Related Poetry by the artist





river myth


i dreamt last night of a river

it blew upon my thoughts
(did not care to explain itself just yet)

it made me
three visions
of itself

one was strong
(well known
by its reputation
of being a bit of a
pungent bully-boy)

one was thin
(and even by the truth of
its name needed feeding
up somewhat)

and the third
valed itself
please-d its curves
around my wonderment

soon each joined forces
- moved away
from the dark ears
of sleep
and fell to the ground
to tickle my feet…

and with such waywardness too!

i just had to step forward
just to take my mind off it

the tickling wasn’t too bad
i began to get used to the
touch
            (it was like a gentle spider
drunk on its own
web-juice)

but when the itch started
that was when i knew
i was tricked
and they were of such a buzz
they could hardly contain themselves

the three visions
introduced themselves
and invited me round for tea and cake

of course – i had to accept

though i knew in my heart of hearts
their brew would be far too dark
with decay and
riverbed for my taste

but it would have been rude to turn the offer down

the three visions
opened the door and let me in

nice place i said
(not knowing where to put myself)

o and by now the tickling had finished
after all – it is only the special ones that
can truly multi-task

as we made our noisy slurp
we talked about all kinds of things

the roots of trees
the noise of crickets
the shapes of clouds
why questions are
more important than answers

the tea was fine
but the river had planted
three seeds
in my head

trent leen meden

the following year i went on a walk
noticing

it’s then that i realise
the dreams keep coming in
the utterances lay themselves bare
the sense of belonging squeezes her head
round the door

when the dreams keep coming in
and i have finished with them
and logged them away
i shall take what i have learnt
and pin them to a tree

sometimes my utterances lay themselves bare
sometimes they dribble out like a stream
of whatchamacallit
sometimes the way is blocked
but they sneak underneath
(always sometimes)

my sense of belonging squeezes her head round the door
knocks on the jamb
invites herself in for a cup of tea
sits down and eats all my cake
without even asking

the utterances lay themselves bare
the dreams coming in every sixty minutes
the sense of belonging
the drop in the conversation

Piece the second – an adaptation of the first

skittering

i keep my utterances below
i watch the world in its panic skitter by
i hope that i’ll be clear – perhaps – you know
my dreams keep coming in – my mouth is dry

and every hour – upon the hour – i pin them to a tree
and every day – and on the day – i wonder – is it me?



buds renewing
(for the sherwood forest ramble, mother's day 2012)

we follow footprints – we make them too
and underneath our canopy of hearts
beats the time we count when forest's buds renew
we are walkers here – our futures are its guards

and underneath our canopy of hearts
the mother of the earth skips just one breath
what’s now that could be gone in fits and starts
is sunday’s greenest blessing in its dress

she beats the time we count when buds renew
she’s digging in her heels – and marks our days
relying upon us to do what’s true
the truth is in the footprints where they've played

and underneath our canopy of hearts
we are walkers here – our futures are its guards

waiting 
(tree reservation order - little oak plantation)

decisions made enough to topple trees
what lies around lie waiting underneath
and oaks draw breath - beeches catch themselves
hawthorn pricks the conscience in its spell

between the waiting time - the fingers strain
the keyboard heats with messages again
the route along the sherwood boundary aches
does legislation give or will it take?

so future's in the mix - the mix of memories deep
its keeping's like a needle stuck in sleep
let's know the hope be hopeful - what cost is greed?
we're calling out the visions from the seed

and oaks draw breath - beeches catch themselves
hawthorn pricks the conscience in its spell

for the core centre - calverton

and after mines were closed and spirits dropped
(community sunk to its lowest ebb)
what grew from out the embers (by the shops)
core centre came – the hub within the web

community sunk to its lowest ebb
gets lifted piece by piece (like brick by brick)
spirit feels the movement – gently lifts its head
community tastes centre – enjoys the lick

the core’s based in the centre (by the shops)
the future pulls up different rocks to coal
we learn – we hope – we find – core never stops
core centre’s ethos – a seed that glows like gold

when community sank into its lowest ebb
core centre came – the hub within the web




