Standing out
before the crowd
is so very unnatural to me,
always unique, a favourite singer
once said I was the oddest man
He knew,
yet I am not a natural performer,
safer in the shadows,
I write in the dark,
it is for others to shine
and for me to capture their spirit
yet sometimes I poke my mind
out into the open rain,
pouring like a melted mirror
and imagine the applause
for a single moment, the poem congratulated…
yet,
It was an honour
to have been on the radio, one that might
never be repeated,
yet
for a short while, for the Time
it took the Earth to breathe
in and out,
shallow breaths, wandering planetary mind,
I sat in a studio with a microphone in front of me
and whispered into the unseen void,
the space between radio waves
and read with privilege
the words of W.H. Auden;
I stopped the clocks in my own world,
and paused, emotion, surrounded by four beautiful women,
I never appreciated you
till it was too late
and now
Bicester
I do pine for you
on occasion, every other day
in which thoughts of spending my Monday morning
developing the two finger shuffle, Progressive
Rock gods in favour of Religious Education
in which I had no care, vinyl Heaven
for all eternity as King Crimson looked down
upon my young and eager tastes
and the sometimes berated Ian Dury album would find
away in panties, sex and drugs and rock n’ roll
Today I will wrap a horse hair blanket around me
and let it sting that patch of constant weeping eczema
whilst I find a way to tie myself in knots
and put my soul at risk;
it is never hard to find a way to hurt yourself,
it saves time letting others do it for you.
I will sit either in my leather chair, as cracked and damaged as I
or I will find a way to make the third stair
as uncomfortable as possible, make it creak
Money is not in short supply,
it cannot be,
when we can find the cash, the dough,
the pennies and the large plastic five pound
notes, ones not covered in the greed of
addiction to white washed powder,
to do up Parliament, to give a makeover
to Buckingham Palace, to give MPs a raise,
the necessary leg up to get them out of poverty…
for the one offering truth, the many
folding their arms and sniffing at the delights of the trough;
whilst children go hungry, whilst children are taken into care,
It snowed then,
I used to love the first flakes,
they felt like innocence,
a smile on my young face
and I would rush to let my tongue
dance in and out
whilst trying to catch tips
of angels in hope in would let me become
a good person,
one who could throw a snowball
that would catch an older,
miserable person by surprise
as it crashed on their cold unsmiling head.
It snowed today,
now I have no desire to rush
anywhere, the possibility
They say
there is no discernable proof
in reincarnation,
that the soul cannot have lived before
and yet in some Ministerial department
during World War One,
in between the Minister
for Coal and poor
Mr. Asquith dying on his feet
the pen pushers and the also-rans
would have you believe
you can send a boy to war
and see him return
as Government apology
in the form of a letter
or hastily dispatched
telegram.
Ian D. Hall 2016
The Stranger
came into the house
and poked their nose
into everything,
leaving no part of my life
unexplored
or free from criticism.
“You have too many books,
just think what you could do
with all the space”,
he said, the sneer in his voice
speaking volumes.
I looked around the library,
to him probably still a room
you should be eating
fancy food and entertaining people in,
and then replied,
You say too many books,
I find your acceptance and need of space
The bar,
always the bar
with a silent moment
straggling behind,
failing
to keep up
with the excited and bubble in nose conversation.
I always met the most
interesting,
beautiful
and charming people
nestled in the bar fly mode;
you chiefly amongst them
dear Carole Labrum…
I raise a glass and toast your honour,
to the only person that ever drove across
two states to hear me talk
and ignore
the silence
wheezing and puffing
exhausted in the background.
What was there before the strings,
the resonating beauty of a violin
caught in the midnight chime
of my ears and soul,
what was there before that…
What was there before the beat of a drum,
the sniff of palpitation of my heart
that rose and shivered
in time as the snare cut across Time,
what was there before that…
What was there before the electricity,
the hum and the feedback
that snarled and kissed
like an angel dressed in red, a riff blessed,