My first book's reception.

 

I personally regard my first book as the most important thing I’ve ever created. In my own opinion, my artworks aren’t always as successful in achieving what I was trying to say. I like to think that those persons I especially wanted to read it, did so. Little else matters. Certainly not any hopes of commercial enterprise.

The reception was very positive, albeit at the same time rather silent in some quarters close to home. C'est la vie. I am now intending on a second book, either 46 short stories or (more likely), the novel I’ve been toying with for years. Art is now taking a back seat called sketchbook, rather than canvas and exhibitions.

All text & artwork copyright ian gordon craig.

47 poems.

 I set myself a target and a deadline, and I made it.

47 poems is the idea. (The number 47 has a family history). The challenge was that, even though I had a lot of writing to sift through, much of it was intended for song lyrics, or basic "stream of conscious" pieces from old blogs. All of that needed a lot of editing and re-writing.

Break now to do some sketching for a while before getting my head around e-book self publishing.

A poem for the pandemic.

 

 

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.

My Poetic Performance. (My first poetry reading).

My Poetic Performance.

 
“They look like a comfy pair of shoes”.
“Yes, and so clean”.
“And shiny”.
“I bet they’re new”.
“Do you know you can buy a pair just like those down the market for about ten pounds? It’s the brand you pay for you know”.

I am seated in a cave two or three floors below street level, in one of Nottingham’s most noted pubs for the performing arts, and I haven’t yet spoken one word. The cave itself, carved out of the sandstone, is a characteristic underground feature of many buildings in the city centre. Above me is the one-time Victorian Music Hall the Malt Cross, a venue I’ve variously sketched, dated, and drunk in, often watching local musicians perform. Somewhere in this pub’s files they have, at their request, copies of sketches I’ve made of the interior. But I’ve never performed here. I can’t remember the precise date I was last on a public stage anywhere, but I have done it, even going so far as to sing my own songs. Tonight, that’s about to change. A couple of weeks ago I saw a poster announcing the venue’s Spoken Word Open Mic Night and thought, “Why not?” So, I’m here to both test my mettle and the worth of the words I write.

I have always enjoyed writing, and taken it seriously. I have had some bits and pieces published in magazines. But I’ve never yet really put my words to the test. Painting is very different. I send the paintings out beyond my walls to be judged by others within their walls. In return I get a slip of paper which reads either “rejected” or “accepted”. No further explanation than that. Tonight, I am presenting my words to strangers for the first time, face to face. I put my name down at the door, number 14 on the list of tonight’s performers. If my words prove to be no good at least my shoes have been a big hit.

When I was a student in Liverpool, poets like Adrian Henri and Roger McGough were not yet widely known across the U.K. The Merseybeat groups of the sixties had all followed the Beatles south, to be replaced in the seventies by the Mersey Scene, predominantly one of poetry and improvised music. So, it was not uncommon to both sit alongside and experience such talent in the local pubs. I cannot pretend I was ever a member of that in-crowd, but it was an inspiring atmosphere for a young student to witness. Tonight reminds me a little of those days. The sandstone benches along these underground walls are rock hard, but the people are supportive, in good spirits, and raring to get started. Importantly, they are all listening attentively to each other’s works.

I’ve spent much of the day rehearsing out loud in my studio. I think, of the dozen or so acts which precede me, I must be on a par with a fair percentage of them. One notable exception being number 13, a youthful, passionate performance in rapid contemporary rhyme and without notes. Not an act I would have chosen to follow. Nevertheless, one pint into the evening, number 14 “Ian” is called to the front…

I am expected to read two poems. I'm happy to say both go down really well. The audience laugh with me at my brief introduction to “The Gift”, which relates how my years as a teacher was rewarded with a simple book token, before they then became totally involved with the poem’s pathos, catching them off guard.

 Similarly, the “four and twenty seagulls” and “balding braided doorman” of “Skeggie Day” elicit giggles of appreciation, before the poem’s sombre conclusion makes its mark. I like using this well-established literary device, mixing opposing emotions in the same piece. (“It’s getting better all the time. – It can’t get no worse”). I shall be using it again. Perhaps in this venue.

This night gave me the confidence to consider self-publishing a collection of my poems.

 All text, pros, photos & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.

Nottingham.

 
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".

Skegness revisited. "Skeggie Day"

 

 About six years ago I had an idea for a painting. It was about a girl on a deserted beach. I wrote about it on THIS LINK, but never made the painting I envisaged. Instead, I painted Tower Cinema, Skegness, and although I was very pleased with that result, I regretted not sticking to my original idea. So, this month I asked a friend to pose for my original concept.