the braveness of the hours
(created for the tree plantings of the Perambulations Project)
in the densest of weathers -
may the oak sing
whenever time flexes its elbow room -
let us be there with our picnics
whatever the tree drops
let us tidy our own mess
this shall be its living space
let us bring our voices and chatter
and wish it well
it has a long way to grow
in the braveness of the hours
let the hands rotate slowly
in the fullness of the roots
let us feel our own wakings
make our feet find gentle ways
whatever the tree tells us
we can only wonder at
this shall be the tree's living space
let us bring our voices and chatter
and wish it well
it has a long way to grow


the industrial estate (t)rap

this site is not a play area

secure units stay out
all site users must wear
steel toe and insteps

various sizes
nottingham steel supplies
stay out stay out
hard hats
units to let
no vat
no contracts
direct police contact

this site is not a play area

20 yards on left
second left
second left
danger pedestrians
caring for your safety
private road no 4
k and k company

alarms fitted
stay out stay out
hard hats
units to let
no vat
no contracts
direct police contact

this site is not a play area

document storage
use pedestrian gate
no pedestrian access
economical
rates short or long term
high visibility vest
venus estates

hard hats
units to let
no vat
no contracts
direct police contact
stay out stay out

this site is not a play area

danger pedestrians
stay out
caring for your safety
car park café

hard hats
units to let
no vat
no contracts
direct police contact
stay out stay out

this site is not a play area

24 hour cctv

this site is not a play area

unit to let
unit to let
unit to let

use personnel gate
do not access this site

plot d
hard hats
units to let
no vat
no contracts
direct police contact
stay out stay out

wastecycle
texaco car park
via these gates
colwick contractors

this site is not a play area

industrial holdings
call on site
plot d
hard hats
units to let
no vat
no contracts
direct police contact
stay out stay out





buzz currency (two trees down in combs wood)

hush gathers here - does not release itself
waits for the buzz - the song of chain to come
one gob cut (by other names) is done
once up - now thinning out - its sigh is felled

we waited for the buzz - song of chain to come
hard boots - hard hat - the back bite draws its truth
the voice cut off the stump sits as its proof
buzz sits back and smoulders in its hum

one gob cut - by other names it's done
the sinews and the fibres lose the will
what drove on buzz was preying for its fill
buzz listens for the sigh and chalks its sums

once up - now thinning out - its sigh is felled
hush gathered here and then released itself


red with cake (commission at burton joyce library)

and the kettle’s boils and the stories told
and grey’s unwanted but yellow’s gold
and things not done and sighs and laughs
and doing crosswords and other tasks

and bagging bargains and reads aloud
and family - friends and special crowds
and red with cake when things go wrong
the kettle boils familiar songs

i want to ask a question then
(an after-thought of how and when)
have you been happy – it seems you have
the sighs that bloom – the familiar laugh


hears the crack (commission at burton joyce library)

me – walking – buses words
words won’t be told – so won’t be heard
what questions asked are thrown right back
no information hears the crack

the self-portrait (a rainbow spice)
if i’ve cached just once – i’ve geo-ed twice
i’ve walked away but still i’m here
with flippancy and poet’s ear

words won’t be told – so won’t be heard
me – walking  buses - words


no longer my poem
(own poems performed by another)

let the buzz have it
let the letters crumble
let them feed the
dreams of earth
paint the meaning
to another

no longer my poem

however long the words have sat
however long they have played themselves

they have new shadows now

something has
re-worked their timings
altered their vision

spoken them a new way

wherever the words fall
or have fallen
there's always a season
knowing things will change



good by stealth – for the federation of masked booksellers

i am one – and so are we
we save the printeds from the skips
we drink red wine and set books free
the books’ for eyes – the wine’s for lips!

we’re red and black and  good by stealth
we ruffle pages (and pile the stacks)
josiah saithwaite – rings a bell
he said something – of this and that

and do things change without the mask?
what changes made are mounting up
ex libris take-us to the task
and reduce the landfill and the pulp

though encyclopaedics don’t sell much
the fmb’s our novel touch


singularity of the oak

it is not the singularity of its voice
the bareness of its world
the intangible silence
it is not the whiteness of the shape
the.hopeless tenacity
the dreams that never blossom so
how strange - this shape
we consider it beautiful
our vision is its symbol - nothing else

buzz currency (two trees down in combs wood)
hush gathers here - does not release itself
waits for the buzz - the song of chain to come
one gob cut (by other names) is done
once up - now thinning out - its sigh is felled
we waited for the buzz - song of chain to come
hard boots - hard hat - the back bite drawss its truth
the voice cut off the stump sits as its proof
buzz sits back and smoulders in its hum
one gob cut - by other names its done
the sinews and the fibres lose the will
what drove on buzz was preying for its fill
buzz listens for the sigh and chalks its sums
once up - now thinning out - it's sigh is felled
hush gathered here and then released itself

