The Peregrine Muse
 

Colour Blind


I got registered as colour blind

when I was 6.

I got told I would struggle

with pinks and greys

when I was 6.


I got told I would struggle

telling blues and purples apart

when I was 6.


I got told I would

never become a train driver

or have lots of other jobs

I had never

heard off

back when I was 6.


So I became a poet

and now get words mixed up

instead of colours.




Purple Instead of Blue


I'm told your daughter

who sat in front of me

is wearing

a blue denim jacket

but it looks Purple

to me.


Purple as like the sky.


Purple as the light shorts

my beloved

Manchester City

wears.


Purple as my ex's

pet cat.


Purple as the sea

which we walked on

last month

where I fell asleep

and woke up

looking like a lobster

and couldn't sleep

on my stomach

for two nights after.


Purple as your daughter's

denim jacket

who looked at me

with a cruel like stare

after you tried to tell her

about me

and she said

'You're Weird'.


And I nearly say

in response

well, it wasn't my

choice to be born

colourblind.




THIS POEM IS A LIMITED

EDITION (1)


It's certainly not

buy one,

get one free.


*****


THIS POEM IS A LIMITED

EDITION (2)


It's so limited

nobody else

will see it

apart from you.


*****


THIS POEM IS A LIMITED

EDITION (3)


which in a way

summed up your love.




The Truth (Or a Version)


In full regalia, the pheasant cocks

ran across the back yard

towards the hens

before hiding when the rays

of the sun became too strong.


In full regalia, the pheasant cocks

stop there cuckling in the shade

as they wait for the hens to come out

but I found the truth

was closer to fantasy..




Chamber Music (I)


Strings in the horizon

and in the grass

at the bottom of the hill.


Strings across the sunset

where the swinging gate-post

rattles in the breeze.


Strings across the river

which leads out across

the ocean.


Strings softly in time

with the trees crouching down

looking like they are

playing an instrument

with the fields as

a needy audience.


But never at the gates

at sunset.




Chamber Music  (II)


The twlight led

to a deep shade of purple

before being covered

in stripes of red.


In the distance

I can hear in the breeze

an old piano

moaning softly

sedate and out of time.


And as I whisper your name

across the yellow lamp

which fills the ground

with a pale glow

the moment freezes

in particular at twlight.



Chamber Music (III)


There is a moment at sunset

when the waves sounds

like a solemn harp.


There is a moment at sunset

when the breeze

whispers a gentle love.


There is a moment at sunset

whenif you look closely

you can see the red in the sky.


And if you look carefully

you can see the sun

on the tip of the horizon

who was being awoken too early

before falling back asleep.




King of the World

He was sitting there
Like he was a king
Minus his crown
Temporarily
In the middle
Of our garden
Clearly without
A care in the world.

When he took
His first bite
Out of that
Cream Cake
He ended up
With enough cream
Above the tip
Of the tip
Of his lips
To make him look like
He had grown
A moustache.

The next bite
He took
In contrast
To the original
Almost succeeded
In dying his little
Eyelashes
White
As his small mouth
Bit into it.

He paced himself out
I was later told
On the rest of the cake
Letting the sugar
Drip all over
His tongue
And dangle
Out of his lips
With strawberries
Getting crushed
In-between
His small teeth.
Two minutes later
My mother
Was chasing him
All around the garden
With a rolling pin.



First and Last

First the snow
Turned into
Ice
And then
Sleet
Before then turning
Into
Water.

Next the sun
Reached out
And grabbed the
Water
With overstretched
Arms.

After that
With great flexibility
The clouds
Appeared out of
Nowhere
And stretched out
Across the
Sky
Like a huge
Herd of
Sheep.

Of course then,
The sun tried
To push the clouds
Along like a bull-headed
Farmer.

And of course,
When the
Sun
Pushed the clouds
They pushed back
Moving higher and higher
Like they thought
They were on
The cusp
Of a
Victory.

The sun
Eventually
Then with a final
Burst
Brushed them
Aside
And their tears
Fell from the sky
Like mini mini footballs.

