What day is it today?
How to make my time go by?
The street is filled with school yard silence
No vapour trails in the sky.
An updated version of this poem was included in my book "46 Contemporary Poems".
All text, pros, poetry & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.
Nottingham.
Nottingham,
Did your undiagnosed industrial tumour
Cause the cancerous death of the Sherwood?
The ghost shells of your factories are still beautiful
As the hollow husks of ancient oaks to me.
Nottingham,
Did you pave old market square for the price of a hospital?
The overfed footless pigeons now have no place to laze.
The flowers have no beds on which to rest homeless heads.
Council step cool kids are expelled and moved away.
Nottingham,
Your chemistry Boots Were Made for Walking,
And that’s just what they did,
But lose no sleep over deceased Players, Please.
It kept the job figures up, and the population down.
Nottingham,
Was Mansfield Bitter during our four year separation?
After-hours’ puddles of forty percent proof piss
Now converge where intoxicated pigeons dance the Bolero,
And Home Ales are never home when I knock.
Nottingham,
Your pub house musicians are made to play for free.
Strumming mostly 4 x 4 time, they know nothing of picket lines.
Alan-A-Dale hangs his head in shame.
Jake escaped.
Nottingham,
Are you still Lonely as a Long Distance Runner?
Meet me tonight by the Left Lion.
Wear something red. But don’t mention Liverpool.
I did, but I think I got away with it.
Nottingham,
I missed you, I doubt you missed me.
I came back to teach your children, but can’t reach them anymore.
Their student accommodation skyline blocks the view
Of their life in the clouds.
Nottingham,
Did no one Raleigh ‘round when your bicycles were taken?
I went to the factory but found only supermart specials.
Saturday Night, Sunday Morning, they all taste the same,
And two for one lunch time deals won’t carry me as far.
Nottingham,
I have traced the footsteps of your patron saint outlaw,
Placed an armistice poppy on an ancient Scarlet grave,
Once persuaded Chatterley’s daughters
To disrobe of your Lace.
Nottingham,
I now hear the skeletal hooves of abandoned pit ponies
Still roaming the haunted mine shafts below
Retro-brick alleys and sandstone made caves,
Looking for a way out.
Nottingham
I am here for life.
All text copyright ian g craig.
An updated version of this poem would be published in my book "46 Contemporary Poems".
Skeggie Day.
A railcard ticket
To Lincolnshire’s coastline,
“Which way are we facing?”
We’re going back in time,
For a day beside the seaside
The rain did not stop play,
On Skeggie day.
Snakes and ladder fingers
On the backseat of the train,
Slipping her the whiskey,
She slipped it back again.
In a place of cloudless fancy
Only kite strings blocked the way,
On Skeggie day.
Under the Boardwalk, Up on the Roof,
“Above the age for drinking?”
The landlord asked for proof.
Photographing footprints
All along the beach,
So close to the salty edge,
But always out of reach.
Walking away,
On Skeggie day.
The ice-cream van stood frozen,
The bandstand had no band,
Just Betty Boop mementos
For a Jolly Fisherman.
He thinks he’s on a promise,
A saucy postcard date,
But Betty left too early,
And the Clock Tower’s always late.
Time ticks away,
On Skeggie day.
A penny for the arcade
Soon comes to push and shove,
As four and twenty seagulls
Refrained from making love,
Swoop down on deep fried chickens,
Their favourite fast-food prey.
Cheap Take-Away,
On Skeggie day.
The tin skinned street art lady,
Trapped in her pantomime,
Waves secret hand-sign signals,
That passion is no crime.
She pays for rusting tea breaks
With small change from her jar.
Her day job is a statue,
By night she works the bar.
She has no time to play
On my Skeggie day.
The cinema on the High Street
Is showing “G.I. Blues”,
They haven’t changed the programme there
Since nineteen sixty-two.
A balding breathless doorman
In braided uniform,
Has a look of recognition,
Thinks he’s seen me there before.
He checks the tickets at the kiosk,
Checks himself out in the glass,
Checks the sidewalk for a certain girl
Who’s way above his class.
Perhaps a lack of judgement?
It’s not for me to say.
I leave him to his fate
On Skeggie day.
Returning to the station,
The train is running late,
The driver’s in his swimwear,
Been on a heavy date.
I take my seat inside the carriage,
Take a moment to reflect,
Take a photo for a memory
Not finished with me yet.
In the pages of my sketchbook
The pencils from my trips
All draw upon the good times,
Plus all the empty bits.
I’ve said too much already,
There’s nothing left to say
About Skeggie day.
Now plastic Disney figures
In fairgrounds long shut down,
All chat about the summer
When I still came around.
There’s no-one left to heed now
Their wind metallic voice,
They stand there for no reason,
They do it out of choice.
Before a wintry snowman
Took them all away,
On Skeggie Day.
All text copyright ian g craig. See also THIS PAINTING.
Note: "Skeggie" is a common nickname for Skegness.
An updated version of this poem would be published in my book "46 Contemporary Poems".
Later.
Bright sunlight streaming into my South facing window.
That moment when the day is optimistic about its possibilities.
Lines of small square lawns and patient green wheelie bins
Conceal the suburban morse code message transmitted by
The continuous beeping sound of a truck reversing.
Later
Overcast, hot tempers flare.
Everyone is being told to get the fuck out
Of everyone else's fucking face. A door slams.
Flying ant day in the city, white powders at the ready,
Locked and fucking loaded.