watch for the dust (for kirkby library)

we’re hid behind morrisons – just watch for the dust
and near to the veg shop – that’s where you’ll find us
when you’re looking for learning (and louise with the cakes)
just follow the noise that the building site makes

when you’re looking for learning (and louise with the cakes)
and you need somewhere lively  and friendly and great
or you don’t know what you’re after – just come in and chat
turn by the morrisons and the men in hard hats

and near to the veg shop – that’s where you’ll find us
walk or come cycling – or the number three bus
linda’s soon going – but we’ll all be there
look for the supermarket – put your bum on a chair

and newspapers – events – i don’t know – more…
we’re just behind morrisons – just step through the door



created for Clumber Park woodland craft fair based on ideas from the public.

robin hood's still in the green - we know it well
but when we see the branches lit - we gasp
at all the age old oaks that walkings spell
(some seasons bring the gnats that bite and clasp)

and when we see the branches lit - we gasp
then fall into our silence - peace - escape
for this is sherwood now - and in a flash
we're back to robin hood - his merry shape

and all the age old oaks that walkings spell
are coloured in with history - by the book
some think of hogroasts - men in tights (o well!)
and the lake's our seaside - we share it with the ducks

some seasons bring the gnats that bite and clasp
but when we see the branches lit - we gasp

(follow link for youtube reading)

we break at boughton brake - find her path
and where she leads us - is the more of it
we see the wood for trees - we grasp
her world and consider where our footsteps fit
and where she leads us - is the more of it
oak beech - we eye the tall and wide
we have broken out our trek - now restful sit
we sense the traffic run along her side
we're in her world considering where we fit
and where she leads us is the more of it

wildflower wrap


harebells rarebells
tell it like it is well
watermint
scabious
self heal
growing round the wheel-o
[wild go wild
go wild in the toadflax
red clover in the hedge
grows absolutely free]
lesser trefoil
rest harrow
knapweed toadflax
common greater knapweed
cooow paaaarsleeey
rosebay willowherb
pink and gangley
take a look
[wild go wild
go wild in the toadflax
red clover in the hedge
grows absolutely free]

sca bi ous
small and field
sca bi ous
rest harrow
angelica
meadow vetchling
meadow vetchling
[wild go wild
go wild in the toadflax
red clover in the hedge
grows absolutely free]

 zig zag - for the new ollerton to bilsthorpe walk

sometimes the world
has to zig zag
to get you to its point
we have to notice things
a raptor
a bridge
the expression of an old man
one turn
one other
a maypole
hawthorn
the drift of heat across
the face
a lon line of elder
splitting a field
the roll of a pen
between the fingers
this is what we nust notice
there are lots of things we don't

 the maypole's stood (for the olde red lion, wellow)

three centuries - three ghosts and round we go
the maypole twists us in a spin
and by the green - the olde red lion
where bill sits watching with a grin
and the lady on the stairs that never leaves
inhales the home cooked food and beers
steak pies - she thinks - i'll stay around
the boy in the cellars always here
and here in wellow - where the maypole's stood
o - and try our sweets - they're always good

 in the groove

still here - but never still - one small step
then several more forever making moves
and each small stumble - then that's two stepa back
it's like a dance - i guess we're in the groove

and so we're ramblimg - we're gamboling
we're canopied by all the stuff we love
and we're waiting - the time it's taking
the proof's in time - and we're waiting for the news

from out the woods i guess we'll find the truth
the stumbles that we know aren't really that
but symbols then of all the stuff we've done
we push forward and tighten up the slack

it's like a dance - i guess we're in the groove
so several steps - forever making moves


 haiku - for the save sherwood forest campaign

decision waiting
holding our breaths for forests
and getting breathless

 black and blue- for the oil mining museum.

