Jazzed.

 After a day walking in Thoresby Park and a night of live jazz at the Bell Inn, Nottingham.

Jazzed (a.k.a. I’m not even pissed).

Sand in the sandwiches,
Wasps in the tea,
Panini cheese dribble-rush
On relish toast rye.
Not I, café fly,
With my fake plastic eye,
I’m not even pissed.

Too high to climb,
Too low to fall,
Pussy willow forest
Catkins on the floor.
Thoresby lakeside antics,
Budby Tea shop antiques,
I’m not even pissed.

I stopped the drummer on the staircase, to express my admiration. He looked familiar, like someone I’d performed with. Probably not. I also wanted to express my appreciation to the singer, standing at the urinal  in gent’s toilet solemnity, but decided it wasn’t the right moment. Later he expressed his own
On mic appreciation
Of my collection glass donation
To his jazz band cornet cause.

And earlier to the barmaid: “Was that you singing and playing piano last Wednesday?” She acknowledged it was, unsure of my intentions. I told her how I’d enjoyed her set, and that I felt she deserved greater respect than she had been shown. And I’m not even pissed.

I’m not here to lie.
I’m here to climb trees,
I’m here to whoop with delight,
I’m here to watch blue-haired torn tights
Drunken nights college girls
Groove to the moves
She didn’t know she knew,
After her misspent childhood of Britney.

But she’s finding it now.
Her body sways,
Oblivious to the room around,
Brass jazz sound surround,
She sways in time,
Discovery sublime,
And her coin in the glass
Lands on mine.

Remember what that was like when you wake tomorrow. Don’t forget.

Sand in the sandwiches,
Wasps in the tea,
Words on the painting
Bo Diddle Eee.
Blues in the garden,
Mandolin Street,
Reds in the relish,
Beat root sweet.

There are no zombies on this bus.

copyright ian g craig

 An updated version of this poem would be published in my book "46 Contemporary Poems".

 

Words.

 Words

White.
No, blue.
Then white (with a sun roof).
Then blue.
A darker blue.
Then black.

Ketchup, not Brown Sauce. (Except on bacon).
Chinese not Pizza.
Fried not boiled.
Beer not wine.
Oils not chalks.
Pubs not clubs.

“It’s all over the carpet now. Your bed is like an island.”

- I know.

“If you get off the bed it will stop.”

- I don’t want it to stop. Not just yet.

Shared silence not inane chatter.

Was it something I said?
Did you draw that?
How long did it take?
What is the name of the tune that goes
Do you know the way to San Jose?
That is the answer.
What was the question?
Was that someone at the door?

“You could change the rules. Make it that it stops only if you go out the door, but not if you just get off the bed.”

- No. The game monster will know.

Angela Bishop’s socks, worn thin at the sides from the constant tugging of her thumbs.
Red fuchsias in a green box.
A tin RSPCA badge.
A caravan in Mablethorpe.
Sleeping on the very edge of the bed pretending it was a branch.

“Do you remember that night in Liverpool when you took that decongestant for a cold? You said you could hallucinate at will, and control the entire content of your dreams. And you had a medical examination the next day to qualify for the profession.”

- Yes. It’s a bit like that. I doubt that stuff is still legal. Are you going by a chemist today?

I’ll see you in my dreams.

There’s someone at the door.
There’s no need for all that.
There’s nothing anyone can do.
Didn’t you used to be?
At the third stroke it will be.

People only accuse you of trying to be clever when you’ve completely out smarted them.

T.V. Comic.
Then Lion.
Then Billy Fury Monthly.
Then the N.M.E.

One in 3,700 Kit Kat bars have no wafer. Make a wish if you find one to find another one. Then wish again.

The first picture I got on a wall was of Africa. It was just a tree surrounded by grass, but the teacher said it looked the most like Africa because there was no jungle. I suppose the Tarzan books must have lied to me. I lied about Lion Comic earlier on. Both Biggles and Tarzan came before that. 

My first oil painting was of a sunrise. I’d gotten up in the early hours of the morning to go to the toilet, saw the sunrise, made a quick sketch of it, got up later and painted it using the box of oils I’d got for Christmas.

I can’t quite put my finger on it.
It plays on my mind.
It gets on my nerves.
It’s on the tip of my tongue.

- What will the first comment be on my blog?

“I don’t know. What does it say in the first few lines?”

- Just a list of colours.

“Then the first comment will be about someone’s favourite colour.”

- I could put that bit nearer the end, only there’s no end in sight.

“I hope you’re going to pick all that up after you.”



All artwork & text copyright Ian G Craig.

The First Pearl & Poem to an Air Hostess.

 The First Pearl.

In a time of quick fix and quick fortune,
When all I could take came for less,
Pleasure came from the grace
Of dark strangers in lace,
And the hands of the girls at the press.

As a boy all my heroes rode horseback,
Broad white hats marked the good from the bad,
But now far less defined
Are these things in my mind,
Far less clear is the choice to be had.

Young dark creatures of night kept their faces from light
And took turns to unzip and pretend,
In the back seats of cars
With one eye on the stars,
They compared what they shared with their friends.

So, the word spread through distance and cables
As I slid through their hands and their sheets;
A cuckoo in disguise,
Every whim gratified,
So secure in the hand that it feeds.

Then one cautious crisp grass Sunday morning,
On a secret spilled sidewalk up town,
I stepped out with a lover
Quite unlike any other,
And embraced as defenses came down.

And from the first nervous reach of my fingers
To the last gasping sounds of sweet breath,
We surrendered in smiles
To a common life style,
Both imagined that this was 'till death.

She was not the first Ruby in my dance
And of course, she was not the first girl;
She was not the best placed
When romance turned to race,
But for me, she was the first Pearl.

Love Poem to a Hostess.

Forget me not,
Miss Crystal Blue C,
As you soar through the skyways
That released you from me.
Cure the sky of its blues,
Bathe your eyes in its hues,
And keep precious the one thing
You've taken from me.

Don't look back at the ground,
Miss Blue Jean in C,
At dull road sign directions
You're not destined to be.
Let your silver winged graces
Leave white trails and traces
To fade in the sunset
Now setting on me.

All text copyright ian gordon craig

 These poems would be published in my book "46 Contemporary Poems".