A River of Stones:Final Act/Time Lapse

Two small pieces of writing for the river today because one of them should really have been added to yesterday, but I had no computer access.

Yesterday I left for the last time the house that has been my home for over forty years. It was a very strange and poignant moment. I wrote this on the train heading away.

as my final act
I walk around the house
closing all the doors
 
 
And now I am in Harrow on the Hill for my annual visit teaching EFL in summer school. As often happens there is a curious sense of time not passing as I walk throught he streets which are almost, though not quite, unchanged from when I left them a year ago. Different buildings have the scaffolding around them as they undergo refurbishment, some businesses have changed their names but on the whole it's the same.

my annual visit to the hill
has become a very slow exercise

in time-lapse photography

A River of Stones:Light

For a very long time now the house where the garden backs onto mine has had fast growing conifers along the fence that divides up. And I mean fast. From when they were planted to now they have grown to be much taller than the houses, tall enough in fact that if they fell towards my house they would reach the whole length of the garden. And the garden is about fifteen metres long.

Yesterday he cut them down to a rather more manageable size. They are probably no more than about eight metres high now and have been similarly trimmed in girth and density. It has made quite a difference and is the subject of today's River of Stones piece.

the garden is unusually light
there is suddenly sky
and behind my house
another house

my neighbour has finally
cut down his trees

A River of Stones:Chairs/Getting Closer

Today I gave away the last of my furniture, leaving only the bed and TV in a house that was once overcrowded with far too many tables, chairs, bookcases, cupboards and cabinets. It's been an odd experience dismantling fifty years of my life but it's had to be done.
And now it is.

Here, then, is today's small stone take on the subject.

sitting on a blue suitcase
typing this
is uncomfortable
but the last of my chairs
are now
someone else's

soon there will be
nothing left
of the life I had

A River Of Stones:You Can Choose Your Friends, But...

I can post this safe in the knowledge that the relative it is about will never, ever find his way to my blogs...

02/07/11

You Can Choose Your Friends, But...

he spreads across the armchair
like a water-filled balloon

his vest torn and stained with food

marks that look weeks or months old

the ragged growth of beard makes
maps upon his red raw face

and he tells me why the world
nowadays has gone to hell

A River of Stones: Key Change

I handed a set of keys in to my estate agent today. I have only five more nights in my house and then, if everything goes to plan, I will never set foot in here again. I have a potential buyer (two actually) and the process of drawing up contracts and selling the house has begun. Today I went to talk to my solicitor about what I can do if anything delays or prevents the sale and I am out of the country. We came up with several contingency plans that are all workable but for the moment are proceeding with the sale to a nice young couple buying their first home.

After seeing my solicitor I went to hand in a set of keys to the Estate Agent and when I returned home, I turned into my drive and for some reason it felt, for the first time, different. It felt as if I was going into somewhere where I was just visiting, somewhere that was nothing more to me than an anonymous hotel room would be. It didn't feel like home.

It prompted todays entry for A River of Stones on the official opening day of the project.

Here it is:

Friday  01/07/11

the backdoor key and the frontdoor key

are joined on an unfamiliar blue keyring

that bears the estate agent's name

and a code number

when I unlock my door later with the duplicate

it no longer feels like coming home

A River of Stones: To The Cemetery/Getting Closer

I'm in that part of my leaving process where everything becomes a series of lasts - last visits to favourite haunts, last meetings with friends, last tidying of the garden and  - the most melancholy last of all - the last time I am able to take flowers to my parents' grave.

I have bought some artificial flowers, there is no point in putting fresh ones on that will die so quickly and then remain, looking sadder and sadder on the untended grave for at least a year and a half.

Today I took them to the cemetery and replaced the flowers that had been there. They look bright and cheerful and though they will fade it will take time.

Today's River of Stones Poem was written when I returned. It's a cinquain (a word the spell-checker apparently doesn't recognize), a form I haven't used for some time.

29 June 2011

red and
orange flowers
artificial and bright
carried through the rain they do not
require

A River of Stones:Refuse Collection Day

Tuesday 28 June

outside every house:
one large black bin
one large green bin
one medium green box
one small green box
one smaller grey box
one large white sack

all filled with the pre-sorted pre-washed
detritus of the last week

why does modern rubbish
have to be so complicated

Holes

I wasn't very happy with the first aros piece I wrote today. For one thing it was too long and for another it wasn't, in any real way, observational.

So I have written another, more in keeping with the spirit of the project.



there are holes in the house where my furniture was
and a hole in the street where my car was
leaving is difficult

00:23:30 Calling HM Revenue and Customs

27 June 2011

dial
three minutes: getting through menu system
hold
five minutes: looking out of window
five minutes: drumming fingers on desk
five minutes: playing hearts - left handed
five minutes: changing channels on a silent TV
pick up
thirty seconds: getting answer

A River of Stones: Head To Toe

26th June 2011

he sits in the corner seat
of the metro

unkempt hair
white goatee
stained jacket
cream trousers

sandals with socks

he sits in the corner seat
of the metro

talking to an imaginary friend

A River of Stones: And Found

Saturday 25th June

in among the dirt and dust,
on the floor of the car
under the rubber mat
I find the watch
minus the lug
that holds the strap
that keeps it on

A River of Stones: Lost

Back in January I took part in the River of Stones project in which every day writers from all over the world posted a tiny, minutely observed, piece about the world around them.

In July the project is running again and I shall once more be taking part.

My observations will be appearing both here, and on the blog I've set up specifically for that project - Stones From The Road. 

The project starts properly in a few days but I thought I'd get a bit of practice and start now.

Friday 24 June

Already running late, things go wrong
flat battery, too many roadworks,
and then I look at my wrist and discover
that my father's gold watch is missing.