the secret's in the woods- it's dug down deep
from out of history - its heritage to keep
us wondering and seeing and n
knowing what is known
what secrets brew in winter - in spring is grown
from out of history - it's heritage we keep
what turned from out of taps now lays asleep
and out in may the bluebells dance about
what was black is blue - the secret's out





haiku
(bilsthorpe - oxton)



talk of doodlebugs
partridge flies out of a tree
surprising us both


we search for spirit (skegby to market warsop)

spirit weaves a water dance

spirit licks the trees
with a drizzle of warm sun

(we know spirit wears many seasonal coats -
but today spirit spreads the lotion thick
against potential burn)

spirit's eight mile feet are ready for the trek
they will not blister

they may tread upon sharp glass
but not be harmed

spirit's hands 
may choose to point the way

and 
we
might
follow

spirit's hands may whisper through our hair
it doesn't matter - we place our feet
one and then one more




on considering buying furniture from t*scos 
(commission at annesely)

so it's grey for futility - consider utilities
think of the cheapness of tat
and already the dooms of those t*sco kabooms
make me anxious of all this and that

the ethical - pathetical - i'm getting mathematical
the juxtaposition of phlegm
i'm chewing the quilt
because of the guilt
again and again and again

o dear mona lisa 
you just shouldn't squeeze her
the soya goes well with the smile
but furniture's waiting 
and i'm still debating
will i get it from t*scos?
i'll tell you...in a while




to soak it all - anneseley to skegby

and someone said
let's not have trees

let us have progress!

let us forward on with steel
iron
the sale of goods
the import and export
of wherewithal

let us have the london plane
to soak it all up
its bark peeling
its war torn camouflage

let us dream of
fast lorries
unforgiving tarmac
and breathing deep of industry

what do the eyes that have closed
think of me
making memories dance again?

you're a bloody fool they say


listening (after the riots)

in the quiet –
when the fires have gone out

whatever smoulders on
we have only our ears left 
something has brought us to this point

how many voices still crawl through?

how many barbs scratch at where it’s still hurting
there will be thousands
and thousands more to come

let time bring us towards each other

wherever the hurt is
let us still keep listening


turns
(perambulations route)

i turned right and headed
towards the metaphor
it didn’t think it was one

just a yawning gap
between two buildings
eating the space of a bridge
like a sabre tooth tiger


all things that don’t go well

whatever it is –
blame the trees

for making the fires
            to smelt the steel
to sharpen the blade
to stake the heart

i blame the tree and
all its pointed fingers

so whatever it isn’t
            blame the trees
it isn’t cool enough
-       the canopy is far too thin
and then the roots jut out

and it isn’t fair that the trees don’t just
            grow upwards

let them keep their reachings-out
to other people’s pies

i blame the trees for
bad shopping lists
wild parties that keep me awake
dog mess
typo’s in this poem
bookshelves falling down
toes getting stubbed
bad films being made
the drowning of children
bankruptcy
the full collapse of the british economy

all things that don’t go well
 

bob the brave - for a grandson beyond his years
(bestwood commission)

bob the builder's been so brave
and now the sun shine's on his day
he's back to building - back to play
and bringing rippled seaside waves 
to his stepdad - mum and nanni too
(all are transformer'd by what you do)
soon to be five - and then what age?
our bob the builder that's been so brave

bodging (for H.S)

 she turns life round
turns round life
chips away
- fresh ghosts
appear from an old tree

she feels the power
of where the spirit rests

knows its soul
fimds its common grain
and breathes it true

sometimes i think
she hears voices

telling her who she is



trees peeing

no one expected the trees to speak

could do with a drink – said one
could do with a pee – said t’other

both waited outside the public loos
warming their tendrils with coffee
and sorting out their twenty pences

the ghost voice in the automated conveniences
didn’t know what to advise

one tree after another
wanting to ablute
doing a merry dance

the machine
blew a short fuse
and left the building
by the back door
 

like the oak (read at the start of the perambulations project)
let my feet find where they whisper on the ground
 – let the ways i tread be solid like the oak
let my eyes be forward and see the world around
as i feel the breeze upon my back – let me be its boat
let the world give all its colours – let them paint them to a smile
as i feel the breeze upon my back – let me be its boat
let whoever watches and then follows  – stay a while
– let the ways i tread be solid like the oak
let me keep my words intact – let my language keep afresh
let my eyes be forward but see the world around
and when needed – source my wisdom – where imagination nests
let my feet find where they whisper on the ground
let the world give all its colours – let them paint them to a smile
– let the ways i tread be solid like the oak
let whoever watches and then follows  – stay a while
as i feel the breeze upon my back – let me be its boat
and when needed – source my wisdom – where imagination nests
as i feel the breeze upon my back – let me be its boat
let my feet find where they whisper on the ground
 – let the ways i tread be solid like the oak

