A few Zen Poems

Ping Pong cicada song

Pong ping on a butterfly’s wing

Raindrops fall in to a swimming pool

Such is life

 

 

Monday is not

A good sandwich day

In Uzes

Remain calm in

The face of

Adversity

 

In the gallery

The paintings smiled at each other

Over our shoulders

Perhaps amused

By our impermanence

Cicadas chatter

Bird laments

Cat creeps

And I am still confused

 

 

What makes you you

Is special and unique

Even the rubbish bits

 

 

We are branded

From baby-grow

To wooden overcoat

In this world of hoardings

It’s difficult to see

A small sign

That reads

Branding removed

Here

Black and white photos -Holkga 135

Colour photos - Kodak Disposable 

Breathe

A minor blip

A small setback

A little shake where a shake shouldn’t be

Did anyone see?

And breathe

The train travels relentlessly

Towards the Spanish border.

It’s dark outside and I’ve slept for a few hours.

Take a photograph through the window

No idea where we are but as good a place as any to freeze a moment.

 

Intermittently we speed through a sleeping station,

Ochre shadows and lamp lit stairs.

For a second there the silhouettes of houses.

Perhaps in one sits a man who cannot sleep,

The only sound to break his silent contemplation being

The muffled thunder of the occasional night train.

After some while hairline cracks of red on the horizon begin to break the black.

Vague outline clouds and ghost trees, fences, fields, graffiti on a bus shelter

As grey turns to brown and yellow to green.

The blur-past stations now possess occasional familiarity as stations often do,

Kindly and reminiscent of past adventure.

The train slows as it crosses the border.

Little changes outside except the signage,

But sleepy eyed within our carriage a sense of quiet contentment awakes.

A new day in a new land.

I alight at Portbou and watch as the train pulls onwards

Stretch and smile at the cat outside the cafeteria door,

Blink up at the church and the blue-grey vista of rolling Catalunya

Forty five minutes until the train to Figueres.

Time for coffee.

I rummage for my notebook and pen and turn to a fresh page.

I place the pen in readiness beside the book,

Sit back and breathe.

The 12 Bar Blues: Retournons à Chauffer dans la Noirceur

The 12 Bar Blues: Retournons à Chauffer dans la Noirceur: They say you can never go back but I’m not so sure. In July we returned to Chauffer dans la Noirceur Festival in Monmartin sur Mer, Norman...

Retournons à Chauffer dans la Noirceur

They say you can never go back but I’m not so sure. In July we returned to Chauffer dans la Noirceur Festival in Monmartin sur Mer, Normandy. This year marked the 20^th anniversary of the festival. And as I played at 3 of the first 5 they asked us back for this special celebratory year(Andy and Dez from The Trailer Trash Orchestra were also veterans having been there with me in The Young Trash Lovers and The Sindys). The organising committee has moved on to the next generation (which is as it should be) but some of our old compadres from the time are still in the area and help out there – including Pierre and Francois who were involved from the start and Alain Briant who took some of the iconic poster images as well as performing himself.

Our memories of that time in the early 90’s is so magical, it was something of a worry that our return would live up to them, but it couldn’t be resisted and so by a variety of routes we all made our way over. I drove with the family and Steve (Trailer Trash Orchestra drummer) via Calais to a rainy Friday night. We stopped off at an Ibis on route where we propped up the bar for a while chatting to the receptionist who plays in a rockabilly band called Les Apaches! The sun shone in the morning as we proceeded on to the festival and it continued to shine for the rest of the weekend.

Our welcome was so warm and we were soon spotting or being spotted by old friends to much ensuing hugging! The atmosphere was – I’m happy to report – still entirely special and magical, really quite hard to describe, but in essence it’s a small site 100yrds from a beautiful beach and whilst there’s a choice of eateries and some cool little stalls around, it’s completely untainted by corporate commercial enterprise – organic naturellement!

