The Tin Lodes, Andy Brown and Marc Woodward. Oh, and the magic of poetry.

This arrived in the mail today:

Then I needed to drive a friend to her home to sort some stuff out. I took the book with me. when she saw it she said: 'Good, you have a book'. Meaning that she knew she could take her time, no pressure, I was happy sitting in the car listening to Dylan and reading something keenly anticipated.

The Tin Lodes is a delightful book, the authorship of each poem is unknown but that very quickly becomes irrelevant, here are two minds in tune, they know each other well, they must. They know their river too.

By the time I had got to page 25 I put the book down, ripped open a CD cover on which to write notes of a memory from years ago, when anchored in the lower reaches of the Deben late one moonlit night waiting for the tide to take us over the notorious bar and out to sea. The water surrounding the boat became alive with small fluorescent fireworks; ragworm dancing at the surface, something I had never seen before and have never witnessed since.

The power of good poetry to invoke memory.

A wonderful book.

In the time of Coronavirus.

She passes the window each day
Pre-Raphaelite hair new penny bright catching the sun
catching my eye.
In this strange time of isolation
she is my only constant
when once it might have been

the morning ferry on the Dart,
the night-bus on Chepstow or church-bells.
she clicks away the days day in day out
heels, halyards tapping idle masts, on cobbles
I do not watch for her
I simply sit writing at the window that she passes
and as she passes
mark another day happy in her constancy.

I do not know her and for that reason can imagine,
invent a life and circumstances
watching her walking in the rain
talking on a hidden telephone,
(she has an American accent),
Laughing and happy

oblivious to the drenching of her hair
perhaps to a lover caught elsewhere, planning a reunion,
a parent in New York, Agent in L.A.
or a comedienne in St Louis
practising new material for want of a live audience
Maybe there is no phone at all
she is an actress learning lines for a show that may never go on
or a schizophrenic happy in her own company

I do not know her name
I shall not give her a name of my making.
In naming something a sense of ownership sets in;
I could no more name her than name
a wild palomino or the salmon that did not rise
or the raindrops on the glass

She does not notice me
I am too old to be of any interest or threat
like a piece of street furniture, or a bicycle
chained to railings slowly losing component parts.
I am invisible and benign
free to count her daily passing
marvelling at her loyalty
happy to have this constant reminder of time and place.

I will leave this place soon
and return to my home not far away
but not close enough to be on her daily route.
Perhaps I will catch sight of new penny bright hair
on Portobello Road, clumsily smile,  remember fondly,
lock-down in the time of Coronavirus.

Coronavirus nonsense for children of all ages.

Ware Container

Ice cream for breakfast

porridge for luncheon

elevenses in the afternoon

all day sprinkles to munch on.

Fruit soup for dinner

more ice cream for supper

sherbet for a late night snack

I keep it in a tupper

ware container.

All the ships that pass have black sails..

Isolated in exile I am my own Napoleon
but longing for no Josephine
and confusing my Arras with my Elba as
waiting and watching The Empire Strikes Back ad nauseam
talking loudly to myself, reducing this island's population of donkeys
to sad creatures dragging themselves along
by their front legs.

All the ships that pass have black sails.

I turn my eyes inward
scan that horizon
whilst indulging in fantastic orgies with hope, faith and patience.

Murray Lachlan Young, The Mystery of the Raddlesham Mumps at Wiltons. Review.

I took Mr Pounce to this show as a belated birthday present along with a friend. 

The idea of a gothic tale told entirely in iambic pentameter might perhaps not seem a crowd pulling idea. Hold your horses though.

Wiltons Music Hall in all its decayed splendour is the ideal venue for this show. The theatre itself seems to involve itself in the whole thing; it is Raddlesham Mumps, a decaying stately pile riddled with steam punk gothic seediness, the set bleeds into the theatre and the theatre revels in the gore. Essentially this is site specific performance poetry without pretention.

