on his back

Until he’s told the groom’s tasks are complete –

And never should his wry composure crack.

An English wedding knows no better site -

A villa overlooking Florence fair.

What better time than summer’s sizzling height,

What feeling tops shirt sticking to chest hair?

A few are flagging, though you wouldn’t know it –

An Englishman is trained to never show it.

City Sonnets - 13 and 14

Couple of light pieces of light entertainment, and, impressively, these are both actual cities

PARIS

I’m catching up on sport in Gaie Paris

Between the metro and the Gare du Nord.

I’m catching up on sport where’er I be

Wherever I be, je recherche le sport.

I’m checking on my phone to find the news

On boxing, cycling, football and the rest,

And if you have a charger I can use

I’ll keep myself continually abreast.

I’m in the queue for the Musee D’Orsay

But keep one eye across the test’s live feed.

Between Degas and Manet and Monet

I’m checking if they picked Adil Rashid.

I’m seeing how Spurs did, in the Notre-Dame –

I’m checking up on sport wherever I am.

GLASGOW

Of course, the singer told that joke about

His brother, the guitarist, which I’d read

In NME, and yet I laughed without

reserve, as if it was its first time said.

I went there with a headache and the band

Now so reviled suspended all my pain

And worry for two hours of overmanned

Guitar rock any cool kid would disdain.

The lads of Barrowlands threw beer and worse,

they roared and swelled at every chorus line,

and we shook out our soft limbs and immersed

ourselves in that blunt tune and that flat whine.

However I confine myself to tastemaker’s disgrace,

I’ll never be ashamed of the night I loved Embrace.

City Sonnets - 11 and 12

Including a city

FRANKFURT

I flew to Frankfurt on the slate grey day

In August nineteen ninety-nine that great

eclipse of pre-millennial dismay

collapsed under its own aestival weight.

My flight was held by half a hopeful hour,

Yet still the blanket bathos did not break.

Wild heaven, let me at least glimpse your power.

My eyes looked up from reading about Nick Drake,

I craned from the cheap aisle seat at Heathrow

To see a cloud of, at best, doubtful hue.

I sighed “well here I am, well there you go,

You came, you went, you fizzled, good for you.”

Oh, Nick, you could have told me not to trust

In nature to be kind. No, nature’s just.

PITLESSIE

Picked parsley from the garden, once I knew

What parsley looked like … “just a fair-sized bunch”

She barked between her laughter. – “Look at you,

There’s nothing to you, take a proper lunch” -

So, soup with home-made melba toast, then roast

then some fruit pudding. I could eat, full well,

And, talking being what we both feared most,

I ate, and stayed politely in my shell.

I knew she was a sentry, for a far

And doting parent; she’d share notes by phone

while Staffies fussed, and when, at times, the haar

was near, that watch helped me feel less alone,

transported me beyond the fuss of life

inside the other bubbled fussy Fife.

City Sonnets - 9 and 10

Not cities ... again ...

BENAVISTA

We heard the Madridistas in the flat

Above, who’d taught their boy to shriek with fear

When dancing devil Lionel Messi spat

Defenders from his footsteps. As he neared

The Real goal a fevered horror filled the air

Of Benavista (a place that rarely sparked

To life) and dozing discreet pilgrims shared

A shiver in the Andalusian dark.

We spotted cucarachas on our floor

On the third day. Our host’s indifferent smile

Made clear that to be shocked, or expect more

Was naïve, at best, at worst, dear guests, puerile.

The morning that we left we spotted ten

Dead demons on our floor – never again.

TAIZE

At twenty-two, I thought to find no peace

Among the Christians in the summer dust,

A muttering stranger who’d felt wonder cease

And spread that doctrine – mischief and distrust.

But even in one week, the silence took

A little, led me back from where I came,

Though then, I’d no foundations to be shook

And scarce residual apostatic shame.

I heard no God return, but think I saw

the ecumenical in truest shape,

and spoke my own still small voice, quietly sure

that I was safe in refuge and escape.

The final night, I knelt at last to share

A fellowship of hope, a common prayer.

City Sonnets - 7 and 8

Two more ... fun times

DELPHI

The ghosts of Mount Parnassus hardly cope

With youthful crassicists, all Amstel breath

And Marlboro reds sneaked further down the slope.

“This is a place” their teacher says” of death

upturned, of prophecy, all history born”.

Now piqued, they drain retsinas and catch sleep.

With sore Pythian heads they greet the morn,

Pray for Apollo’s mercy then breathe … deep.

A race! the ancient stadium the site.

They scamper, kids again, the winner crowned,

His triumph brief as he regrets last night

And, oh the shame, can’t keep his dinner down.

Miasma mighty Delphi’s temple hereto has not known,

A sacrilegious offering that’s his and his alone.

CORK

Our mother grants us coke floats while we wait

In the back garden. “Late …”, she frowns and sighs.

But we’re holiday-happy, dodge the bait

‘Til your old blue Granada at last arrives.

