Taste of Carpets
Castle Street amalgams:
Castle Street collection:
vape vape vape
In your mouth the taste of carpets
Thinking through making
I craved green
so I tried to weave a wall hanging,
it came apart – the warp the weft – there were no threads left
I craved green
so I knitted a blanket to wrap the day up in,
vivid shades of jade, viridian,
it was unravelled by the cats.
I craved green
so I organised a picnic with herbs:
lacy white cow parsley, wild garlic, jack-by-the-hedge
the static rain made the grey tarmac black
I craved green
so I painted
so I potted
so I pottered.
A watercolour landscape looked grainy,
a thrown pot the same.
I walked in the park and found
dying daffodils, bald spots,
tried to grasp handfuls of grass
a reward of muddy fingers.
Looked left: a blue glass pyramid,
looked right: a beige housing estate
in front: all sloping browns,
behind: listing trees, broken brick.
We are not being bombed, or attacked.
We have fresh water from the taps.
This park isn’t (yet) being fracked.
So, why is this melancholy tract
not trying to make sense of that?
Thinking through making,
making and thinking,
wanting something to sink in
wanting something to stick.
There is more to this than craving green
and wanting to do more than making
but this will have to do for now,
this will have to do.
See all about it
the photograph tells
a thousand lies
smiles peroxide shark
eyes that lack
a starry glitter
can you believe it?
they’re a loveheart
carved into a tree
or collagen filler
for your PritStick eyes
She’s in her free bikini
Venus with silicone orbs
hand held in the fist
a butcher’s knuckle
of a Man
A Man without a Plan
for those sub-heads
tabloid’s favourite nightmare
you save to wrap
you keep for Best.
On knowing nothing
ipse se nihil scire id unum sciat – Cicero
And I said: nothing will come of nothing.
Then I tried to examine my life
through notebooks, pencil sketches, a drawing,
lines scribbled over. I’m supposed to strive
for high ideals. That poem on the wall,
that creased, yellowed, clichÃ©d observation
half-way up the stairs: a beautiful world.
Stodgy stanzas and then the frustration:
not knowing any â€œproperâ€ poetry.
Subsistence, to stumble on or to climb
down, or up, to the (multi)verse. Well, try,
be that poet in that tree, on a limb,
watch the day shed in leaves then shade to blue.
There’s still a lot of nothing left to know.
Close enough to wake the dead,
loud as the roadworks,
close buzzcut of grass.
Morning mowing in All Saints Park
and a memory of chlorophyll,
of a green Elsewhere,
when we, summerslow,
cycled to that meadow
on handles and crossbars.
We piled down on unmown lawns
someone played Wish You Were Here
on a battered Spanish guitar.
The sweet hug of hash
tugged into the lungs,
you tried to dreadlock your thinning hair.
We were two lost souls,
not swimming but drowning
in the buttercups.
You cut your locks that autumn.
I’m less green than I was;
I’ve not seen you for years
you had, and have, a habit
of appearing in the mind.
In the library, glancing down
at the short back and sides
there are daffodils,
drooped heads as if in thought.
This was the bank
where once a line of green
would have edged the Mersey.
King Street, Victorian brick,
a wall with shabby fern,
On the wall, bumblefoot,
a solitary pigeon with
one melted foot,
a last stand is stood on one scaled leg.
Thick paste of uric acid,
the pink wasted stump.
Eight black beaded eyes,
eight for a wish
or perhaps the bliss of a Columbidae snack.
Watched by the rest of the grey feathered flock,
siblings perched on the place
where you could do paintball,
pellets of colourful chroma
shot fast, nictitating membrane.
Gammy Leg’s primaries already dip-dyed red,
her head bobs, nods to passing cars.
If she could fly, her view
would take in M60 lines,
its odd seashore sound.
Beyond the business park,
then on to the Pyramid
all vitrified blue sand, sunglasses reflection.
Cooperative: a name, a navy point
that’s obscured by its own dark, corvid cloud.
All those spring daydreams
shook and woke in Cheadle Heath.
A waste of yellow.
The April Fools’ Train to Manchester
It’s in the pen in the fist
coiled up in a list
or the twist of a fern unfurling.
It’s the sun on the Lune,
an upsidedown moon,
we’ll soon be in Preston (gods willing).
Watch the canal ducks,
drop the bag full of books,
get funny looks off the guard.
With slight passenger freight
speed past Galgate
(with a weight off the mind and the heart).
Follow the silvery line
in the dimming sunshine,
time slow as the trees in the field.
From the fenced hill
see a derelict mill
train still as the points switch back.
With a jolt and a whack
two trains are attached,
between tracks there’s golden gorse.
At Preston it’s busy,
lasses Prosecco fizzy
all dizzy with swearing perfume.
It’s months from Whitsun
but they’re off for some fun,
get spun-out in Manchester.
And so we all flock
to that city of shock
pulling in to the dock of Piccadilly.
Five years ago you were a stone
marbled grey, except your piggy pink toes,
cold to touch.
Seasons shift. Constellations are
the pour of cream in a dark whirlpool.
I brought you leaves every September,
and tucked them up in your unmarked grave,
then sat on that bench as drops of water
magnified red and gold veins.
A sudden shift in the scene; you’re there.
Not stone, nor bone,
the ink is the shadowbut there
black eyes reflect blue-grey.
I saw that you were now corvid,
with wings, with black feathers
all over your body.
You landed on my lap, I bounced you on my knees.
When it was over, you bowed your head.
Then I let you go.
Second year turned out to be a mixture of doubt and epiphany, success and strife. There were many moments of joy; I won a couple of prizes, I’ve run workshops, I’ve developed a bond with the borough of Rochdale, and I feel like I know the shape of my thesis even though I’m struggling at times to find the words.Â At the same time there have been moments of family illness, random events, relationship tension, that seasonal sadness that bites in November and will not unclasp its jaws until March.
And this summer too has been a bit of a rollercoaster. Not a smooth rollercoaster, more like a Blackpool rollercoaster; sometimes fun, sometimes whiplash inducing painful. Â It’s been hard to summon up the “WOO!” at times. And often I feel like I’m falling or failing, the lap bar barely keeping me secure.
The research rollercoaster is an intriguing ride – possibly white knuckle – but ultimately the aim is to not only improve my own skills (I love learning, a little unsure as to whether I’m any good at it but I love it) but also to add to an argument, to try, in my own small way, to make a positive difference. It seems that there is a common assertion, or assumption, that a PhD is an isolated experience. It’s really not. Yes you are becoming a specialist in your own niche of a niche, but you do so in collaboration. If it were not for the encouragement of Dr David Cooper and the rest of my fantastic supervisory team (Doctors: Rachel Dickinson, Julie Armstrong, Kirsty Bunting and Jane Turner) I think I may have given up, accepted defeat. And I owe it to a borough – messy, weird, wonderful, challenging, complex – and the people within it who have been so generous with their time. And I owe it to my friends, all those loved ones. The shoulders of many, many giants giving me that boost and view (andÂ what a view). Yes, a PhD represents your hard work, your figuring out, but no: you are not alone.
OK final year, I’m ready for you. Bring it.