Saturday, 11 March 2017

"As if we could stand in the silence of this single moment of light"

Radio 3's The Verb can often be worth a listen. 

It helps that I'm a big fan of Ian McMillan, the Bard of Barnsley (and a very regular BBC regular) - especially his delightful Twitter feed

If anything justifies Twitter (and plenty doesn't) then it's Ian's Twitter feed with its stream of poetic nibbles, jokes, friendly replies, interesting links, miniature reviews, and lovely unfamiliar paintings. It's a daily pick-me-up. 

I hope he's keeping a record of them because they'd make a great book. Here's a sample, just in case he isn't

He always starts the day, just as I'm getting up too (around 5.30!), with an "early stroll" and is usually at his most poetic first thing on Twitter. 

And, as I see most sunrises at the moment, I'll very drawn to his take on them (mostly from the other side of the Pennines).
  • Dawn has flung her red scarf high into the eastern sky. It hangs and floats.
  • Early stroll. The sky's first morning redraft. A note by a tree: CLEAN BIKE TIDY UP. Four dogs bounce and seethe around a trudging man.
  • Early stroll. Two cats watch me, still as ornaments on  a shelf. The sky sings light music and a wooden chip fork points to infinity.
  • What's a football manager's favourite mint? TacTics.
  • A bird splashes in the birdbath in the garden, making a tiny storm until it flies away trailing water from its wings.
  • Early stroll.In the East the sky smoulders and blushes.Across the valley the streetlights are broken necklaces.The painted wheelchair fades.
  • Morning moves from a glint to a gleam to a glow.
  • Baffled, scared Mancs point at the sun through the tram windows. 'What kind of rain is that?' one asks in a quavering keening voice.
  • Early stroll. A single crocus's optimistic flame. Clouds daubed on the sky, still drying. A dead grey bin lies in state, mouth gaping.
  • A man yawns and stretches on the train, as though the air is heavy and he is lifting it like weights.
  • Early stroll. A twig in the shape of a Y. Something covered passes on a truck. A man loading golf  clubs into a car glances at me, nods.
  • I've had more stolen Algerian money than you've had hot Dinars.
  • In the garden a single bird plays the tuneful flute it made in night class, improvising a feathered aubade. 
  • Some tumbleweed rolled into a bar. I'd been there earlier, telling jokes.
  • Early stroll. The sky is a blue and orange poem, redrafting.The geese emerge from the gloom in feathered vagueness. Pots in a gravel garden.

And to end, a short impromptu early Sunday morning poem:
Late became early
When the sky wasn't looking
When the sky was distracted
By the first church bell ringing.

No comments:

Post a Comment