Of course then
Eventually it did rain
(Or snow if it
Was high enough)
And the poem
Like life
Returned to the beginning
And started the
Same cycle again.

But what if
The sheep and farmer
Reversed roles
And the sheep
Didn’t move
And the
Farmer
Turned into a servant?
Would the clouds
Still surround the sky
Like sheep
Or would they turn
Into cannibals?



Games People Play

Paul wanted to play 'Monopoly',
But Chris said 'Chess'.

Paul crossed his arms and said 'Connect Four'
But Chris said 'Battleships'.

Paul stamped his feet 'Operation',
But Chris whispered 'Draughts'.

Paul said 'Cluedo',
So Chris stabbed him.



Gone, Gone, Gone

Somebody else is sitting by your desk,
And switching on your PC.

Somebody else comes through your door
And frowns when you used to smile.

Somebody else with a purple pinstriped suit
Instead of your long black skirt.

Somebody who smiles nervously
Instead of your loud good morning.

Somebody who drinks coffee
Instead of Lemon Tea
And somebody who treats work like a hotel
And never remembers to switch off their PC



Animals in their bags

Mickey’s got a lion in his bag,
While Paul’s got an elephant.

Luke’s got a tiger
While Matthew’s got a monkey.

David’s got a gorilla,
While Peter’s got a horse.

Philip’s got a Kanagaroo,
While Stephen’s got a Dinosaur.

Gavin’s got a Penguin,
While I’ve
I’ve got my sandwiches.



My Cat likes to sleep everywhere

My Cat likes to sleep everywhere,
from my leather suite to my windowsill.

He also likes to sleep on top of the
cupboard where I keep my spare blankets
as well as on top of my garden shed
and also on top of my son's playbox.

He also sleeps on top of my bookshelf
and in the gap between my TV and Stereo
as well as sleeping in my washroom
and underneath my stairs.

My cat likes to sleep everywhere,

but not next to my dog.



Uccellaci Uccellini

(Remembering Pasolini)

I am the frightened, misguided son
Of Father Doubt
And Mother Consciousness,
I am the brother of innermost Fascism
And the irrational
Unity of personal glory.
I am the hand that
Was struck down with
The most extreme of glimpses
And found over a gate
With blood kneaded hair
Swept on a torn and sand swept forehead.
I was the child
That always wanted to grow up
But somehow got
Lost by the wayside.
I was an explorer
That sought to explore
The world
Through the pants
Of rent boys
And suffered a frightened death
At the edge of a lonely
Blood swept beach
I was that fool that
Was found out-stretched,
My face pushed downward,
A bleeding arm torn
And the other one hidden,
My fingers cut
Twisted
And broken.
My body beaten almost
Into a warped shade of yellow.
And my face
Battered into a deep shade of blue.
I was that frightened, misguided son
Of Father Conscious and Mother Doubt,
I was the one who explored
Reality in films
Through the eyes of talking ravens
And images of the son of the God
Which has confused and angered people.
I was the one who explored films
As a chaos of chances
A research of emotions
And meanings without
Solution or continuity
And desired to take things right over the edge.
But just ask yourself, is it necessary to die?
Death has made an instantaneous
Montage of my life,
Choosing moments, events
That are significant to everybody
In different ways
And places them in a random order
Making our futures unstable
And corrupting
The very fabrics of our
Past

And twisting all that you read.
Does it matter if I did
What they said I did?
Does it matter if I was a
raving homosexual
Or the most holy of church ministers?
Is it really necessary to die?
Is Death nothing but a film itself;
A series of absurd ideas and different takes
 That wander from close up
And deep focus to mise-en-scene
And backwards and forwards
Like a warped version of continuity editing.
Is it like life that is
littered with a series of incoherent moments
and out of tune shots
As you wander from point a to point b
Like a long line of blind men
Never realising what they are walking,
Or are the elements mixed
Within versions of reality
And tools designed to tap into our thoughts
and sub-conscious
And affect everything we see and feel,
And make murder seem like justice
or apoetic irony.
Or a life that is just another door.



Hero Worship (I)

Do you remember how you used to tease me?
Throw pens and pencils at my head,
And throw my bag down the stairs.