We had to cheat. Rather than travelling to the coast I got her to stand on a fence in Clumber Park, it presenting the right perspective of the figure against the sky. For the pier and the breakers, I had enough resources already from previous trips. After completing the painting I also wrote a poem about the day trip which would be published in my book "46 Contemporary Poems".

All text, pros, photos & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.

Skeggie Day.

 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".

Life is just a slice of pizza.

 Life is just a slice of pizza.

Life is divided into slices, like pizza, and one can never predict when the next cut will fall. Life’s more unpalatable slices only seem to last longer because they are harder to swallow. But that last 5 years slice of my Life passed quickly, because it was everything I needed it to be.

From Skegness beaches to
Matlock’s highest reaches.
Transatlantic bloggers.
Feeding midnight foxes.
Glue gun theatrical sets,
Video shoots by a water’s edge.
Tune a day music,
By the light of full moons.

Three pinta sessions, Jazz in the Bell,
Hockney in town, (he didn’t like it too well).
My work in a gallery on the A614,
Had to ask for the key, never been there before.
Edinburgh sketches (when I’m lucky to view),
Serve to remind I can still learn from you.
Oaks in a clearing,
Lidl isle of dreams skipping.

Singers’ nights and after-hours bars,
Jelly baby dashboard, country bound car.
Handstands in the park,
Walking home after dark.
Twig making sculptures,
Dragon soup lunches.
Market Square helter-skelter
Forfeit snakes and ladders.


All text copyright ian g craig.

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

Skegness is So Bracing.

 Skegness is So Bracing.

Once, every working class family
From Nottingham town UK,
Come summer, emerged from their factories,
Impatient to get far away,
And spend the pennies they'd been saving
To be beside the seaside for a day.

In clattering steam train carriages,
Industrial packages, all looking the same,
Third class tickets and yesterday's sandwiches,
Ciggie stains on the window frame,
Communal singing, all knowing the lyrics,
They shook, rattled and rolled their way.

Their agreed destination?
A holiday camp for the nation,
Billy Butlin’s first site,
Red coated persuasion.
“Skegness Is So Bracing!” said the slogan,
And it was So true.

Donkey ride magic,
Sticky candy floss chew,
Food cartons of plastic,
Caravans just for two.
In rock n roll bunk-beds
Radio Luxembourg phasing through.


All text copyright ian g craig

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

Last Thoughts on June.

Last Thoughts on June.

June’s playground children came busting out all over,
Scattering fast food footprints on stately home clover.
June looked her finest when viewed from a distance,
It was not of her doing, just perspective’s insistence.
The pencil never lies, in June.

June tried her best to get here much sooner,
One foot in the past, no thought of the future.
June only wishes she could linger much longer,
But absence she knows makes all feeling much stronger.
Always far away, in June.

June saw me filming musicians in the park,
Editing videos long after dark.
June put me back on a gallery wall,
The last place to look for me, away from it all,
Painting ruins, in June.

June put out the empties in fortnightly rotation,
Brown plastic blooms for a recycled generation.
June was sometimes unsteady on my feet,
Discussions cut short, me accepting defeat.
It was always brown bin day in June.

June held conversations like gaps in a song,
When football chant tempos get the rhythm all wrong.
June left my words hung in spaces unheard,
Like Scrabble board spellings, the meanings absurd.
There were no squares for my letters, in June.

June paid her forfeits in games of few tactics,
Webcam connections and laptop screen antics.
June stretched out before me, summer splendid perfection,
A glow from the north, shining light inspiration.
Rain showers had no curtains, in June.

All text, pros, poetry, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.

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

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".

Last Night. (A homage to Adrien Henri).

 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".

Then Call the Fire Brigade.

 Then Call the Fire Brigade.

-The photo albums; the paintings; the recordings of me. Then call the Fire Brigade.

Before the Sunday morning mirror: White cotton, top and bottom. She turns for a side profile. Up on the toes, enhancing the calves, just so. Checks out the curve of the spine, just so. Hands smooth the stomach flat. A flick of the finger positions the elastic into just the right place, just so. Once more up on the toes. Sunday morning mirror ritual, just so. She sees I’m awake and watching.

“Did I wake you?”

- Toasty soldiers and tomato soup mugs in bed.
- Fried beans in Rainworth.
- Bridlington fish and chips.
- Goose Fair Doughnuts.
- Liverpool Sushi.

“Did I wake you? What are you writing?”

She makes no request to read it. Kindred spirits indeed.

- Spirits: Vodka, spiked and not stirred. Beyond the whirling pit and into the realm of vertical jumping picture interference. Any level beyond that is simply marked “unknown” on the map.

