City girl again

So, a long time ago I wrote a poem called 'City girl'. You can read it here. Recently it was used as the starting point for a piece of... dance music (and I'm not talking a light waltz). The artist is a mysterious Dark Web and you can hear the track here. There are three versions (original, original with one mild rude word removed and 2 am mix - i.e. remixed and faster with less words). As these 3 tracks are on bandcamp you can listen a few times (3 I think) and then it will 'prompt you to buy' (if you want to). After a break of nearly 20 years I think I am finally ready for loud pounding house music again. Well, now and again... when I'm not napping...

About the toon

This is very new... prompted by finally watching the last part of BBC Scotland's 'The Promised Land' just recently (I didn't know it was going to be ALL about Montrose and its early twentieth century cultural clout...) and probably by the upcoming music festival MoFest here too (photo from a couple of years ago above). I've posted the words written below but I have a simple tune for it (and I quite like the chorus - listen here, it's just me singing... into the phone, one take, don't judge me). I'm never very good at differentiating verses from chorus and tend to use about three notes (and I've never claimed to be a singer...) but maybe a local songwriter (or two) can do something interesting with it (2 weeks till MoFest... high street ready by then... loads of time...). It could possibly take more Scotification - I have used bits of Scots and some local references but I'm sure others more local than me might be able to do more. It could certainly be sung with a more local sound than mine!

Non-Scots should note that 'stay' is used in Scotland where others would use 'live' (as in 'where do you stay?'). I am using 'stay' in both senses in this, kind of blended really. I snuck in a 'bide' (also a type of 'stay') at the last minute too. 'Close' is another double meaning - here 'closes' are the alleys /courtyards between houses (very much a feature of central Montrose).

Toon

Chorus

I live in a little town,

It picks me up

And it slows me down.

I stay in a little town,

Aye, I stay…

Watch tides, at the waterside,

Sea sure for its share,

River fights, its course to keep,

Gulls float, going nowhere.

Chorus

Flat lands, green against the blue,

Long days, long beaches,

Hearts wake, for a golden day,

What that might teach us.

Chorus

Bide, close, can you hear the words?

Poets past, modelled faces,

Tall street singing high above,

These are our places.

Chorus

RF 2016

Burrow

Yes, another window photo. And, lo, another poem.

Burrow

She’s in a pocket;

Tucked in, safe hole,

Whatever rains,

It doesn’t reach her,

She hides her stupid head,

Pulls up her stupid knees,

Makes like a circle.

Hard times come round;

They knock, knock, knock,

They pull and push.

Her view is simple.

She waits them out,

The rips and stones,

Disguised as nothing.

RF 2016

This year's fears

This year’s fears

So some of us are scared of airports;

The flatness of them,

The waiting,

The type of possibilities.

Also tunnels;

Smoky, dark tunnels,

Where there should be light,

And air.

Some of us fear forgetfulness;

Being useless,

Not helping,

Letting the rest of us down.

‘The rest of us’ fear night and day,

That nothing will ever be right again,

That ‘home’ and ‘safe’ are old words,

For other people.

And some of us are just scared;

That soon even fear will disappear,

That it is nearly over,

Whatever it was.

RF 2016

Simply this

What we want

Just to get on with things,

ordinary things,

exceptional things.

To take an unmolested walk,

or to the floor,

or our own time.

We want to be somebody,

and so do you,

you want that too.

RF 2016

I posted this elsewhere the other day - one of those places where things move quickly and you don't even get to be fish and chip paper afterwards. Here it can live a little longer... maybe till it gets to be a postcard or something. There are a lot of 'we's, and a lot of 'you's.

Visits past

Photo by Mark Stephenson

So, a few years ago, around this time of year, we were in Vermont (details here if you want them). I was reminded of this yesterday, thumbing through a book of Robert Frost poems that I found lying, unloved, in one of the many piles of books that clutter this house. I studied Frost at school, have even written a poem that mentions him before (back here, now a little altered) but now I have a new one (below). Well, a draft anyway.

Just recently I have been reading (via daughter) the Jackie Kay poems that she is studying in school. I know some people probably manage to take in nothing from the poetry that they are exposed to at school but for others these poems can be life-changing, mind-enhancing. You may not realise this at the time of course!

Bennington, Vermont (2011)

It is a crisp day,

Suitably Frostian.

A March Sunday,

New England,

History in the air.

In the graveyard

There are pointers

Only to your name.

Who else has that?

You’ve arrived, they say.

We walk on grass,

Visit a white church.

School poetry,

That old uncle,

Whispers in my ear.

RF 2016

Back on blog

Haven't done this for ages... blog that is. It feels weird.

Another thing I haven't done much of late is write poems... but here is one. May it be of interest to somebody.

Peace out

I do not google myself.

These days I am happier viewing others

who just happen to share a same name

(this name and that, and even the other).

I study their grand achievements:

doctors of psychiatry, literature,

an author of children’s books,

and whilst there was a time

I would have felt pressure,

disappointment and even a sense of shame,

I think that nonsense has finally blown away

and now, on some possibly insane level,

I just feel pride in their names.

Call me ridiculous.

I mean - look at this one:

Professor of cultural something or another,

Producer of academic tomes,

and, with the inevitable Fox/Quaker connections,

Promoter of peace to boot.

What a woman.

Today it feels enough, more than that,

that they are doing it,

that they are all so hard at work;

neat army of busy minds.

And me? What of the messy mes?

We just potter about quietly,

no need to panic,

for there are safe hands,

somewhere else,

getting important things done.

RF 2016