A salt washed beach
Between visions and the darkness
Which lies like a fundamental sea of truth
Around me sucking me slowly to despair
The night is a cruel cold beast
That crushes me down into myself
Filled of the ragged breathing spikes of fear.
What would I do if they fail?
I shall remain scarred again,
Yet no more that before,
Mere fractures healing in time,
That will me irrelevant,
Yet something will be lost,
But nothing will be learned.
The night remains the same
Cold impalement,
Cruel ragged spikes of the night
Sharpened by my fear,
Creating a vortex,
A poisoned hereditary terminus
Always open;
Like a festering wound.
The Lost Tone
In the far night
A car drones distantly
Starkly alone
This elusive tone
Thought lost Irretrievable
Sounding far off
A summons
Fast receding stirs a memory
Feelings of desperation.
Now fuels old desires to rise and fly In pursuit
To capture that tone
To perfect harmonic chords
Heard once, But fleetingly Long ago
Between the beats
Of another’s heart,
Now distant but
Once again desired,
From the darkness.
Echo
I often wonder as I do, about your life
About dear old you,
I often look and try to see that vital you
That’s lost to me
Beneath your fleshy form,
Beneath your Serpentine smile.
I often sense, yes I do
Therein concealed some secret you,
That works its will
Surprising me, beneath that mortal husk,
Behind those brimming eyes.
Today I feel so far from you,
Search so deep to sense a clue
To your essential form,
To your elusive echo.
In my mourning mirror me,
This unfamiliar friend.
But when my unborn comes to earth,
And I sense familiar rhythm, rhyme and verse,
Will I find composed, here conclusive,
That sense of me now so elusive,
The magic of this immortal form,
Sparkling behind
Your Brimming eyes?
Poems from Incident at Congleton
The title comes from a news item on a strategically important railway line blocked by a wayward 4x4 car.. Did the owner take the claims that this car will go anywhere too literally? – whatever, the line was blocked and the resulting delay felt across the local rail network was yet another opportunity for David to put his flexible fingers to the small key board of his mobile phone and share his personal world of railway travel with the rest of us as he attempted to commute to work in Manchester from Stafford, his home station.
Incident at Congleton
By David Denny
Copyright All Rights Reserved
David Denny 2009
Foreword by Wayne Morrison
First of all, let me make it clear that this little gem will not tell you anything about any incidents at Congleton – or, for that matter, any other Town or City linked by our elaborate railway network that carries our often long suffering workers from home to their destination every rush hour of every working day.
The title comes from a news item on a strategically important railway line blocked by a wayward 4x4 car.. Did the owner take the claims that this car will go anywhere too literally? – whatever, the line was blocked and the resulting delay felt across the local rail network was yet another opportunity for David to put his flexible fingers to the small key board of his mobile phone and share his personal world of railway travel with the rest of us as he attempted to commute to work in Manchester from Stafford, his home station.
As an opportunity for ‘people watching’ the railway travel experience is a rich seam when mined by such a thoughtful and perceptive poet and rail traveller as David undoubtedly is.
‘Incident at Congleton’ was a logical response to the time and situation forced upon him and this collection is the very entertaining and thought provoking result. David’s literary ability – if nothing else, could at least exercise itself in those crowded carriages.
Many of these poems were sent in first draft form as a text by way of apology for being late . As the late Leonard Rossiter’s character Reggie Perrin discovered (to the annoyance of his secretary no doubt).– your imagination is the only limit to excuses as to why the train is delayed! This tactic clearly worked as David appears to have avoided any reprimands for rail related lateness. Fellow commuters reading this should however, be advised to use this tactic with caution though!
It’s all there : you will recognise some of the usual characters as well as the rituals of the railway commuting community contained within David’s insightful commentary – along with some less immediate characters on the periphery of that community who pop up unexpectedly and, in doing so, offer a challenge to both commuting stereotypes as well as the station police.
So, mind the gap, climb aboard, carefully choose your seat
(but do check for anything messy), and settle down for a
‘Brief Encounter’ with David’s wonderful observations of life within the very familiar, yet endlessly fascinating, world of our railway commuters.