- Beer: Newcastle Brown. Whirling pit only, but with a shaft of light from the door onto upright posture in bed, with drooling jaw over yellow plastic bucket trimmings. Attractive.

Last night, like every night, in those moments when cautious reservations float down the safe duvet valley between reality and sleep, she had made plans: Take a chance; step forward; seize the moment.
This morning, like every morning, those plans disappear with the shower gel down the drain. She dresses for the day, as a shroud of tiny hesitations slip back into place. Life for her continues to be filtered like sunlight through net curtains, somehow once removed.

-The emerald green diary; the aspidistra she gave me; then call the Fire Brigade.

“If you go on staring at those nets, you’ll wear a hole in them.”

Rowdy and Clint reached the bridge. Clint said “Have you still got that chocolate egg in your pocket?” Rowdy turned pale. Only two minutes from the shop and already he’d forgotten about the egg. He’d only taken it for a joke. The old lady was always so slow coming to the counter, he’d snatched it from the display and into his pocket to make Clint laugh. He had no intention of stealing. He’d never stolen anything in his short life. He anxiously gripped at his pocket, wishing the egg shaped bulge would somehow just not be there. But it was.
Trying to explain to Clint the innocence of his intentions, he threw the cream egg as far as he could down river. Quite an impressive throw for a young cowboy not known for any particular sporting skill beyond maypole dancing. Then, hoping all feelings of guilt would travel as quickly as the egg downstream, they mounted their imaginary ponies and galloped away.

Before nightfall Clint snitched on his partner. Rowdy was sent to bed without being allowed to watch “Rawhide”. He would have preferred a smack and got it all over with.

“What is it you’re writing?”

-The sketchbooks; my kid sister’s hand print; the signed Everly Brothers CDs. Then call the Fire Brigade.

If there was one person I strived most to catch as she dropped towards the rye it was Ruby. But she always faltered at the last minute, stepping back from the edge. Did she lack the courage to take the plunge? Or did she lose confidence in my ability to catch her? I would have made the catch. I really would. Anyway, I wrote a song about her.

“Tell about that initiation thing that happened at the newspapers.”

-It wasn’t the newspapers. It was the place which printed the
newspapers.

“Okay, tell about that.”

-I never tell that.

“You told one person.”

-Yes, and she told about fifty!

“Not that many. I doubt she had fifty friends to tell. Anyway, I wouldn’t let it bother you. It probably marked you down as a hero.”

-It doesn’t bother me. It’s different for guys.

“Weren’t you embarrassed?”

-I just went along with it for a laugh. A good sport; one of the crowd and all that.

“Do you reckon it still goes on?”

-No. The printers closed down, and nobody uses those little letters for printing anymore.

- I had a John Bull printing press like that once. Perhaps I should include that with the black plastic hairbrush; the stone bird table. Then call the Fire Brigade.

Sunday morning comes around, its mirror in the same place. White cotton, top and bottom. She turns for a side profile, checking the curve of her spine. Hands smooth the stomach flat, just so. Once more up on the toes, enhancing the calves, just so. A flick of elastic into just the right place. Sunday morning mirror ritual. Sunlight filters through the net curtains. Like life, somehow once removed. She sees I’m awake, watching.

“Did I wake you?”

-Sundays are different from other days of the week, but not special enough for my list.

“What are you writing?”

- Call the Fire Brigade.



All artwork & text copyright Ian G Craig.

Elvis in Skegness & Cheese and Chalk.

 Elvis in Skegness.

They're selling postcards of Elvis
All across new Skegness,
Alongside Betty Boop trinkets
In a state of undress.
And where "Kiss Me Quick" hats
Were the sauciest fad,
Now hang day-glow beach towels
Reading "Fancy a shag?”

Cheap Cherokee Injuns
Cast in plaster and brass,
As if their tepees were pitched here
In long ages past,
Replace Fisherman mascots
And lifeboat appeals,
Southern fried chicken menus
But no jellied eels.

And did those blue suede feet,
In ancient times,
Walk upon England’s
East coastline?
And was the King
Of shake rock and roll,
Along our Skegness Pier
Seen out for a stroll?

I did not come for Jerusalem
Just the England I know,
Stick rock candy and chips,
Not USA Tupelo.
Saucy postcards, cramped caravans,
Plastic sandals, salt sea,
Tin bucket sand castles,
How things used to be.

Cheese and Chalk.

I sit in silence
Whilst you always talk,
Defining the difference
Between cheeses and chalk.

All text copyright Ian Gordon Craig.

 Updated versions of these poems would be published in my book "46 Contemporary Poems".

