Bedlam Museum of the Mind

A visit to Bethlem Hospital
Museum of the Mind this week.
Open Wednesday to Friday 10am-5pm
(unless you’re in a ‘group’).
I find myself struck by the times.

There is a wide range of art
as well as historical lunacies to enjoy
and the staff and ‘service users’
are impeccably informed and helpful.

Here are two of the few photo’s I took to remind me of the visit.

Harriet Jordan

Harriet Jordan

Harriet Jordan (after)

Harriet Jordan (after)

Foray into self publishing

Status

great-news

Great news everybody!

There’s a real life self-published book available now.

This collection is a journey through a day; the space, faces and traces of the day as it whirls through to night. Each written from different times in my life, gathered into a measurable meander through here and now. Characters introduced are real, the feelings are honest and the end result is a succinct insight into many of the journeys each of us take from being a sleep to being awake.

Morning Tongue: A day in the grotty life is a celebration of that nagging voice in the back of one’s mind shouting that there must be more to it all than this. This book will bring warm senses of rhythm to your bosom, sanity to your crazy, and so on. The poems in this book are not available on the blog, although a few have been aired here for reflective purposes.

Published in hard copy and available to all good readers for £5.99 from the machinery of Blurb (yes, sucking the romance out of creativity, self-publishing is a route, much like previous great writers, along which I am tentatively toe-tipping)!

How do I get mine?

You may wish to get hold of one of these Softcover page-turners and can do so by contacting me directly. It will cost the same £5.99 but this price includes delivery (instead of adding the bonkers £6.99 delivery charge that blurb charge).

Rather modernly, there is also a digital version through amazon, which turns in at a much more reasonable £2.99 ($3.91) drastically improving your poem/penny return…

Join me on this journey and help share the stupendous clarity and touching-bared-soulfulness of Morning Tongue, A Day in the grotty life.

 

 

For wanting to share in this laconic exploration in the poetry of south London, I Thank You. All reviews, comments, insights, responses will be gratefully read through and filtered carefully.

Beck’ Beat Southwark

Hello everybody!

As you can see, I’m aiming to make Beck’ Beat Poetry something of a ‘Thing’, ergo – we have our second event in Southwark in mid-October. The event is hosted at the fabulous Blackfriars Settlement (A community organisation near Pocock Street).

The last one we had here (in August) was an excellent opportunity for a very diverse audience to enjoy an equally dynamic spectrum of poetic voices. The newly ‘corporatised’ interior of the Settlement was transformed. It literally resonated with emotions as our small collection of Open-Mic readers broke down barriers of ignorance and let their words weave magical strands of hope and destruction. It really was that good.

You can see a flavour of some of what occurred, in August, on the Facebook page. Please check it out (obvs)!

If you can make it to this epically central location on a Friday night in the middle of October, jump in and read us a few of your poems.

Lost Girl

Worldly lonely
This girl caught sadly
Bleeds and crying
Drawn from lightness

It’s her light
She’ll quit tonight
In this quilt of night
Her last flight

So she goes
Good girl gladly
No one misses
Or asks where she goes

Dancer

There once was a dancer
a furtive entrancer

Androgyny performer
The dancer was known
Through a land empty – walking,
and fumbling and talking –
no others would dance
and no others would sing.

So singular dancer
well rounded and good,
would dance to their music
(and sing for their feet)
while our land free of movement
watched dancing the treat.

There once was a dancer
lone song in the din

A colour ambassador
flute chanting its rhyme
throughout lands of grey
by peoples dismay
and this dancing entrancer
caught up all the day

While a light shone its lightness
while the muffled birds watch
as time moved abruptly
to a well measured tune
So brightness was shared
by a dance in the noon

There once was a dancer
crowned colour through grey

A dancer still dancing
To nobodies songs.

Over (tribute)

Play it slow; wake me when it’s over.
Feel the music lift you, love a supernova.

Sleep is quiet.
Sleep is quiet when I’m with you.

Faking love: Push me I roll over,
feel so warm inside – join me in a Rover.

Floating past, gone further than ever.
Quiet, dark, solitude.
Now the moments over.

Dreaming still,
Standing still, dreaming that I’m with you.
Now the feeling’s over.

What They’ll Do If You Don’t

Spadunk
La funk
Sits well on a monk
That you’re best to let run
with the bunk
In his trunk

Sit tight: don’t you worry
truly – no need to hurry
the world and its flurry
can wait.

Be poised and on cue:
Neither overtly undue
nor unseemly subdued
to the date

Poor eyes
fill with why’s?
and are quick to despise
even those that rely
on the wise
with their lies

So easily let down
the unreasonably drowned
who are spotted around
this home town

The swiftly forgotten
who dumbly sit – rotting
we’re due to stop dropping
alone

Be seen
to be clean
open house given free
set your mind to be seen
and to glean
what they mean.