You used to mock my music tastes,
Laugh at the way I did my tie
And at my always too shiny shoes.

But I used to view you with pity
At your divorced, arguing parents
And your drug addict of a brother.

I used to view you with pity
Looking at your sad, pale eyes
And trembling shoulders.

When you started to cry
I wanted to cry beside you,
tell you it will get better
And watch your fear slip away
Down the drain like dirty dishwater.

But you turned away
And concentrated on throwing
More pens and pencils.



Missing Holiday

Perhaps in hindsight

I should have told you

A white lie

And agreed

To what you said

Without giving it

A second thought.


Perhaps in hindsight
I should have told you
A simple yes
And just gone
Literally
With the flow
And smiled gracefully.


We could have gone
To wistful Prague
And visited the
Grey castle over the hill
That looks down at the city
Like a frown
Every time mist rises
On a cold winter morning.


We could have sat outside
The National Museum
And suffered my infamous
Sandwiches
And I would have heard you
Grumble in your broken English
‘What kind of sandwich
Do you call this?’


You would have no doubt
Gripped my hand tightly
As we sat down for Tea
And smiled with a look
Which I don’t doubt
Would have confused me
And kept whispering
‘I love you’
In lots of different tones.


I would have no doubt
Blushed as I always do
And kept telling you
‘You barely know me
How can you say that?’
To which you would
Blush yourself
And carried on
‘But I do’

It’s immaterial anyhow.




I Believe

I believe in the frost on
The window.
I believe in the night skies.
I believe the end
Is nothing more than a series
Of new beginnings
From which any number of
Alternatives can be chosen.

I believe in the breeze
That blows on the back
Of my neck on a blazing hot
Friday Night,
Like I believe there
Must always be a happy ending
In everything you do
Even if you don't feel
It at that moment
In time.

I never used to believe
In love,
Like I never used to see the
Point in watching couples
Walk hand in hand
Down a road
Or watch a girl fall
Asleep on her boyfriend's
Shoulder on a bus.

I never used to believe
In love
Like I never used to understand
The way couples overlap
Each other's talking
When I sat with them
Or the way some would just look
At each other for hours
With quiet longing
And then spend the next hour
Constantly arguing
And bickering.

But now when I wake up
In the morning,
I can almost feel my heart
Miss a beat
When I look at the sun
And the moon
Merge together
At dawn
Like they are in deep love
And wonder what is it
Like for you.

Are the hills taller?

Are the skies bluer?

Are the buildings wider?

But, more importantly
What are you doing tonight?
Are you looking out of
The window
Like a modern day Juliet
And do you believe?

                For Taya




Taya

You stand at the forefront of the path.

Your head bent slightly forward

In a leftwards angle,

And your hair blown in your face

By the relentless wind.


Your arms are crossed behind your back
Almost like you are unsure
What to do with them
And your coat is dangling open
Like you are almost
A gun-slinger from a gothic western
No matter how deep the snow is behind you.


Your eyes are as pretty as a flower
And I can see a smile on your lips
That I first dimissed as fear
But upon second glances
Came across more as a quiet confidence.

A quiet confidence which showed
In the way you looked slightly
Down at the broken footpath
Beneath your feet without a care in the world
And didn't give you up no matter what
The wind threw at you
And which direction your hair flew.




Dawn's Song

Come out of the bathroom
And throw your towel
On the bed,

Come out on the doorstep
And hold my hand
As I try to tell you
That joke again.

No doubt I’ll get the
Order back to front
And I’ll get the name
And probably
The city confused
But you would still
Stand there
And smile patiently
More than you should.

I would probably stutter
And lose my place
And then struggle
For a minute or two
Before I remember
Where I was.

You would look back
With a patient
Nod of your head
As you looked
Up at me
Like I was your mentor
And then stroke the
Hairs of my hand
Like you were a brush

But still won’t look
Me in the eyes.



Identity

You’re strong without
A thought
Though it may not last
As long as you may think.

You’re easy to smile
Though you’re not
That easy
To laugh.

They say, they say
You are shy
And never speak
Unless you are spoken to.

I, however, always see the truth
As like a strange kind
Of intimacy
When you sit there
And clearly
Smile in your sleep.