The music covers world flavours and cross-over from gypsy vibes to jazzy takes through to cool rockin’ and post punk noise and…our good selves providing the bar-room country rock n roll! Saturday we hung drinking the excellent local cider and watching a number of said acts on the two main stages and in the little alt/experimental tent. Unfortunately only Dez had arrived in time to see Alain Briant’s set on the Friday (monsoon madness and glorious warped chanson). 

Sunday we went over to the stage late morning for a sound-check before doing a little interview with the onsite “TV” studio (including an improvised Louie Louie)!

I think we all felt (unusually) a bit nervous before show time because it somehow felt so important that we put on a great show – fortunately the crowd were with us from the start, bouncing, cheering and at times even singing along with a couple of old Young Trash Lovers numbers we do with The TTO. In the end without doubt one of the best hours we’ve spent in many a moon, topped off by Pierre and Francois joining us on backing vocals for the final rendition of “wanna be your dog”.

So I’d have to say it was worth a few moments of trepidation to reconnect with old compadres, link up with a whole bunch of new ones and just spend time in one of the coolest little festivals in the world in one of the most chilled little corners of France – parfait!

One of the things I’ve been blessed with in my troubadour travels is meeting up sometimes with like minded brothers (and sisters) that I’ve not only had a great time with on meeting but have ended up being friends with for life, and there certainly a good few from this region, so I shall raise a  glass of Francois’ parents homemade calvados – vive la similitude!
               pHOTOS: tRAVEL PICS BY gRAE j (Holga 135), Gig pics by Al Foreman (Digital SLR)

Eilmer of Malmesbury

Eilmer of Malmesbury

Eilmer was born in about 980 AD, and is best remembered for making a flight from the tower of Malmesbury Abbey in 1010 when he was a young monk there. The account of this exploit can be found in William of Malmesbury's book Gesta Regum Anglorum.

William himself was born towards the end of the 11^th century, so no doubt as a young man he heard the story from older monks. He describes how Eilmer fastened wings to his arms and his feet, and launched himself from the top of a tower, either a Saxon watchtower, or the old Abbey. The present Abbey was not built until nearly two centuries later, but it is likely that this tower would have been around the same height as the present structure. We do not know what material the wings were made of, but he had reportedly observed jackdaws in flight, and had worked out how to make use of the currents of air to glide, rather than just plummet to earth.
He managed to cover a distance of around 200 metres. But it seems that it suddenly dawned on him what a risk he had taken, whereupon he panicked and came down with a bump, breaking both his legs. The strength of the wind also might have caused the sudden end to his adventure, but interestingly he also believed that he would have had more stability if he had provided himself with a tail.
He set about rectifying this shortcoming, and was making plans for a second flight when his abbot placed an embargo on any further attempts, and that was that. For more than half a century after these events, the limping Eilmer was a familiar sight around the community of Malmesbury, where he became a distinguished scholar.
William tells this story as an aside to a description of the appearance of the comet that was later known as Halley's. Eilmer had the distinction of seeing it twice in his lifetime. He first saw it as a boy in 989, and the belief that it heralded doom was soon fulfilled when a wave of Danish attacks led to the destruction of many settlements, including the monastic establishment at Malmesbury. The second time was in 1066, and the event was swiftly followed by the Norman invasion of William the Conqueror.
There are several variations of his name. He is frequently referred to as "Elmer", and also on occasions as "Oliver". However the derivation of that name is probably a scribe's copying error. The spelling taken on this occasion is that used by William of Malmesbury.
This information was originally taken from a booklet, Eilmer, The Flight and The Comet, by the late Maxwell Woosnam, which is now out of print. 
Photos - Olympus 7.1 Digital

Of Vincent and St Lazare

Of Vincent and St Lazare

So I was walking around the gallery with Vincent, and after a while I plucked up the courage to ask “Vincent, tell me, are you real or just a figment of my imagination?”

He looked pensive for a moment before replying “well I know as much about you as anyone - that you like to ride on steam trains and take a long fast sledge ride towards fields of white that seem to go on forever. I know that you like your stout not too cold and your bourbon not too warm and of course I know about St Lazare.”

