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On Friday 24th June I attended the closing party for the Community Arts Forum.  It was an evening of mixed emotions. Good to see old friends again and be reminded of projects and successes, but sad to witness the end of an organisation that did such important and innovative work. I am proud to have been involved.

This is the poem I was commissioned to write for CAF’s tenth anniversary in May 2003. I think it still captures a little of what the organisation was about.

Substance
a celebration of CAF’s first decade

By vision of heart and passion of mind
garnering new ground,
clearing a way
to common possession –
singing against the silence.

We have uncaged the wren,
thrown wide the doors of our hearts
and un-prismed the colours of hope
to dance undaunted: we have tasted
the boundlessness of our imagination

and when I grow tired, you’ll lend
me strength, and when you doubt
I will believe: line and curve
our architecture, we’ll risk together
the flaw that lets the light come in.

Art for art’s sake, art for life’s sake,
art for the people’s sake –
you and me
for pleasure and truth
and beauty and madness and sanity.

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Well – I haven’t written anything in ages, only little bits and pieces that have gone nowhere. It has happened to me each time a new book comes out – I become incapable of saying anything and think I’m never going to be able to write a poem again! So delighted to get this new one down on paper. It has been floating around in my head for a while. First draft – any comments welcome

Red

A cockerel’s comb
winter berries
oriental poppies
the robin’s breast.
The first speck of life
in the yellow yolk.

Little live blood rubies
for crimson,
their death in it;
mordant alum to fix.

Vermillion from the mingled
blood of dragon and elephant:
sulphur and mercury.

Red Alligator, Grand
National winner, ‘68.
Red rosettes.
Copper Khan.

Years of sky warnings
and delights,
Turner’s fading sun rises
and sun sets.

The hand of Ulster,
the hand of history.
Red rag to a bull.
Caught red handed.
Marked, wrong.
A stop sign.

The letting of blood,
blood pressure

it’s thicker than water
but not thick enough
to carry the weight of us.
Blood soaked. Flowing.

Lips stained with wine,
desire,
the memory of rhythms,
the first rivulet
running down a pale leg
fertility
the stains that life makes.

Blood thickens, slows,
dries up. Rust. Clot.

I’m bringing little touches
of red into the house,
in compensation, a vase,
a cushion or two, red frames
for black dancing herons
and a black horse.

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Just back from Sheffield Poetry Festival – excellent weekend of poetry. Highlights for me were Geoff Hattersley and Rob Hindle.
Geoff read for forty five minutes, old and new work and it wasn’t half long enough. Great stuff.
Really enjoyed Rob’s work – and his book, Neurosurgery in Iraq, is beautifully produced as well as being full of good poetry.
Of course I also got a first sight of Martin Mooney’s new book from Lagan, also beautifully produced! And great poetry too.
Hearing good poetry always leaves me feeling inspired and I’ve actually started a little poem since I got home – might beat the block yet…