The show is an hour of what Murray does best, narrative verse liberally larded with wit, humour and imagination, delivered in slightly bumbling manner (all part of the whole) designed to, seemingly, encourage the audience into viewing him as one might a well loved avuncular roue. with a score that adds to the proceedings subtly, a healthy dose of physical theatre and a touch of silliness.

the bardic tradition lives on.

It is important to emphasize that this is not a one man show. Joe Allen mutely provides sub titles throughout to wonderful effect and is the glue that binds it together. Both actors milk the proceedings with gusto.

I'm not here to tell you the plot, I'll leave that to Murray and Joe, other than to say it is, as advertised, a gothic tale of multiple early deaths ( a recurring theme in Murrays work, vide The 9 Dead Williams) .

I was slightly unneved to see children in the audience, expecting the bored chatter and itchy bummed fidgeting that normally chaperones little ones at such times. Not a chance, they were entranced from what I couls see and were, as children are, at ease expressing mirth when occasioned and encouraging the adults to do likewise.

Go and see this with the kids, it is a wonderful introduction to the wonders of theatre. You can spend the cash saved on babysitters in the bar.

There is only one more performance at Wiltons (tonight) but can be caught on tour soon. Check out venues and dates on Murrays website HERE


 After a post performance beer in the bar we moved on to Vout-O-Reenee's round the corner.... A story for another time.
 

CHRISTMAS GREASINGS.

Pig fat on the turkey
goose fat on the spuds
suet in the mince pies
brandy butter on the puds
lard on the sausages
bacon on the lard
butter in the stuffing
butter on the chard
cream on the yule log
cream on the lot
and grandma's full of baileys
octogenarian drunken sot

Brandy in pater
port and lemon in my mum
and kinky cousin Tarquin
injecting vodka up his bum
Dinner now partaken
napkins mashed and soiled
things going very smoothly thanks
now that every-ones well oiled.

We are too busy.

We are too busy
fighting other peoples wars
solving others problems
carrying their weight
curing their ills
salving their bruises
taking their pain
filling their voids

We are too busy to notice

each other

anymore.

Why Rimbaud gave up poetry.

From our Arts correspondent Jan Nieupjur.

A lot of people ask me why Arthur Rimbaud gave up poetry.

Actually thats a lie. No one has asked me, it is just a lazy, cheap bit of journalism.

But now I know. I recently came across a bundle of documents handed down over the years from a Kipper seller in Camden. Among the papers was a poem written by Rimbaud apparently in payment for some kippers he purchased. At the time he was living in Kentish Town with Verlaine and on the run from his mum and Verlaine liked a kipper.

Anyway, the document I have reads as follows:

At the price of just one florin je
suis désolée
down the market place to
see the value of an orange
The sun of fruits
at its apogee
yet cheaper than a door hinge.

(I feel I can do no more).   A.R.

The influence of Brautigan on my poetry.

When people ask me
who influenced you
in your poetry
was it Brautigan?

I say
no it wasn't.

An ormolu stool for the new Royal baby.

A nation rejoices
a nation is happy
for Morgana of Wales
has filled up her nappy

no signs of austerity
in her posterior dexterity
yet for her no diamond
or other rare jewel

no silver
no pearls
but the perfectly formed whirls
of a
golden hued,
curlicued
ormolu stool.

We wrapped it in tissue
sent it off to the issue
of the issue
of our dear Queen's eldest son
With a brief covering word
to authenticate the turd
as a born and bred, dressed in red,
Welsh number one.

Suggesting that
when they unwrap it
they have Gilbert and George snap it
for in turd matters they
are certainly no fool
And will quickly identify
reasons aplenty why
(in the words of the hip)
it is undeniably cool...

To be blissfully happy
with the contents of a nappy:

A golden hued, curlicued, ormolu stool.

Murray Lachlan Young's 'the Incomers'.

The writer, director and cast tell us about it.

The Dutch are coming! Ramsey Nasr.

My aged guru Jan Nieupjur alerted me to this event. It should be interesting. Included in the line up is dutch Poet Ramsey Nasr alongside numerous other members of the Low Countries literati. Details of the Tabernacle event which hosts the final event: HERE

The artificial hip. For all you Hoxton Hipsters out there!

