Light Rain
Around 4 a.m.,
lamp-light lit,
heavy rain. I am
not the only one
awake. Un
less my neighbour, a
cross the road, has left
a light on
by mistake. I start
to fret
about his electricity
being wasted.
Maybe I should knock
on his door,
ring his bell? Get wet!
Ah, the rain the rain
I’m drifting off again
imagining myself
as keeper of the light,
a lighthouse keeper.
light sleeper.
Look!
I’m standing in front of a famous building
Look!
I’m grinning next to a work of art
Look!
I’m on a train
Look!
I’m in a restaurant
Look!
I’m outside the cinema
Look!
I’m with my friends at a concert
We’ve got our tongues sticking out
Look!
We’re pouting
Look!
I’m with my boyfriend/girlfriend
We’re kissing
Look!
I’m all over the place
Look!
My face is in your face
It’s awesome
I just can’t get enough of me
When I was a cowboy
my horse was an armchair.
I sat astride an arm and rode him hard.
My spurs jangled. Sometimes they caught
on his side and pulled a thread.
Often I was Robin Hood. I hid
in the depths of the Sherwood Forest
that grew in our lounge. My arrows would fly
and bounce off the upholstered furniture
or stick to the doors and windows.
Occasionally I got captured
and languished in a dungeon.
I grew a cotton wool moustache and beard
(held on by Sellotape). Many guards died
when I fought my way out.
But when I became Superman
I protected the vulnerable
and saved numerous lives. I was invincible
until the kryptonite got me
and my powers and life began to ebb away.
All adventures ceased when it was time for tea,
or time for bed, but eventually the strength
would flow back into Superman, Robin
would fire an arrow, the cowboy
would climb back onto that trusty armchair
and ride into or out of town. He didn’t really care
if he got the girl or not in those days. That game
would come later. Right now he was intent
on tracking down the rustlers and being the fastest gun
in the west. Move ‘em out cowboy. Yeehaw!
We visibly crumble
before our own eyes.
We fall apart.
Our hearts break.
We burst
into tears. We
are in pieces. We
are worn down. We
cannot stand
another minute.
But then we do
stand another minute.
And then another.
And another.
And the sea of emotion
that washed over us
departs.
Not the end of the world
or where a young penguin
lies screaming.
After life
new beginnings:
a time for voices.
Let the poet choose
the ring of words:
the shadow knows
one secret thing –
Rapture.
And on the third day
He rose
And feeling only slightly
the worse for wear
He ventured out
into the world again
“What day is it?” He asked.
For, verily,
somewhere along the way
He had lost Saturday
And He discovered that it was indeed Sunday
and that in his stupor
He must have slept through Saturday
“I have risen again,”
He told anyone who would listen
And He danced joyfully
on the garage forecourt
as ice melted
and rooftop water
fell upon him
Every day I have Beatle-related thoughts.
I might see the name on one of my books or a CD.
I’ll pick up my guitar and play Blackbird or the riff to Day Tripper.
I’ll recall walking across The Abbey Road Zebra Crossing
and then finding Paul’s house, close by the studios in St John’s Wood,
and being photographed in front of its green metal gate
on a warm summer night.
And I’ll suddenly feel the need to hear Day In The Life,
or Hey Jude, which was playing in the car
as I drove over to my mum’s last year.
I was on my way to tell her
that there had been a call from the hospital –
Dad had died. 3 a.m. May 1st.
The movement you need is on your shoulder
Paul: I had a music room at the top of the house
and I was playing ‘Hey Jude’
when I got to the line ‘The movement you need is on your shoulder’
and I turned round to John and said: ‘I’ll fix that if you want.’
And he said: ‘You won’t, you know, that’s a great line, that’s the best line in it.’
Now that’s the other side of a great collaborator – don’t touch it, man, that’s OK.”
His inner man doesn’t wear a suit.
He doesn’t own a phone.
He’s not tied to deadlines.
He calls his life his own.
He’s rugged. And he’s handsome.
He’s fantastic in bed.
His inner man is perfect
And lives inside his head.
This book has 61 pages of beautiful images and words about life, relationships, growing old, dreams, loss and love. Some of the pictures and poems have already appeared in this blog. Words and images by Bernard Young, design and production by Karen Cropper. To view and buy the book see: http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/bernardyoung
Also available to buy as an ebook (PDF) from Scribd
Or Preview on Issuu
http://issuu.com/karencropper/docs/outside_lookin_in?e=0/12029541
Bernard Young Poet 