old road

Southern National 1948 newspaper block

Cold spots, over-inking, bite-through. A letter that isn’t quite type high, another that jumps on its feet. An upside down O. Running out of sorts and cleaning when the work is done, dissembling the lock-up and many other reasons for chucking it all in and using this sleek touchscreen instead.

But I can’t. Or at least, I don’t want to. I get a kick out of seeing my poems taking on a physical form, a tactile job where I get my hands dirty and trying, as much as possible, to do things my own way.

This project is a nod towards my experiment of living on the road in the 1980s.

The line of poetry at the heart of the piece:

THRU MIST, IN TIME

THE OLD ROAD KNOWS THE SIGN

is an overlay of that experience that permeates my ongoing adventure into congruence even if the props and scripts have changed.

Symbols of a Life on the Move

The bus block is of a Southern National coach and it reminds me of the first traveler bus I ever saw at the end of an old railway line on a cold autumn night. The smoke from the chimney and the soft light of candle and an instant feeling of recognition - I knew I was home and there could be no turning back…

Smoke-Wraith

The smoke-wraith puffing down the old rail line.
  
Candle.

Hurricane lantern behind the blackthorn line.
The smoke lingers on my fingers, 
the flame inside the gourd 
where the orange light of the lantern 
silks the spaces between the screens,
 glass in the shape of a butterfly.

The tin-witch hat of a cowl caps the smoke.

The smoke-wraith, billowing down the old rail line,
 and a wah-wah of rock and roll
 as if from an old time radio 
wavering between candle and station.