the braveness of the hours

in the densest of weathers -
may the oak sing
whenever time flexes its elbow room -
let us be there with our picnics
whatever the tree drops
let us tidy our own mess

this shall be the tree's living space
let us bring our voices and chatter
and wish it well
it has a long way to grow

in the braveness of the hours
let the hands rotate slowly
in the fullness of the roots
let us feel our own wakings
make our feet find gentle ways
whatever the tree tells us
 we can only wonder at

this shall be the tree's living space
let us bring our voices and chatter
and wish it well
it has a long way to grow

the leen

leen is lean - thins out - hides in grassland verge
and tips itself by the tramstop - lazily
and makes its way and meets the gangly willow-herb

it senses off the me - drives insanely

by the lines and there's a gap
a crossing -  fenced off gate

i push myself through - the ground as dry
as sometimes where my thoughts get trapped

this day - the weather - makes brisk work
of high sunshine time
the poem's written by the map


section one - victoria embankment – hucknall road

seed

one

what starts the journey are the limes
round leaved
lined up
sentinel
guardians of the trent

our foot soldiers –

berried
rowan
whitebeam
sorbus aria
ash
black budded
bramble
spiked
and the london plain
         (we know you’re there
whatever camouflage suit
you wear)

history grows different here
it changes us – we change it

two

our boots sense only where they tread
verge
causeway
roadside
level crossing

three

we learn the hallowed way of
         tarmac

touch gravel
eye up the tendrils of
council  vert

four

we are in flat land
no gradient
slopeless
nothing that challenges
but  the heat
of high noon saturday

somewhere
the ball of leather
sounds against
the bat of willow

five

we are perambulators
route followers
hunters of corners
where decisions tend to sit
and time gives briefly up

six

we have bee reduced
compressed
condensed
un-diluted

twenty five
then five less
reduced to ten or so
more drop out until
our magic suit off three


seven

we know that once we smell
         the river leen
(the spot where robin hood was
spoken to his birth)

we can draw our pace that suits our pack

eight

at the busy snake that hucknall road makes through our hearts
we stand and take a breath – this is the day that’s done
this is us – however far it’s taken us

we carry on

 








oxton ramble (26.6.11)

just a to and fro dog
and the sun to keep us company

we follow the spaghetti of the map
oxton’s windmill lane
too small for the google van
lets us into its cheeky veins

lets us pulse ourselves into its pre-history
shake the wheat-ears with our mere steps
and sweating thoughts

robin hood’s the brain squeeze
we have come to expect
him and his villains
engraving their blood line
into the turf

what they took was a modest hill
and our dawdling footsteps

we click past oxton’s hawthorn
marvel at the oaks
sweep the flies away
ooze through its mud
kiss past its kissing gates and
cool down our dog with the remaining
piddles in the road

we are pushers against the hills
foolers with its waves of memory

our ghosts stay for centuries to come



easing the roots (for king's clipstone)
written for and read as part of a school tree planting ceremony
at the Parliament Oak, Sherwood Forest

let’s talk into the branches and open out our ears
let’s dig the dirt -  ease the roots into the hole
let’s note the past before us – see the future clear
let’s walk the way like earth has caught our souls

let’s dig the dirt -  ease the roots into the hole
let’s parle – what’s meant by talking is much more
much more than what we can say – we roll
our minds – we consider green and oaken floors

and note the past before us – and see the future clear
we know the old – the ancients watch us too
the young will softly sprout their buds (that’s clear)
let’s know them by the seasons when they’re due

let’s walk the way like earth has caught our souls
let’s dig the dirt -  ease the roots into the hole


bluebells


nature's got blue blood - come bringing in the may
one stalk - two - then millions sprawled approved the zest  of spring
and let us see it rise along the ways
that nature sets herself


and nature's got blue blood
the carpet that we walk along
(not one – in case the drops get further trodden down)this carpet (royal bound)
is the majesty that tickles at the sun
and hankers for a stay

and nature’s got blue blood
come one year more – the wooded vale – the murderous copse
that circles round
clings to the wondrous eyes
(that dancing out like champagne corks
are fizzing in bouquets)

blue blood from blue bells then
the bluebells bring blue blood