Brief, brave lives taken too young
bodies cast into mass graves
bodies beyond recognition
from the bullets, bayonets and mortar.
Poppies flourished from dead men’s blood.
Brief, brave lives immortalised
names cast into iron plates
names carved into polished sandstone
heaved from the land they called home.
Poppies, paper, fragile as life
remind us of
their sacrifice.
Cenotaph of my loathe-quarry
lurks in the corner
ominous obelisk of misery-grey fabric
stained by stagnant-self
arms grubbier than a plagiarist in an inkwell.
It haunts my body
memory-foam cushions twisted
around my depression
like an alligator in death-roll.
If perching, it’s only for seconds
dread at comfort swallowing me whole
or falling over the feet clumsily
delivering self-recrimination
that plunges me into that dark brutal chasm
- again.
The armchair is a sound-hollow
negative echoes only
so I stay silent near its plinth
⁃ yet sometimes the pride in victory
my eyes hold
is loud enough to drown
past despair.
Welcome back to The Book Bag. Last week, I shared my thoughts on Street Sailing by Matt Gilbert
This week, between a lovely curry at Dabbawal in Newcastle, trying to figure out what the budget means and some windswept hair that had me looking like a combo of Beetlejuice and Cousin It, I’ve been reading…
Consolamentum
I’ve heard James perform at Black Bough open mic nights in the past, his pieces always elicit a strong sense of place and pack a punch. When his new book was released in October, I ordered it the same day and waited (im)patiently for it to arrive from Amazon. While I waited, I watched some promotional videos that indicated that the book would be something special.
James gives the rugged landscape of his home in Northern Spain voice and personality throughout the book. Poems such as Cusp Of The Last Cold Moon, Off Grid 414ppm, Granada and Mientras Podamos are full of vivid imagery. When reading, my mind drifted to these scenes as if I were there, such is the level of detail.
Rich representations of the people and culture are delivered in pieces like Yula, Tres Mujeres and Montauban. This is such a clever book and it made me so nostalgic for Spain (I was lucky enough to have done work experience in the South of Spain including at a residence used by Ernest Hemingway when I was just out of school). I stayed with a lovely family from Spain and we communicated in broken English and Spanish.
Some of the poems in this collection shine a light on today’s wrongs, none more so than Tensile Strength that grips you in a headlock as you read it, coming out the other end with a dizzy feeling of unease and sorrow.
Read this book if you want to go on an emotional journey through the wilds of Northern Spain with some postcards from the UK. Or if you’re a fan of exemplary poetry, chock-full of imagery. This is a great debut.
Favorite Poem:
Liebre or Pig – two very different poems. Both class.
One More Thing…
The poem, Summer of ‘23, was recently featured in issue 2 of The Madrid Review.
Finally…
You can see the launch of Consolamentum live on Zoom on Sunday 2 November 2024, tickets are free and available via Black Bough Poetry on Eventbrite. See https://www.eventbrite.ie/e/black-bough-poetry-online-launch-of-james-mcconachies-consolamentum-tickets-1059127612199.
Find more information on James McConachie and Consolamentum and read testimonies here; https://www.blackboughpoetry.com/consolamentum-james-mcconachie where you can find links to buy his book.
Looking ahead, here’s what’s lined up for my book bag next week;
That’s it for this week’s reading roundup! If you’ve read any of the books I’m sharing or have recommendations for what poetry I should be reading, drop a comment below. If you want to read some of my poems, have a look around the site.
Take it easy
Paul
Shrouded in the half-light
of a crow-dusk sky and ruby streetlamp blur
I observe hidden lovers
tango in mid-air
wings outstretched ready to hold the earth
in their lust-love
time is stolen by the passion of the near-night
and silent melody of the harp-moon
until the crackle of burnt leaf-beacons
warns of a stoat’s prying eyes
endangered by discovery
the paramours bow into the shadows
leaving only the gentlest echo of their romance
to the dark.
Welcome to a new feature on Paul Writes Poems. Every Sunday, I’ll be sharing the poetry pamphlet, anthology or collection I’ve been reading that week! Each week will feature a different book and I’ll let you know how I enjoyed it.
