A Pretty Kettle of Poetry

Amy Winehouse would have been celebrating her 40th birthday today. I wrote this poem soon after her death in 2011 as part of my ‘Side One’/’Side Two’ collection of the time drawing on my favourite music artists. Of course, I never met her or even saw her perform live, but tried to imagine what she might write That was the concept of that collection at the time – try and write in the style of the artist named or at least use them as inspiration for the poem.

Crinkled headlines on my forehead showing my tabloid age,
your front pages only had time for me when you were in my face.
So, now I’m memorable and kind of unforgettable
I’ve gone to another place.

Stars like me fall they say ‘cos we get so high
but stars like me shine in the big black sky.
I wasn’t always a picture of happiness
but you know what nor were you even at your best.

I had a great voice.
One of those inexplicable things that weren’t my choice.
So, as this circus waits for my posthumous third album release
for all my faults I’ll have to flop in the charts before you’ll let me half Rest In Peace.

Thanks to my family. Thanks to my friends.
Thanks to my fans. This is where the story ends.
Nobody has the right to write about me, especially a nobody who never knew me like you!
Only each and every one of us can understand what each and every one of us goes through.

Won’t it end in a lie if truth be told?
Gold diggers say that when they don’t find gold.
I got a flea-market here that just won’t perform.
The sea is so rough they launch a shipwreck for the coming storm.
Accountants sack their horses and succinctly bolt for the door.
Writers have their feelings, but readers feel it’s all a bore.
I’ve got nothing to say; mimes for rhymes;
The seventh time it’s happened for several times.
Let’s lose ourselves to see who wins.
Let’s fillet a French film to see how it fins.

To see you again is such an again.
Shop around for love but, before you buy, get into Zen.
Workers working round the clock for way under
hate overtime and little wonder.
Do you think about what you’re saying before you have a fit?
Have you ever been at home and trashed it?
As broom sticks become crutches for witches
I’m in tears and in stitches.
Everyone and their learned and illiterate laughter
is canned for what’s to come and the hereinafter.

Should I regret my ‘suicide’ or ‘death by misadventure’?
Don’t ask; it’s just a benchmark for a bencher.
Wear a sweater mundane.
Keep it simple and plain.

You can trust your friends and live together
sharing out what you have forever.
The flowers will bloom and you’ll laugh in the heather.

They’ll give you your what-will-be(s).

The stars will fall around your head,
pointing out your words, orange and red.
They’ll raise you up, born and bred.

Bedtime praying on your knees.

Party animals will spill their cocktails.
Drunkenmentaries will tell their tales
or spew up if all else fails.

You’ll get into Zen.

But the truth might hit as you hit the pillow:
Those wartime bells that rang out hollow
will become your alarm clocks come tomorrow.

Boys will die before they’re men.

As random as a random turn
and heading for a fate
I sealed it in an envelope
and second class did wait.
And when it came I opened it
and whispered out aloud.
Well well well and well, said I
well well well and well
then thundered out some lightening
and puffed a big grey cloud.

Higher than a drama high
and playing down to low
I didn’t say goodbye at all
but said a sad hello.
And when my bucket hit rock bottom
I pulled it out my well.
Well well well and well, said I
well well well and well
then laced my drink to let me drowse
until asleep I fell.

As wondrous as a rainy bow
I didn’t seem to mind
and tied a knot with string to spare
and read a message signed.
And when a diggy dog did dig
a treasure trove was there.
Well well well and well, said I
Well well well and well
then stopped a stopwatch on its way
which didn’t seem to care.

So, shredded as an ageing fleur
and crumbly as a cemetery
I asked if anybody here
could die of immortality?
And how I gasped when then up-popped
a real talking rabbit:
Well well well and well, said rabbit
well well well and well
but if you find whatever it is
hide it quick as well.

The artist painted them.
Then they disappeared.
Only the canvas remained
with the last time they were seen.

When called in for questioning,
refused to talk.
Just painted curtains
as a signed statement.

