Sinister: Monday Poem

[poetryplace2]

Hello again. It's a been a fair old week for that elusive pop/poetry
crossover. First I read an article in the rubbish new men's mag, Deluxe,
that the redoubtable Simon Armitage (older readers may remember him from
the old Mark Radcliffe show) describes himself as a "huge belle and
sebastian fan". Next I turn to the latest issue of Select, where they have
made Paul Farley's first collection "The Boy from the Chemist is Here to
See You" their book of the month. You may remember that Paul's poem about
Keith Chegwin's appearance in Polanski's MacBeth was the inaugural Monday
poem. Once again, where the sinister list leads, the rest of the media
follow...

On a couple of tangents, can i repeat my call for
articles/interview/whatever for the new list fanzine "brouhaha"? Email me
privately for details. Also, does anyone else find the new pulp lp a
profound disappointment? I keep on losing the will to live half way through
it. To cheer myself up I had to compose a list of my top 5 b&s related
films:

1) Trust
2) My Life as a Dog
3) Billy Liar
4) Harold and Maude
5) When the Cat's Away

Anyway, this week's poem is in honour of the new Farley book, which I urge
you all to buy, and goes out to the sinister cosmichemusik/krautrock posse

Paul Farley
Velvets, Can, Stooges

For John, in the hope he is still alive
somewhere. An album is nearing its dead centre
in the room where we camped with a Primus stove,
lit by the glow of a one-bar heater.
At that moment the page becomes a strain
to read, and as quic as a summer
can end with the drawing of a curtain

he is there, in a past that squats at my shoulder,
teaching me the litany of bands
and a way to fold with three Rizla;
there, the same slender plugwired hands
that were gentle with charcoal
those afternoons in the Life Room,
but hard on himself with a shared needle.

In the hope that he has turned the flame
to one more item of luggage:
has burned the phone numbers and names
old as a habit, page by page:
that he sees a world beyond the door's
one-eyed, dilated view.
There are burnished spoons in the drawer

where I live now. I stole a thing or two
and entertain the idea
still, in light like this, then forget you
like some character in the book
that's slipped from my lap. You were so real then
that I almost looked for those records you took,
and put on that arctic winter again.

________________________________________

Stevie Trousers
The Poetry Society: http://www.poetrysoc.com

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