a nip in the air
that by half past two
will have disappeared leaving
a winter uniform
radiating polyester
heat.
new bag, new pencil case,
new pen, new ruler,
all rigid with first day nerves,
soon will have stories
written all over them.
a freshly made packed lunch
two sandwiches, crisps, an apple,
will not be fully eaten
til day three.
I’ll never be this early for the bus again.
my day was
scheduled to death.
every slot too small to
fit a human.
I had to hope
that no-one had any
curiosity left in them.
or everything would
fall apart.
I was lucky;
they had all forgotten
what life was –
if they ever knew.
obediently they toed the
schedule line,
retrieved themselves from
exuberance.
someone had bad news from from home,
regrouped in a
coffee break,
swallowed sadness and
cappuccino straight down,
got back in the game.
all around us autumn beauty
unfolded steady as a
queen.
we had four point five minutes
in which to walk to the river and back;
by then numb to it all,
I can see it like a photo,
feel nothing.
I don’t know if I can
do this anymore.
When was the last time you had a first time?
I forget where we were.
Desire or restlessness?
Sheer frustration inspires new design;
I can’t remember where we were, I mean.
Design solves problems.
Robin Day cleverly extended two short pencils lives
by joining them together
with a piece of metal tubing.
Every stone tells a story;
not a multiple choice.
I had a strong interest in housing,
the relationships between our homes and ourselves being a particular area of fascination.
However, this is an emotive subject and managing the enormity of the scope has probably been
my biggest challenge.
Bringing joy to everyday.
Now my heart turns to and fro,
In thinking what will the people say.
They who shall see my monument in after years,
And shall speak of what I have done.
everything that is letting happy in and other things life don’t give itself
Membership makes a difference.
Charity was born of the marriage of Poverty with Abundance,
and certainly it cannot come into existence
without the presence of the two,
side by side.
Unite in good cheer.
Engine rooms this way.
Make bold moves;
hop on hop off.
And the eyes of them both were opened,
and they knew that they were naked,
and they sewed fig leaves together,
and made themselves aprons.
take extra care of children
You never know what you are going to find.
I had to look at everything.
Notes on locations: This is a more complex poem than the previous found poems. In order, the source texts are from: advert (Bakerloo line, Paddington, southbound), poster for concert, posters at Design Museum (DM), DM, overheard fragment of conversation, Robin Day studio replica at DM, advert, exhibition subtitle, James Christian quoted in DM (abridged), poster, Inscription on Hatsheput’s obelisk (DM), scrawled answer to question ‘What is good design?’ at DM, writing on a wall at Tower of London museum, quotation on fence around building site near Stonecutter Court, Starbucks poster, Sign at Tower Bridge, scrap of paper at DM, Routemaster Bus, Genesis 3:7 quoted at ‘Woman Fashion Power’ exhibition at DM, sign on tube, two fragments of David McCandless’s talk for the Royal Statistical Society, pattern on a scarf (DM).
I don’t know whether I want to write commentary on my poems, but I am trying it out here.
This week I have noticed that lots of old routines and facets of my life are changing or disintegrating. I am back to writing my book after a long time away with my business work, my colleague is on maternity leave, my favourite café is no longer home, some friends are moving, some are in new relationships, and I have been trying to write daily for extraplorer, which has caused its own twenty-first century vertigo, even my hairdresser might be changing.
Everyday this week I have felt disorientated. I wake up, and can’t quite pin down who I am. I am having to train myself back into the routines that serve as anchors to my everyday life. Sometimes I forget the things that create stability or peace or connection and productivity and it’s like I have to reinvent or rediscover them.
I love the phrase ‘ontological lightness’; it means a kind of insubstantiality of being. This week I have felt insipid, more of a breeze than a person, tipped about by circumstances.
But really this is only partial reality. It’s more in my head than in my legs. If I stay still for a few minutes, like right now, essence of me starts to fill up and I feel like myself again.
It’s the essence of me that is linked to the essence of the old oak in the poem ‘falling’. Leaves falling have an ontological lightness; they will decay and fade, but the inner reality of the tree, and the reality of the acorns which although perhaps not visible to the tree do exist in the world, are full of substance. Very full, and overflowing with life, which will become again visible through the buds of spring.
So once again, patience.
There comes a point in time in the life of a
brave old oak
when its cloak
gives way,
bit by bit,
to wind, to rain, to age, to the
inevitable pull of
seasons.
When its much loved array
of green and gold
leaves it, forever,
to the nakedness of
cold.
When its acorns, once full of
anticipated joys, of life,
of potential, of
infinity,
are entirely gone.
When even its very last cherished leaf,
the one to which it finally
clings with all its might,
takes flight.
Then the voices in the winds wuther:
‘Call yourself an oak?
Where’s your cloak?’
‘Where are your acorns?’
‘You’re a joke.’
And so the old oak stands,
vulnerable and grey,
lashed by storms
and frost and even
heavy with snow.
And hopes.
extraplorer 