The tabloid headline read
‘Serial killer painted them, then curtains.’
A court artist drew
the artist after sentencing.

Some moonwalk backwards past.
Some slow-motion steer.
Some upwards beanstalk mast.
Some downhill rabbit hole disappear.

Some hand in hand.
Some distant one-man elastic band.
Some three-legged race.
Some astronaut-float through space.

Some in 14th century rags.
Some in 1789 attire.
Some in birthday suit bags.
Some with hair on fire.

Meanwhile as I sit and sip,
the rusty wind-up toy cafe box spins.
Teacup saucer tables on springs:
me with magic roundabout zebedee eyes
watching dougal-walking brians,
florences and dylans
greeting goodbyes

Seagulls screech overhead
understating the depths below.
Fleeting bubble meetings
that burst and go.

Spirit buzz energising the soul.
Sat with the salt of the earth
by the sea on deckchairs with the old
laughing their heads off at how time flew since get-together births.

If you feel like not bothering
a cigarette will give you a chance to walk away.
I’m off for a fag getaway
but if you really care, no excuses will mean you’ll be able to stay.

Chaotic cars drive themselves in car parks.
Everything is out of control and depends on the last lyric you listened to
like ‘but you blew my mind.’
I can’t thank you enough for telling me something I never knew.

Speaking after the service to the Uffculme gravedigger filling in the grave,
he came out with some choice Devon that would have pleased Dave.
Like’em say; them with lots of friends die young!
200 or so I counted, and all there for one.

The bells rang out at St Mary’s at the end, after Dun Ringill by Tull.
Bells that that mischievous buyy (pulling the other one) often would literally pull.
Catching the bus back to Exeter with postmarked post I’d sent long ago,
beloved Devonia, with its herds and hills, was on a roll.

28 year gone since it would begin
with Bill and that Friday pint and pasty lunchtime break at The Bridge Inn.
You, always a half cider at most, while me on that infamous occasion (bolloxed)
having got to It’s not fair! back from The Double Locks.

Then there was your pride and joy Barclay which you worked on meticulously
only for it to break down at the wrong moment unfailingly.
Your old leather jacket and more reliable Moto Guzzi.
Whether the engine was running or not, our vintage joke was I never knew your age exactly.

Musically, (apart from our mutual Who worship), we dueled with compilations designed to educate.
Your greatest victories were Jethro and The Moody Blues.
Mine Morrissey, though (for your begrudging acknowledgement) you made me wait!
In recent years, you sent DVDs and gave me a proper job hard disk portable drive to use.

Last time, last December we met as usual at Waterstones, Cathedral Green.
After a bit of dithering about going somewhere different, we went on to Topsham
and The Passage Inn.
You, holding up your cup, and with an impish smile,
milking the fact I said it wasn’t the done thing in Italy to drink a cappuccino with your main meal!

Lots more to mention like my printing offset litho disaster
when, with ink flying off onto the Vincent Thompson carpet (a stain that would never disappear!)
you came to my rescue. Or the (not so many?!) times you covered for me arriving late for work, worse for wear.
Or our laughing at Bill’s legendary assertion that before I met you all, I had no character.

So, yes, please all rise, and hats off to The Mighty Trist, as he takes a bow
in all his fine family crest pageantry.
Well, me old bugger, you’m gone and done it now.
You b’aint be coming back, will he?

In memory of Dave (David Anthony Trist 1954-2015)
This poem written 26/5/2015

Mr Nonsense talked of nonsense
in his nonsense asylum.
Talking nonsense, doing nonsense
he got from his nonsense mum.

when it’s lyrics in a silent movie world
takes them in
when tuning into sounds
is really listening

when people talk
switches off
when has to pay attention
floats off with a drag and a cough

has favourites
writes off others
memories are for keeps
but with what just happened hardly bothers

selfish as a charity worker
trapped as a volunteer
stages a downfall
puts on a blindfold to look in the mirror.