On a week where the only weather I didn’t have was snow, I spent my breaks and downtime reading;
The Language of Bees
After reading Rae Howell’s, This Common Uncommon (which I recommend if you believe that wild spaces should be kept and not built upon), I wanted to read more. Her characterisation and smart word-play in This Common Uncommon had me going page to page and almost devoured it in one sitting.
In my opinion, The Language of Bees is an outstanding collection, (an opinion shared with lots of others, including the judging panel at Wales Book of The Year 2023) that talks about the importance of bees to humans and climate change in an engaging way. The way insects are used to discuss personal themes including loss, loss love and other deep human tragedy is tremendously done with care taken over each word.
I’d highly recommend reading this if you’re a fan of poetry that deals with nature and has very personal and broader themes packed with smart language and incredible imagery. I would say to have some tissues handy as some pieces are highly emotive.
Favorite Poem:
A bit of a cheat here but my favourite is a sequence of poems that are sprinkled throughout the book with the title Dying Bee in a Takeaway Box.
Find out more about Rae Howells at https://www.raehowells.co.uk/ where you can find links to her other books.
Looking ahead, here’s what’s lined up for my book bag next week;
That’s it for this week one. If you’ve read any of the books I’m sharing or have recommendations for what poetry I should be reading, drop a comment below.
Take it easy
Paul
Folded in the nape of the moon
I stand between time
wingspread arms caught
between yesterday
and
tomorrow.
Doubt subsides
like starlight from distant cosmos
a supernova of anticipation explodes
all in the space
of a stuck second.
I fly too close to the Earth
planetary mass gravity
I crash
a ribboned comet’s tail
⁃ clock hand my nemesis.
pears are dangling
silvery earthen-green earrings
inviting to be removed from leafed ears
some have rotted in the intensity of the sun
sheen dulled to clay rust
damson plums nestle into branches
like amethyst hiding in rock
only smoothed
precious stone fruit hiding
emerald green flesh
braeburns have fallen
comfortable in the flame-kissed leaf beds
and honey golden late summer grasses
orbs of sweet promise
the kids are dressed as pirates
wandering with small baskets
ripe with wonder
they gather their treasures
before a couple of cavaliers
spoil their bounty.
rum-wide spacehopper eyes
staring up at midnight Malagan sky
discoball stars glistening
like a dancers skin
my bloodstream inferno
ready to set my beachgrass bed ablaze
voiceless flame amidst the pulse of revelry
the forest of ravers surrounding
will welcome the fire
I raise myself
but remember my legs are lost
to strong liquor and fatigue
stumbling into a dance
floating on the breeze of second wind
rotor blade arms almost take me away
and what goes up
must come down
I’m laughing at myself
backing track of Faithless
and howls and cheers
when I wake
I want this feeling to be my cure
my comfort
my soul.
To be twelve again
drunk on the scent
of summer-sweated privet
eventful walks to the pitches sometimes
a dog jumping from a garden-strewn manky sofa
or fly-tipped washing machine
and husbands fighting with wives
binliner of clothes next to them on the pavement
comedy in tragedy when you’re that young
we always took a few balls
best to - if some of the older lads were around
on lighter-fluid highs - lacking sense
but the nights of Wembley
three hours of pelting leather against bare legs
ball bobbling along the clumped surface
bodies skimming the field like lawnmowers
making outrageous crunching tackles
ankles twisting like Maradona past Reid
rabid rapture at curling a Mitre Delta into the top corner
and green-kneed, mud-stained wanders home
a magic that can never be imitated
unlike the knockoff boots and shin pads
give me that innocence back
- that simplicity of fun
with friends.
Helios had painted the sky
that night – lipstick pink –
his chariot pulled the heart-crimson sun
lingering for moments
while I enjoyed sips of retsina
I wondered if he was trying to emasculate
all those below
because how can mortals compete with gods –
when it comes to creating special moments
like that first dinner of a honeymoon
but I was caught between the earth of your eyes
and the horizon, colour of romance
and realised it was a tribute to you
to us
to our love.
Paul Writes Poems 