—Poetry by Neil Fulwood, Nottingham, UK
—Art by Pablo Picasso Courtesy of Public Domain
JOURNAL
The holiday entries are the most detailed:
start and end mileage, routes taken,
things seen along the way; the guest house
or self-catering cottage and whether
it was drab or twee or characterful;
walks through forests or by riversides,
pen-sketches of the natural world.
The workday entries are shorter—
reminders, really. Doctor’s appointment,
MOT, evening slot for a Tesco delivery,
where I went for that clocking-off pint.
The holiday entries are the most detailed:
start and end mileage, routes taken,
things seen along the way; the guest house
or self-catering cottage and whether
it was drab or twee or characterful;
walks through forests or by riversides,
pen-sketches of the natural world.
The workday entries are shorter—
reminders, really. Doctor’s appointment,
MOT, evening slot for a Tesco delivery,
where I went for that clocking-off pint.
THREE-MINUTE SINGLE
Let’s park out tonight by the river or reservoir.
The canal, even. Any body of water
that wouldn’t be out of place in a song
by Bruce Springsteen. Preferably one
where the lights of the refinery or the squat
unlit shape of the abandoned factory
reflect like a too-long exposed photograph
on the uneasy flux of the surface. Let’s
park away from the town and its vacant lots,
its grid system of out-of-business streets,
the boarded-up fronts of the American dream.
Let’s park out tonight while the repo man
is trawling the wrong end of town, while
I still have half a tank of gas and a vague idea
where it can take us. And if I talk about
winners and losers and suicide machines
and call you Mary or Wanda, or just drift
into reverie when Roy Orbison beams heartbreak
from the radio, then close your eyes and imagine
something better at the end of a highway
unspooling like a Kerouac manuscript. Imagine
a big crowd-pleasing movie scene playing out
to a three-minute single powering through your head
like whitewall tyres over miles of blacktop.
Let’s park out tonight by the river or reservoir.
The canal, even. Any body of water
that wouldn’t be out of place in a song
by Bruce Springsteen. Preferably one
where the lights of the refinery or the squat
unlit shape of the abandoned factory
reflect like a too-long exposed photograph
on the uneasy flux of the surface. Let’s
park away from the town and its vacant lots,
its grid system of out-of-business streets,
the boarded-up fronts of the American dream.
Let’s park out tonight while the repo man
is trawling the wrong end of town, while
I still have half a tank of gas and a vague idea
where it can take us. And if I talk about
winners and losers and suicide machines
and call you Mary or Wanda, or just drift
into reverie when Roy Orbison beams heartbreak
from the radio, then close your eyes and imagine
something better at the end of a highway
unspooling like a Kerouac manuscript. Imagine
a big crowd-pleasing movie scene playing out
to a three-minute single powering through your head
like whitewall tyres over miles of blacktop.
POSTCARDS FROM THE MUSE
(for Edward Mackinnon)
1.
(for Edward Mackinnon)
1.
The view from the London Eye:
I’m sure you could do it justice—
the unhurried waters of the Thames,
the Palace of Westminster, Big Ben;
a skyline jagged with high finance
like a graph or the gouged signature
of a toff or a Tory, one of the grasping elite
you’ve spent your life kicking against.
I’m loving the nightlife—so cosmopolitan!
How’s it going with that thing you’re working on?
2.
The Eternal City! You’d love it. Your imagination
would run riot. The Coliseum, the Trevi Fountain,
the Spanish Steps! Not as many steps, mind,
as I took to get away from the flower sellers
and backstreet Romeos; and if I’m being
completely honest, La Dolce Vita
made the Trevi Fountain look a lot bigger—
I’m surprised Anita Ekberg managed to dip
more than her big toe in there. Still, the trip’s
been fantastic—and the pizza authentic.
3.
Well, those statues in Frogner Park!
Fifty Shades of Sculpture, much?
Still, Oslo has character and the scenery
is spectacular. I remember you saying
something once about the word “fjord”,
the sound of it, the way it looks on the page.
That unexpected “j”, how it elongates.
But to see the fjords! Majestic. Awe-
inspiring. All these sights and the words
they prompt! Hope you’re well and busy writing.
________________________________
Today’s LittleNip:
THE CARNIVAL IS OVER
(i.m. Judith Durham)
Pierrot searches in vain for Columbine.
The harbour lights shimmer, tears
on the surface of the dark water.
The carnival is over, yet the memory
of a voice persists. A song lingering
even as the stalls are taken down,
the spilled dregs sluiced away,
the costumes discarded.
_____________________
Welcome back to British Poet Neil Fulwood, all the way from Nottingham! It’s been awhile since he dropped into the Kitchen. Come back soon, Neil!
Don’t forget that Poetry of the Sierra Foothills features Yuyutsu Ram Dass Sharma plus open mic at Chateau Davell in Camino this afternoon. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.
_____________________
—Medusa
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