Wayne Morrison
This collection of short poems is just that, short and sort of loosely poetic constructions. I guess I feel uncomfortable calling them poems, but equally uncomfortable editing them to death to make them poetry. They are a sort of digital graffiti - chunks of perception mashed into a mobile phone, but worth keeping, I guess.
My original plan was to spread them virus like across the mobile network and let them assume themselves a collection there - but it’s enough to think that some are now hurtling as microwaves across the far boundaries of space and time.
Perhaps one day, when the Earth has been reduced to space debris by us, we’ll have space static archaeologists who sift through it all and then draw pictures of our lives here in the early 21st century. So amongst annoying adverts for eye examinations and visa cards they’ll dig up these little observations, and from that point of view a definitely valuable bit of pulsating energy for posterity and social education? Maybe!
Inspired by boredom and the need to convey personal acute cynicism of the world that Virgin and Cross Country trains immerse us poor commuters in (at least the live ones) on a daily basis.
Dedicated to all train travellers who can maintain full consciousness on their way to wherever, for whatever reason.
Train Sick
I was sixteen and pregnant in Llandudno – she said,
I had to stand on the bus – she said
It made me feel sick - she said.
Now she is twenty and
Pissed on Stella,
Sitting on a train to Derby Loud and lewd,
Finally she spewed
I guess she graduated?
Oh and by the way, Where’s your baby?
Yah yah yah
Vogue stereo type car, In Burberry armed
with Blueberry,
The control freaks gun, The south travel north, To get the job done.
City peacocks in pinstripe blue, Peering through Dead glasses, They miss me and you,
Tippy tap tap,
The only interaction of sense is, The share value of Soya
And non protein glue.
So just for a moment Awake your soul and find Out through the window And across the line, Pathos and Profundity,
Lost in the shadow of rainbows, On Saddleworth Moor
Eden
Young ruby lips wrap round A waxy glowing skin, Teeth crunch down
In a lacquered pearly grin, Sweet sticky juice rolling down Your smooth and perfect chin, While youthful yearning eyes Follow the dream filled skies.
And oblivious and unaware,
All those travellers there,
Watch Edens’ vision,
Now reflected,
In a dusty,
Virgin window
First Class
They’re the lords of the railway
The new bourgeoisie With a glass in their hand, Free salmon pate for tea Served in a seat fit for three!
Now parked at the station And seemingly scowling at me So I belch very loud
And give them the V! My empty briefcase My carlings and Me!
Nits
Can’t see much for the mist today,
Nowhere for my gaze to stray,
Except inside this rattling tube,
Where apart from the coughing There’s a sullen mood.
So I stare in the hair of the guy
Straight ahead,
So sleek and well groomed,
A celebrity clone,
The epitome of grunge
And that ‘off the peg’ style,
With his brief case barrier
He sits alone and smug
By the aisle;
Alone that is Except for his Colony of nits.
Old Bore
He’s an old geezer, An audience pleaser, His voice a loud retort, Put you downs
His sarky sport.
He knows much more than me or you,
‘The young’ he spits
‘Don’t have a clue,
About what he’s been through, They got it easy today‘,
I thought I heard him say.
But I’d lost interest in this grey
Sanctimonious Bore,
Who’s made a cliché out of himself, As his brain bade farewell
To his ever barking jaw,
Long long, long ago.
The Sheep at Tutbury
There is a problem at Tutbury, There will be a delay,
There are sheep on the track, The announcers say.
Well sheep on the track
Or the sheep on the train, In the gloom of the summer, Or in the sparkling rain,
We travel together
In a the darkening gloom Looking and wishing For,
Grass that’s greener
On the other side.
OMG
Someone snoring loudly, The carriage awakes, Consciousness paradoxically rises Up over its glasses,
Peering over laptops,
Is distracted from Prattchet
And bibles and such.
Quietly looking at one another,
They share their lives
For a fleeting instant,
Amused but hoping,
Scornful but scared;
They don’t sound like him
When they nod off at Watford
And dribble down their
Chins.
Dead Ringer
Claustrophobia bettered me today,
So I choose a table seat,
And sat facing the right way.
