Spring doesn’t care about you

There were some violets

Bees were tickling for

Bits, treats, eats to please

Their little spaces at home

There is blossom tingle

Below the coo and call

Of silky pidgeons fatting

With morning crumbs.

Hello sparks of flower

Sharpen cherry with

Hard shiny yellow

Look! Two cats sifting

The sky for low hanging


Londoner in New York

Too tired and bleary eyed to write
Prose, hears my ears my beatnick
Cray kick of a poem written here
In Lincoln’s Inn about Lincoln’s over where
Where I was 10 hours ago, in the
Village, the Greenwich Village,  under
Another sun, spiked with different
Blossom, buzzed with New York
Chatters, oldish dames:

“I need a man, not a wimp, I told
Him straight.” Hair fuzzed with
20 years or more of dye, the cheaper
Kind. They look at me, I am not
From here, but then who is? A
Chinese man who could be
Mad takes his place on the
Next bench and sits squarely
Facing me and looks straight into
My face.


I feel no threat and
Accept that this is part of what
I expect from  park life’s big apples
And feel a little disappointed when
He takes out his newspaper and holds it

Two inches from his face, short sighted and sane
The dames on the opposite bench continue and their
Chat becomes background, like the
Shriller chirps of the spring birds
Amongst the cuddly coos of pigeons,
The bill I hear now is from an older broad:

Fifty, with shortish darkish ash
Hair, glasses, comfy grey trousers, fishnet
Socks catching bulging ankles sitting snug
In red sneakers, she’s curled up on
Her newspaper, oozing appreciation of the day

Never had looks, never needed them, fashion her own hip.
She puts down her reading and is lively with the young petitioners who’re
Taking their blue Hillary Ts round the park, she’s not
Pro, can’t make out why, can’t hear fom here,
And the scene changes to a little Ray-banned man
Wearing the same leather jacket he wore in his 20s, strolling along with a
Sloppy slice of Joe’s fresh mozzarella, nothing better can be found
Or should be, this is what his Sunday is all about, he may have a
Family, but they’re not about, he may not have a job or he may be Al Pacino
Who cares, we’re all here in the park, come what may, it’s New York and
What’s more, it’s Spring.

A stroll in the park

Oh there is a peace that
Blows out my core and
Shakes every pip in its

Oh there is a place in my
Bark that creaks when I
Stretch out my feet on

A pace made of peace is
My breath as it breaks
Space between each step’s

Highs of low-rise Copenhagen

A daisy on a cocktail.
A lively day – time candle.

A rainy splash of chocolate.

A bread stack deep as
A page of princess and her pea.

A  chair you fold like
A viking at lunchtime for

Happy meat and hotter apple.


Deciduous awe

In the bark there is a
Press it, let its edges round
Look down the avenue’s
With wind reaching in, to
To the roots of your soul
To Earth’s grace, rolling on  
Round itself, round the sun,
a God.

Last weekend I saw an exhibition, watched a film and dreamt of reality…

I wonder if Klee, Schendel and
Godard are together
On the other side, sharing thoughts
On existence or death?  

Take Klee’s Creative Confession
And stir almost every line from Alphaville; use Mira’s recipe for Brazilian alphabet soup..Voilá,  

A taste of something
Extraordinary yet familiar
Their attempt to put
Eternity in the palm of
Our hand.


Tate Modern – Paul Klee exhibition

Extract from Klee’s Creative Confession:

“Art does not reproduce the visible; rather, it makes visible….Formerly we used to represent things which were visible on earth, things we either liked to look at or would have liked to see. Today we reveal the reality that is behind visible things, thus expressing the belief that the visible world is merely an isolated case in relation to the universe and that there are many more other latent realities….Art is a simile of Creation. Each work of art is an example, just as the terrestrial is an example of the cosmic…Art plays an unknowing game with ultimate things, and yet achieves them.”

Also at Tate Modern – Mira Schendal exhibition

Mira’s explanation of her work ‘Still Waves of Possibility’ (installation of thin, almost transparent fibres)

“The visibility of the invisible, that is, of things that are in action, but without our being able to see them, such as the laws of physics or physical processes…..be faithfully of this world. And yet not to be of this world. With all its love and joy and also the inevitable suffering, with devotions and without illusions.”

The fibres hang opposite an extract from the Old Testament, Book of Kings:

“And he said, ‘Go forth, and stand upon the mount before the Lord’. And, behold, the Lord passed by, and a great strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the Lord; but the Lord was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake. And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice”

Curator’s blurb: “Schendel saw her work as activating the void, thus posed between being and nothingness…
Umwelt – environment
Mitwelt – social world
Eigenwelt – inner world”.

Guy Brett, art critic, on her ‘little nothings’ or Droguinas’: “Their fragility and Energy indicate Space as a natural thing – a field of possibility”.