“Nobody really knows about St Lazare” I interjected. He looked a little hurt and we continued to walk. We stopped again in front of the Miro, which I didn’t much care for, but that is where we stopped.

“Tell me then, should I go back? Would it mean anything?”

Vincent smiled and fixed me with comforting eyes, “that is where everything ended and everything began, of course you should go back.”

Vincent always seems to be around when there’s alcohol involved, at least when there’s copious amounts of the stuff. Now alcohol and I go back along way and we have a weird and dangerous relationship. I know it’s weird and dangerous and I’m pretty sure alcohol knows that too, though she never really mentions it and neither does Vincent.

Alcohol offers me a different perspective, a little like those councillors I had back in ’91. I look at the angel candle and I think - well I can’t light that ‘cause the first thing to melt is gonna be her head and that’s just too scary. Alcohol explains to me that the cats understand everything and that they appreciate well constructed verse and a cool beat. Alcohol turns 4am into a magical time of buzzing creativity, bridge burning and wondrous positivity, and Vincent, always Vincent.

St Lazare was where Paris and I really started our affair, after all I was really a child until that moment, and when I left that station I guess I was some kind of adult. There are no photos or recordings though that time has been recurrent in my dreams for these thirty one years and it remains vivid and tangible.

Something of London died around the same time as my dear uncle John. The beautiful black horses that pulled him on that final ride from Mornington Crescent also drew a veil over the London that was and it’s never felt quite the same since. There are still little corners I love but I don’t feel connected in the same way I did – from my childhood walks to the comic shop in Camden on a Sunday afternoon through to The Lo-Fi Louge at O’Reilley’s in Kentish Town, the poll tax protests and the lottery fuelled exuberance of the arts Council years. Being the last act to perform on the final night at Bunjies Coffee House – living history, making history – a city not only to experience counter-culture but to soundtrack it, march with it and fund it! Still, I always have Paris. 

It was around 1996 that I stopped off at St Lazare alone to see if she'd changed and if she'd remember me. June 21 - Fete de la Musique day, time for a little adventure! I guess I left around 6am - I had a schedule of sorts, and that began with breakfast in Calais. I sat outside a cafe somewhere in the centre of town and watched a stage being primed and members of a brass band saunter in to the

square and begin unpacking and testing their horns. I never got to see the band in full as I had to get my next connection which would bring me to Paris in time for lunch. Trains and stations you see - windows and doorways to experience, enlightenment and exotica.

In Paris I stopped at a café near Gare du Nord for a baguette fromage avec du vin rouge et jazz cool. I think I took some notes and photos that day but not as much as intended, instead deciding to simply bask in the bohemian journey – to breathe it, smell it taste it – all far more important than recording events. From there I took the bus to St Lazare. I turned the corner to greet her, and she smiled beguiling and blinked in the early afternoon sunlight – she remembered.

It was of course different, our relationship changed – a visitor rather than an inhabitant – but still so familiar, strangely welcoming. This had been a station of kindness – café owners who gave bread and coffee with no expectation of remuneration, street girls who shared their cigarettes on a slow night and Algerian peddlers fresh in town with hope in their eyes and a warming smile. Never judged for the meagre amount of remaining centimes or the developing holes in the trouser knees – just a fellow with temporary residence and nothing to give but a smile and some conversation.

It was a fleeting return as another train beckoned to take me to Coutances where I would surprise my Norman friends and bar hop through folk, rock and jazz haunts ‘til the wee hours. We talked of nights past and enterprises to come, of absent friends and of course music.

 Back in 1981 my stay at St Lazare had lasted about a week – my Magic Bus ticket to Athens my only possession of any worth, born again beatnik poet citizen of the world, just passing through.

Photos 1,2 & 8 - Holga 135. Photos 3 & 7 Holga 135 Pinhole. Photos 4, 7 & 9 Olympus Digital.

St Lazare - http://www.bonjourlafrance.com/france-trains/stations/saint-lazare-station.htm