Love Poem for the Lone Ranger & The Betjeman Blues.

 Love Poem for the Lone Ranger.

Two small eyes from the blankets
With a much larger name,
Watch the flickering night candle
Of a Kelly Lamp flame.

Is your Daddy still working?
Do you look for his lights?
Does your Mommy sound restless
Downstairs in the night?

In a place known as somewhere
You can rest quite assured
There'll be safety in numbers
Chalked across a blackboard.

On a black and white TV
'neath the first satellite,
The Lonely Lone Ranger
Holds Tonto so tight.

 

The Betjeman Blues.

White shorts in the rock pool,
A seaside east town,
A bed-sit for two,
With furniture brown.
Crazy golf gripping fingers,
Crazy slot machine clown,
These Betjeman blues
Are bringing me down.

A sea salt sun memory,
Tanned legs against blue,
Of sand in the bath tub,
Of me inside you.
Crazy candy floss feeling,
Crazy joy ride fairground,
These Betjeman blues
Are bringing me down.

 All text copyright ian g craig 

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

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".

A Figure on the Beach & The Gift.

 A Figure on the Beach.

The sun is low, the summer season passed.
Pale knee reflections in multiple rock pools,
Are caught and left stranded by the retreating sea.
Headscarves, hitched-up hem lines, and much stooping,
Peering into puddles, whilst lover's cuddles
Cast lengthening shadows across seagull screech beaches,
Their toes pressed in cold sand.

Everything feels distant on an out of season shoreline.
White-grey light shimmers from the ripples,
The coastal breeze sketches the edges
Of her autumnal silhouette against the skyline.
Colours fade as the amusement arcade falls silent
Behind padlocked shutters, to return next summer,
Like a much-favoured toy from its box.

Circus posters in the streets are fading.
Local residents are now reclaiming their town
From departing holiday makers, dodgem car shakers,
As she leaves the sea's breakers for the comfort of a cafe.
And then, tea for one, maybe a warm scone
“With a small jar of jam on the side?”
“I shouldn't really, oh go on then”.

She sits alone, looking beyond the window glass,
Her mind focused on something past,
Another season, long ago.
On an out of season seaside beach,
A solitary figure and a silly dog.
The kind of dog that seems to belong to everybody,
Just for one day.

 

 The Gift.

Tick tock from the mantelpiece
Measuring time,
A gift from the council
At the end of the line.
Forty years loyal service,
Giving his best,
A gift from the council
Now measures what's left.

Chimes through the household
Punctuate every hour,
A gift from the council,
Mini mantle clock tower.
The day passes slowly
To its soap opera end,
A gift from the council,
A clockwork cold friend.

 All text copyright ian gordon craig

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

White Lace and Sleep Now & Shirt Tails in the Rain.

 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".

 

Leaving School.

Leaving School.

Those red brick walls that once caught the sun,
On grounds where friends lay
At lunch break mid-day,
All eager to stay
On the breeze swept, time blessed,
Hips pressed grass.
Where obstacles were run in sporting fun,
By generations past,
Arriving first but coming last.

Where once all would learn are now taught to churn,
Avoiding all risk if it’s not on their list
Of things told to do, and so must exclude.
Adhere to the chill of curriculum rules, making fools,
Keep it straight brained, tepid and tame,
Acceptable styles, all spark but no flame,
All lacking in spice, like safe turpentine,
I copy yours and you copy mine,
Familiar shapes, conventional lines,
It’s all a fake, but not a crime.

Therein now, between corridor doors,
Clip frames display examination board chores,
Showing how to pass mine, same as how to pass yours.
Straying too far from these, like to be a lost cause.
But do not blame, or make any claim,
On souls that now pass, amongst spirits past,
Like sleeping mice behind specimen glass.
They may not share our distress,
They may not stop the press,
But for their moment in time, they will echo no less
Against green brick tile of no particular style,
From infantile child to adult false smile.

They are happy to take what they get from the State,
And show no concern for the cracks in the plate.
If the menu is poor, the salt compensates.
It’s not in bad taste, it’s just sealed in fate,
To arrive on the breeze but leave by the gate.
As for me, there is nothing now barring my way,
Whatever my future, I trust it to fate,
And this final “Goodbye”, it’s not hard to say.

Behind those walls, on oak-dark beams,
Where clock tower dreams
Left names deep scrawled
On creaking boards above the hall,
We silently passed
Amidst Bakelite wells, with ink-black spells
Like dust on glass.
Where once was the present
There now stands my past.

All text copyright Ian Gordon Craig. 

This poem would be published in my book "46 Contemporary Poems".