There’s a man sleeping opposite,
Rings on every finger,
There’s something familiar
An air about him.
Foggy memories rise and linger,
And in an icy instant he wakes
Fixing me with eyes of
Gun smoke grey
The pale ghost in a funeral suit
The dead ringer
of
Reggie Kray.
Stoke-on-Trent
I miss my connection, Stuck and bored
In the dark on Stoke station.
It’s a cold strip of nowhere,
With two lonely rails,
Where hope limps backwards
And the imagination fails.
My sanity shifts, Lights become stars
Now the station is drifting
Somewhere near Mars,
Far Newcastle neon now nebulas far,
In a developing vista that’s getting bizarre.
So I put on my space suit And prepare to depart, Down to the surface Where I will start,
My career as coal miner
In the deep heart of Mars.
Hit Me!
Hit me with your travel bag
Hit me hit me
Thump me with you suitcase lid
Hit me hit me
There’s gonna be trouble in the aisle seat rowI just thought I’d shout
To let you know
Don’t hit me
Don’t hit me
DON’T Hit Meeeee!
A Poor Reception in the Quiet Zone
I’m sitting in the Quiet Zone
Which isn’t quiet at all,
Some special one in his Barbour coat,
ecides to make a call.
“Hello I’m on the train” He says,
“Reception could be bad”
At risk of stating the obvious
And driving me quite mad.
The Quiet Zone is for conformists
Who’ve had a heavy night
They can’t cope The special ones And their business, feedback, shite.
So excuse me Mr Barbour
I thought I’d let you know,
Jack Nicholson is sitting behind you, And about to
Spoil your show.
Have a Day Off
Mucus Gargling
Wet shower sneezing Bronchus honking Hollow barking
Bogie hurling
Drippy nosed martyrs In Spit-full Harmony; Plague on the 8.44
Tramp Dog
There is a Tramp
Loose on the station!
Oh dear, he only has one shoe!
And hand full of begged change
Totalling five and two,
His hair is the texture of grannies mop
And clothes an oil slick blue.
But have no fear dear commuter, Virgin know what to do.
They’ll escort him the to entrance,
And bid a fond farewell,
No warm tea
Or respite here,
From his
Cold and Drunken hell.
Going Through the Motions
Just waiting for the train His wife took long ago Never late
But still he waits
For reunions of the soul.
Today he buries a sister
He never really knew
In Paddington last rites
To a congregation of two.
So he’s going through the motions
His heart died long ago,
Now existence is without meaning, Like another Christmas Without snow.
I Wunt that Wun!
I need a Blueberry
I think I need one now
Onboard the sacred twisted snake The holy cow of style
Heads are bowed in reverence
Or could it
Actually be prayer
To the gods of insignificance
That blink and flash down there.
But still I feel I need one
Without I’m incomplete
No excuse to avoid eye contact
Look like your staring at your feet
But therein lies Nirvana
Behind that touchy screen
The wisdom of the Internet
Through Google can be seen
Talk to any
one
Anyone anywhere
By voice or text or mail
But beware in that tunnel
Where your omnipotence fails!
I’ll stick to my Nokia
Emergencies only!
Requiem to our Feathered Friends
Like Young Spot and dad Limpy Lou,
I fed them on your bacon
And defrosted bready dough,
I watched each day
Through sun. rain and snow, I was quite attached
I’ll have you know.
Did they spread their wings
And move to places far away,
Find a better place to scrat,
A warmer place to stay?
No way.
Didn’t meet hygiene requirements
Deadly shit in close confinements.
They regret their visit to the café
Now shot and cleared on a Virgin gaffe
Did anyone mourn their passing?
Grey Moment
I got the wrong train,
Just a grey moment
Stood in the cold
On unfamiliar stations
To regain my path
To my commuting relations,
To the beautiful Indian
The geek with his bike
A racing post student
The Chav in all his Nike
The Brief with his Case
And miserable face
All still at Stoke
I am surprised to see
Another late train
Kept them for me
In the chaos of coincidence
Synchronicity,
Perhaps here a purpose I cannot see?