Later
A squirrel skips down the street
Pretending the tarmac is still too hot.
The relief of a cool breeze is tempered by
The knowledge it won't ever be quite as sunny again
For another year.
All text copyright ian g craig.
An updated version of this poem would be published in my book "46 Contemporary Poems".
Now.
“I'm ho-ome!"
My house welcomes me with the echo of my own voice.
I keep the carpet cluttered and the mind tidy.
The sun shines on the red bench
Where I peal back the wrapper from my Cornetto.
The sound of a steel chain saw,
Ripping through raw green branches in the heat.
A drainpipe Robin sits impatiently for me to go
So he can return to his worm.
Now
The faintest trace of bar-b-q aroma,
Whilst silent dark clouds come in from the South,
And the second hand on my clock ticks louder.
My neighbour chases pigeons from the berries on his bush.
They retreat and coo from a safe distance.
Whilst waiting for one thing to be resolved,
My mind makes decisions about 100 others,
Then changes them all.
Now
The day's vapour trails turn to street lights.
I turn to the music of a long time since.
Muggy night on the edge of the city.
No-one gets too excited about going into town.
A bedroom light in an opposite window.
Wet roads amplify the sound of traffic,
Making night sound like rush hour.
But the pace is slow.
Now
A rain shower on my open window
Turns the CD in my headphones to charity shop vinyl.
The garage door opposite is open again.
I think someone uses it to sleep in.
They might at least close the door behind them.
A girl in blue steps onto her balcony for a cigarette,
Perhaps needing permission to smoke in her own flat.
We exchange curious glances.
All text copyright ian g craig.
An updated version of this poem would be published in my book "46 Contemporary Poems".
Summer’s over.
On the pavement, scurrying by,
Cell phone myopia
Impedes the passage of those with a purpose.
Drowsy students clutch cans of Red Bull
Whilst the early bird catches the parking space,
And the showers pass.
A Blackbird points his beak skyward,
First East and then West,
Then ruffles his feathers knowingly.
A young mother takes her hands from the pushchair.
Her dishwasher nails reveal the dubious fortunes
Of a lottery scratch card.
A lone footballing teen on the street
Tests his testosterone levels
Against a neighbour’s garage door.
A man with miss-matched eyes,
Smoking jazz cigarettes,
Takes up permanent residence in the local bus stop.
With no fig rolls on the shelves,
And no mini pizzas in the freezer,
What's so cooperative about the Co-op?
This summer's happy days already seem
Like shiny display case memories, when
A train whistle blowing, made a happy noise.
An updated version of this poem would be published in my book "46 Contemporary Poems"
All text and picture copyright ian g craig
Last Night.
Last night
Ten thousand silent movie fans rose from their graves,
To chase the blackened corpse of Al Jolson from their hallowed ground.
Last night
Mini-tubes of Cerulean Blue paint substituted for Smarties in primary school playgrounds across the County,
Whilst correction facilities corrected homeless people's homework,
And rehab centres shared Cleopatra's needle with my youngest nieces.
Last night
Microsoft bought curtains for Windows 7 from a sweatshop on eBay,
As Coalition Forces napalmed grey haired donkeys on Skegness beaches,
All in the interest of National Security.
Last night
Wall Street crashed into a number 47 bus on Parliament Street,
Causing Stock Market Square to drop by 40%,
Whilst my pile of rejected paintings reached critical mass.
Last night
A young woman with perfect breasts
Decided to fasten an extra button on her shirt and buy her own fish and chips after all,
Obscuring my vision of lost summer memories,
Taking a moment to cry.
Last night
The couple at the next table held long conversations with their dog. In English.
Last night
An unused ticket for the Sydney Opera House fell from my second hand paperback.
Last night
The bonneted barmaid ate the supper which management provided,
Whilst Phil Spector's Wall of Sound remained silent,
And another legendary pop star actually died.
All text copyright ian g craig.
An updated version of this poem would be published in my book "46 Contemporary Poems".
White Lace and Sleep Now.
Paper chase highway, Pixelated night breeze,
Can't break the habit, Cold turkeys do time.
Heart on the handbrake, Lust in the fast lane,
Chasing the fade, to the end of the line.
Crows on the skyline, Call to the fox wind,
Clouds on their journey, Yellow stone sky.
How can I find you? Footprint disclosure,
Welcome sign doormat, Linoleum grime.
Two sides to the story, No end to the circle,
Four beats to the bar, One word to the wise.
A child born on Wednesday is woeful and weepy,
A tambourine someplace, Plays out of time.
Empty like clear glass, Lost on a bookcase,
Rain on a Tuesday, In market stall lines.
Caught between conflicts, Eyes in the headlights,
White lace and sleep now, Nevermore mine.
Shirt Tails in the Rain.
Yesterday's child shakes the rules and runs wild,
Shakes her tips from the boys at the bar.
Spends her night on the street, where she's trained in deceit,
Spends the day with her dolls and her Stars.
Did you fall so from grace someone's taken your place?
Did you think yourself safe in his arms?
Don't you think it's a crime someone wasting your time?
Did you place so much faith in your charms?
She parades her self-fix like a fake crucifix
And the snow howls like ice through her veins,
But it won't free her mind in the cold winter time,
You might think that she's lost, but she's lame.
Oh Jane, in your bold shirt tail stance
Can you make jewels dance in the rain?
Or would your feet turn to clay
If you heard pipers play
"Will Ye No Come Back Again?"
copyright ian gordon craig
These poems would be published in my book "46 Contemporary Poems".