Small Stones: Extended Remixes #14

Another one that's more of a variation on the original than an extension.

Sometimes People Clap

I always try to warn them

that this may not entertain.

It's a remnant from the days

when I hid my work from view;

Before I came out as a poet

and admitted to my shame.

I always tell them they won't like it

but sometimes some of them do.

It's still a source of wonder,

it still feels very strange,

to be standing up reciting

what sounds to me like crap.

So I always try to warn them

that I may not entertain

and it comes as some surprise

that sometimes people clap.

Small Stones: Extended Remixes #12

I'm not sure if this poem benefits from being longer than the original version or not, though I do like the new phrase "A bright square of gloom, Powerpoint pessimism." which may in itself be enough to justify the "remix"

Nevertheless here it is.

The empty staff room
is filled with the hum
of the air conditioning.
Bright angular stripes
on scattered papers
and open books
cover the desks.

The auditorium
is filled with the hum
of the college-wide meeting.
A bright square of gloom,
Powerpoint
pessimism,
covers the screen.

My solitary mind
is filled with the hum
of a future unfolding.
Bright tracks of change,
paths to a new world
and another life
cover my world.

Small Stones: Extended Remixes #10

The next of my small stones was a very slight piece called "The Poetry Evening". This extended version is really a variation on the theme rather than a longer version of the same piece. Because Blogger is down at the moment I am having a go at posting this via gmail and so some, if not all, of the formatting will probably get lost. I'll sort it out later when blogger is back to normal.

The poetry evening

The first poet is
    an adult woman.
She
    has no papers
    has no books
    performs with style
            and energy.
Her
    poems are witty
    and clever
    and full of life
            and laughter.

The second poet is
    an adult man.
He
    reads from pages
    kept loose-leaf
    in a folder
            full of dreams.
His
    poems are subtle
    and personal
    and full of sorrow
            and anger.

The third poet is
    an older woman.
She
    reads from a book
    a collection
    of her works.
Her
    poems are thoughtful
    traditional
    and full of rhythm
            and  rhyme.

The last poet is
    a teenage girl.
She
    reads from an i-pad
    virtual words
    from the ether.
Her
    poems are spikey
    angular things
    full of the preoccupations
            of youth.

Small Stones: Extended Remixes #9

The small stone for January 10th was about a bit on an application form that was giving me trouble. Here's the new long version.

Four Hundred Words

An application form               
With the easy bits filled in               
Lay open on my desk while I reflected       
I'd done career history               
I'd done my education               
The details of my life had been selected       
Every job I'd ever had               
And  schooldays before them           
Had been detailed in appropriate degree       
Experience was noted               
And references were written           
I'd put everything they'd need to know of me   
The question on the back page           
Was the one that caused a problem           
Had me chewing at my pencil with a frown
Four hundred words were wanted
About career achievements
But only recent ones could be put down.
Four hundred words I'd thought
That would be a piece of cake
I'd surely done more than enough to tell
But now I came to think of it
I'd done no more than my job
And although I'd have to say I'd done it well
It isn't an achievement
To arrive day after  day
And do only all the things they pay you for
I felt that on the form
The people who'd devised it
Would most certainly expect a little more
I pondered long and hard
And then did what I could
To make something up that sounded  vaguely right
I said I'd trained the trainees
In IT and stuff like that
I hadn't but if they'd asked me to, I might
A dozen drafts were written
And discarded in the bin
I rewrote until my head began to throb
But finally I finished it
And sent the damned thing in.
It came as no surprise to lose the job.

Small Stones: Extended Remixes #8

The observation for the 8th January was, essentially, the very trivial observation that I had observed nothing to write about. Somehow, I've managed to get a whole poem out of the idea - not perhaps one of my best, but not too bad either.

What The Day Had To Be

Nothing has happened.
The day has been slow.
I’ve had little to do
and nowhere to go,
made no observations,
seen nothing that’s new.
Nothing important
has entered my view.
Here in my armchair
just before bed,
I turn the day over
once again in my head,
seeking significance
to any event,
I examine each moment
to find what it meant.
And then it occurs
that the meaning may be
that the day has just been
what the day had to be.

Small Stones: Extended Remixes #7

Out of order from the originals but this poem is an extended version of the small stone observation for 6th January.

Thirteenth Morning

The decorations are gone                   

all returned to their boxes,                             

and returned to the attic.                               

The string of lights is wound

around a piece of wood:

no more rainbow twinkling.

The tree, tinselled and baubled,

wrapped in a plastic bin liner

is waiting to be stored away.

Saddest are the Christmas cards

that lie here on the table,

leaving pin holes in the wall.

Penguins, trees, wreaths, baubles,

snow scenes, reindeer and wise men

all ready for recycling.

Small Stones: Extended Remixes #6

This isn't really just an extended version of the small stone poem from 7th January, it's more of a reworking of the concept.

There was a future.

There was a future.

It was written

and road-mapped

and plotted

and planned,

uncontroversial

and placid

and bland.

With a stroke

of the pen

in ink black

as the void

the road map

was lost

and the plan

was  destroyed.

As I wrote

my name

at the foot

of the page.

I unwrote

my future

and walked

from the cage.

Small Stones: Extended Remixes #5

A longer version of the small stone poem originally posted on 9th January.

I quite liked the original of this but I also like this slightly longer version.

When the snow was here I walked this way,

followed the winding path across these fields,

felt the chill of the air on my hands and face,

and thought how beautiful it was.

But the snow had covered the fields like powder on a face,

hidden the traces of all that was unsightly,

and, now that it has melted and been absorbed,

the fields are once more pox-scarred with litter.