We cross from Fishguard to Rosslare; at night

I mark the unknown hours and trace the wake.

We breach the rebel county at first light -

You’re back, and we’ve a heritage to make.

Red carpets, the Glenavon, shabby grand

Up steep Cork city streets for scattered rest,

We’re breakfast connoisseurs at once, this land

Of puddings white and black put to our test.

We roam the land with the most Irish man you’ve ever known

Our father art in heaven – and that week, that heaven’s home.

City Sonnets - 5 and 6

I just changed the blog to this font. I like it. It's a much better font.

Here are two more sonnets ... there's going to be flippin' loads of them ... when i get an idea, I run it to exhaustion

RIO DE JANEIRO

A photo cheaply printed on a plate

On Corcovado of a squinting boy

In baseball cap and shorts, stood stiffly straight,

His hands held down in front, a gesture coy

And quite mysterious to the man himself

Many years later, dusting souvenirs

And rearranging memories on the shelf

Of unconsidered moments through the years.

And then he gets it! Those unbending arms

Which point to hell with such a narrowing

Raw sense of shame are cowed by the wide stance

Of the Redeemer overshadowing.

No mimicry, no imagery allowed –

The boy observant, arms cast down, head bowed.

ST ANDREWS

That day you drove me in, the town was lapped

In the late summer light, and I was hooked

In love with it for good. Those four years trapped

By old stone on the ledge of the East Neuk

Awash with Pringle, Callaway and beer,

I was abuzz with rainless blasts of wind

Imbued with ancient messages of fear

For callow youths who wouldn’t know they’d sinned.

That day, as planes of Leuchars roared above,

you told of childhood Elie holidays,

the sea, the castle, Old Course all at once

ransacked my breath and ever held my gaze.

Years later, from Rule’s Tower, I looked back the way

And saw us, happy-sad, that late September day.

City Sonnets - 3 and 4

Here are two more - they really aren't cities but there we go ...

ARDMORE

 The churn of Loch a Chadh-fi births the choir

Of mocking zombies singing out the old

East German National Anthem, while the gyre

Behind the motor calls him to its cold

Unspoken danger, like the siren pool

At Caldbeck, three years earlier, pulling down

In quiet and plain sight, wondering wryly who’ll

play hero, as he meekly learns to drown.

Then dessicated on Foinaven’s ridge

He gasps and pukes up trickles; now he’s tied

to Lowther, three years earlier, hears the bridge

and chorus, singing “look on the bright side”.

Of life and death, so glibly and so soon

he’s forced to learn a fragment of his tune.

KABALE

The rainy season’s certainties laid bare,

Kabale fizzed. I felt like I could see

The bottom half of Africa, and there

I tell you I was brave. Then look at me

Alone and walking roads all burnt and white

For miles untroubled by my superpower,

A person among persons in plain sight

Half-caked in mud, parboiled in each fresh shower

McManaman! He cried, McManaman!

the hotel TV snapped me back, and I

was never quite so brave or true again

so wholly, firmly lost under the sky.

McManaman!, months later, home and hosed,

An echo, just a ghost, a chapter closed.

City Sonnets - 1 and 2

This is my next thing I've been doing/am doing. I thought I'd write 14 city sonnets, because I thought it would be nice to practise a form, with a set subject, and be limited by that.

The thing is, the second one I wrote wasn't actually about an actual city, and then when I'd done 14, I saw that a lot of them could be better so I thought I'd write more to see if i could get 14 satisfactory ones, and I've sort of expanded to almost any "place" I've been to.

It's curiously addictive, and of course, for me, it's nice to get in touch with a memory and shape it into something - though these are not all, of course, wholly true memories.

Some of the memories/stories, such as they are, would be better served by a different form, but packing it into 14 lines is good for me to practise

I don't really know how to lay these out, or which ones are good or not....

I'll post two at a time ...


STOCKHOLM
A giant spider of tight islands hides
Its secrets in the dazzling open cold,
A city which both authors and abides,
Preserves its shipwrecks, spins it woes to gold.
We keep on crossing bridges till we’ve found
Ourselves back at the start, with emptied hands
Which paid to hear the treasure in each sound
and leave each relic breathing, where it stands.

Such grandeur! fostered opulence at each
Clear corner. I can see in every hall
that some fresh masterpiece is within reach,
and free? Hardly …but … equally free for all …
We caught the train to Gothenburg before midday
But it grew dark as soon as we were on our way.

BIRMINGHAM
“We’re mostly here for company” she said
Though I had hardly asked. I was impressed
Nevertheless, and since my faith was dead,
Almost, in any case, pleased she’d not dressed
This rigmarole in pretty gilded lies.
The Scottish vicar (bitter, hairy) drank
His share of lunchtime brandy, thought it wise
To whizz us round the ring road (his car stank

Of fags and God, of course) to Sellyoak,
Where I devised a method, in one week,
To hold a mirror to the stifling smoke
And plot, at least, a comfort I could seek.
Apostasy, my honour and my friend,
In Birmingham where missions go to end.