I was really pleased that I managed to get 8 Z's into one line. Cool or what!

He's the prosthetic aesthetic
the artificial hip
the coolest thing to hit the town
since granny took a trip.
He is the London Fields creative
the Hoxton neo-native
the ultimate self-oblative
hip hip hip hip hip.

He is ironically moustachio'd
wearing comical pistachio
drainpipe trousers  and a pork pie hat
He knows full well
 that he's not where it is 
if he's not where it's at
He is the pastiche fantastiche
is cooldom uber alles
likes erzatz Piazzolla pizza jazz
and avant garde French ballets.

He is he is he is he is
he is he is
he is

Hip hip hip hip hip hooray.

He is he is he is.

Drug dealer starter kit and the jeweller to the stars

I found this on the interweb, the perfect Christmas gift for the children of our times.

The jeweller to the stars.

They are waiting in the cafes
the restaurants and bars
or parked on unlit corners
in expensive cars
they are waiting for the snowman, the blow man, the let's go man
they are waiting, waiting, waiting
for the jeweller to the stars.

He is the closest thing to royalty
their business is all his
with his bags of herbert sherbert
(the silly rich mans whizz)
he makes them feel quite special
and just a
little
bit
show biz
they are guaranteed to talk the talk
walk the walk as well
he is the pied piper
the piper at the gates of hell.

White christmas is his ringtone
on his prepay mobile phone
his sole visible means of support
the long suffering wife at home
he is the king of the powder rooms
his shit it smells of roses
to the vacuous trustafarians
born
with
silver spoons up their noses.

He is known to each and every one
the jeweller to the stars
he hasn't got a friend on earth
and there ain't no life on mars.

'Soul Food' at the Tabernacle.

'Soul food' described itself  in the Tabernacle calendar as 'A feast of talent to feed mind and nourish your soul'. apart from that I had nothing to go on as to what was in store on Sunday night.

Well they were right and it is and I came away smiling. Soul Food is a Spoken word and musical collation with Carribean spicing. and very well done.

I have always been an admirer of the story telling tradition from those Islands; I remember being enthralled as a young man listening to lyrical, often hilarious, tales told by an old man I once had the luck to know. His tales helped me on my way to being a poet. the tradition is living on here in Notting Hill.

Mosaique

There were a lot of acts on the bill, of a consistently high standard. too many to name individually here (I'll be posting a full review on the Tabernacle website) ranging from the singing of the very young and surprisingly confident 'Shaleah' who must be heading to good things. Uniq the poet caused me once again to consider rap as poetry. 'Mosaic' was very very good, hard to define his style and material but I'm going to go with 'Theatre for voice'. Catch him if you can.

And the evening went on. Heidi Vogel impressed me with her wonderful voice, deep tones and bossa nova. Kat Francois is an observational comedian (among many other talents) who defies any critic who says that women don't make good comedy. I get to see quite a lot of comedy, rarely do I laugh as much as during her set. She has a Theatre Royal show coming up. Well worth checking out.

The evening was hosted by the Delicious Princess and Jason grant and produced by Afropick. We are assured that soul Food will return. I shall be there. Might even try to get on the bill.

The Island Experiment and rock n roll poetry.

It would be incredibly naff to review an event in which I took part.  However,

The Island last night was great fun, Wade puts on a very good local showcase (rather than open mic) event but when I say local I don't mean parochial I mean it is in a 'Local' with a big loyal following which attracts acts from all over the place.

Last night's line up was consistently good with one or two demonstrating great talent. I'm not going to put a list here, there is a link to the Island Experiment fb page on the right.

On a personal level My poetry was kindly received and thanks to the presence of house bassist Patrick and Roger Pomphrey I was able to do my rock n roll poem with guitar solo. Always a high point for me when I find a willing collaborator.

If you are ever in NW10 on a Wednesday night You could do no better than get down to the Island.

My poem 'Poetry is the new Rock n Roll' will be getting another airing at Loco Cabaret @ the Grand Union W9 on Saturday night with Dan Antrobus providing the solo.