Film, Alphaville, Directed and written by Jean-Luc Goddard.

My favourite quotes:

ALPHA 60 (An intelligent computer): “Time is the substance of which I am made. Time is a river which carries me along. But I am time. It’s a tiger, tearing me apart; but I am the tiger”

ALPHA 60: “Sometimes reality is too complex for oral communication. But legend embodies it in a form which enables it to spread all over the world.”

ALPHA 60: “Time is like a circle which is endlessly described. The declining arc is the past. The inclining arc is the Future.”

Vonbraun: “Life and Death share the same circle.”

ALPHA 60: “Everything has been said, provided words do not change their meanings, and meanings change their words.”

ALPHA 60: “Once we know the number one, we believe we know the number two, because one plus one equals two. We forget we first must know the meaning of plus.”

Vonbraun: reading extract from surrealist poet Paul Eluard – from his book: Capitale de la Douleur:

“We live in the limbo of our metamorphoses.
But the echo which runs through all the day
That echo beyond time, desire and caresses keeps asking…
Are we close to or far away from our conscience?”

A great article on the film and its influences:


In my shoes

Let’s write one here,

About a quest for shoes,

The quest of a girl with big

Feet, size 42, not 41, UK size

9 not 8, if she’s honest

With herself today, the

Girth from ‘little’ toe to

Big is the kind of substantial

A man boasts of but

A woman hides in shame

In a pair of furry Uggs

Under a puffy coat or

Forgiving bell bottoms,

Bravely taking on the mud’s

Jeering  face.


In she goes, the MEN’s

Section, less shameful at

Christmas, fall back on

Pretence of shopping for

Spouses, brothers, uncles, boyfriends,

Big boots with big buckles

To accommodate long feet

And hairy ankles in sturdy comfort-

 Firm soles, 100 %  natural

Rubber to support the tread of 6 foot

15 stone, if need be, not her

Fluctuating 12 to 13 frame, 5foot 11, if

She’s standing straight, less, if

On a short date with a short man,

Mostly sitting down, if she can find

A chair and a table to hide the boot

That weighs the crossed leg down.


Still, never mind, better to be well – shod

Than tottering about in heels

2 sizes down, that never fit and

Never will, unless she gets over the

 Strange condition that makes her

Feet too big: Acromegaly, it’s called,

Google it if you’re confused or bored,

 Or if you find you change size

From day to day, no matter how much

Choc you didn’t eat or beers you didn’t

Drink – men have it too, but it’s

Easy for them to like big shoes.



Park perspective

Without him the light

Is glorious.

Beach-ball-bats glisten.

With him it would

Be different.

A bench would be our

Stage and all the world,


Ode to Now

Sitting at this juncture

In the day, reading

Song in my brain

Feeling blood in my

Lips and warmth

In my veins as

Love courses through

Me, not Romance

But Now, alone,

An island, I am

It, here, sitting, at

One, no

Thought of anywhere

But now and here –

The facts that

Combine to make

My Being be –

Sound, sight, hair,

Teeth, Feet,


On Parkway in the Furniture Cafe, London N7

Table 1:

Another one

An Imacandroid

Or should I

Say Imacandroidess

Coz she’s, no mistake,

A woman –girl

And not a man-boy


There she sits

Straining her

Tea in this

Loose-leaf cafe

Halfway up


Why here and

Not at home

Where tea is

Free and Music

Low? We can

Only surmise, she

May not be typical –


If she was we

Could be cruel

And scorn her

Macananical cool.

We could tut and

Sip our lattes,

Chatting idly – why

God made cafes,

Not for her

To sit and

Pout, peering

Regally at we,

Mob, in the dark,

Beyond her mac,

With its Apple-

Shaped lamp.

But no, let’s be kind,

Perhaps she has

Come to escape her

Flat, bored of

Its walls and

Pissed off at

The cat.

Table Two:

Sitting round a table

On deliberately mismatched

Chairs, three mismatched

Friends meet ‘For coffee

On Saturday’ afternoon.

3 have tea,

Two have cake

Milk all round, No sugar.

She, the one

Without the cake,

Talking through

Eye-lined holes as

Listeners absorb

Projectile sounds

Through hair-

Greased ears and

Dull sponge eyes

Bulging with

Her Narcicisstic


One chips in to brook

The flow, vain attempt

TO check the vain

As she, the ME one,

Carries on, convinced

She’s prettier, better,

Cleaner and more

Fun, in the most

Interesting of

Possible ways.

Looking round, glancing

Up at the mirror over head,

Down  at her cool grey

Thighs, legging-wrapped,

Looking through Briggita

To the wall behind her,

Next to which  a

Lone man sits

Absorbed in Sunday TImes

And ipod but

Nonetheless aware of

A caress from

Eyes too used to

Looking out, not seeing in.