somethingeveryday

Here lie the last words of somethingeveryday, 14.02.2010 – 01.09.2011.

More info soon.

Thanks to Max for this month – it has been fun! Sorry for all the haiku! You can probably tell I’ve been busy!

Okay – so the last poem:

The Ezra Pound Shop

after Steve Walling

A compass that will lead you only to water

with a preference to the Baltic Coast.

A pack of old cards already marked

from a decades hard gambling on the ships.

A box of old kippers that smoke themselves

before descending on the offy for cigs.

A book filled up with lurid illustrations

of paintings of landmarks by Cezanne.

The diary of a baritone

who longed to be a cello.

Every reward card you have never needed

because who in their heart could ever possibly pledge fidelity to a sandwich?

A do-it-yourself-stained-glass-window-kit

with several accessible illustrations.

The long way home after a bad night drinking

and no pairs of arms to fall into.

I send you a picnic on an isle of grass

somewhere in central london, a bell

from a church somewhere from childhood,

a swig of lukewarm beer.

I send you too the beach and your terriers

playing tug of war with the bladderwrack

as elsewhere an old man tugs at his beard

watching the sea for some answers.

And you could be that quiet man

sat on a bench with a book you’re not reading,

a bench with dedications on a high

lonesome hill. And still I see you crossing

the bridge at rush hour, watching the boats

as they get under weigh, not lost exactly,

but what?

There’s a point at which the shingle

succumbs to  a path

that ropes in the winter light,

vague sand, a cold wind

and the distant lights of Thorpeness

like ships far out

These are the true caravans

we long to live in, taking up

the vague lorryloads of food,

books, the long groans of trucktalk

that make them the very depot

of journeys; motorways

grown tired with themselves. We spot them

through railings, among thickets,

solid and shuttered. From bridges

we see the guard with his cig

and his phone, thumbing through

each cold february with the regularity

of a padlock. Sometimes on business parks

we make islands of our feelings.

“Shipmate, have ye shipped

on that ship” spake the unhinged

prophet Elijah

Vase about to fall

and shatter like it shattered

the first time around

face like an egg cup

holding the soft shell of your

dignity intact

And before you fall

be sure to put the light out

and clean the bedroom

The dog was beaten more than once

and nobody could say who applied

the final blow, who left him stretched

on the road like a vagrant’s rug

who left him, his breath staggered

the snow still falling, covering his fur

until the snow patrol came, with their plows

and their terrible terrible albums.