And in your dreams
Is silence golden?



Smiling in Slow Motion

Slightly left,
His mouth formed
A half smile
Which I originally
Thought had a hint of slyness
But then as I looked again
At his eyes
Which were brushed half shut
I saw it had a small tear
Lingering in the corner
And all my distrust vanished.



Sailing in Slow Motion

The wind was brisk
And as it brushed
Across the sails,
It almost sounded like
A guitar
Playing slightly
Out of tune.

Sailing in Slow Motion.



I Miss You

I miss you
In moments
Like this.

I miss you
When the sun
Sinks into the ground
Round the back
Of the old Factory
Where you
Would dance
Across the meadows
In April
With a flower
On your ear
Before turning
Round
And telling me
To hurry up
Even if I had been
Leading the way
For most of the day.

I miss you
In the evenings
Or looking
Out of the window
At lunchtime.

I miss your
Favourite words
Or sayings
And your
Slurred accent.

I miss your
Horrible musical taste
And your laughing eyes
When you would
Try and get
Me up dancing
To them
In some terrible
Bar.

I miss your shuffling
Feet
Which could never
Stay still
For more even
Than a few minutes
When we used
To hide
Underneath
Old, dis-used train stations
Near snow-trodden hills
With the snow and
Wind
Smacking us on
Our backs
And still whisper
'It's beautiful, isn't it?'

Yeah, It was.



Perfect Place

I don't want to wake you
When you're sleeping so quiet
On my shoulder.

I don't want to brush your
Hair back down from your face
Or turn down the stereo.

I don't want to sing in
The rain nor do I want
To sail away into the sunset.

I don't want to close the curtains
And shut out the moon
Shining down on us,
Like we are in the spotlight
Of some imaginary film.

I want to spend
This moment
Alone in thought.

I want to listen
To the cars parking
In the distance.

I want to listen
To the wind
Brush against the trees
Almost like
It was somebody
Gently snoozing.

But most of all
I don't want to wake you
When you're sleeping so quiet
On my shoulder.



No Man's Land

Water brushes against
The coast like Time,
Lives like
Leaves,
Drops palming
Across my hand
Like it was another world
Or was it another word
Lost in the notepad
From another day.

Colours like beats
Brushing in my ears
Like an endless trail
Of footprints
Half broken
In no man’s land.
Was it like another word
Lost in the notepad
From another day
Or was it another life?



Christmas Poem (2006)

Once you hit me on the
Back of my head with a snowball
On Christmas Day
After kissing me on the cheek
And telling me you loved me,
I started coughing quite violently.

You came back running down
That white laced hill
In a bit of a panic
Blushing totally and said
‘Oh my god, I didn’t mean it
I didn’t mean it’

‘It doesn’t matter’ I smiled
Catching my breath
And reached over to kiss you
And then hit you
On the back of your neck
With a snowball.

‘What’s that for?’ You cursed
‘You did that on purpose’
‘Well, Christmas is meant
to be a time for giving’
And then ducked as you threw
Another snowball in my face.



Silcocks

‘Do you know what
You’re doing?
He snapped.

Blushing slightly
I shook my head
And then tried again.

‘For god’s sake’
He snapped
Growling like a bad
Tempered lion
Snatching the
Cloth away from me
‘How bloody old are you?’

‘16’
I blushed again
Mumbling slightly
The 6 tumbling
Off into the distance.

‘I bet you don’t
Even know how either to
Peel a potato’
He barked again
The tone rising
Up and up
Like his words
Could actually hit me
Any second.

I shook my head.

‘I see I’m going to
Have to keep a special
Eye on you, young man’

I never went back for
The 2nd day.


Kemptown

Near the scrapyard
Round the corner
From the ocean
Where the stock
Pile of battered
And torn cars
Makes a strange
Substitute for
The hills

Across the fields
Covered with
Long, uncut grass
While in the
Background
You can see the
Deserted scout-hut
On the tip
Of the coastline

Round the bend
From the window
That leads
To the Buddhist temple
Hidden round the
Side of the
Deserted paint factory

Next to the
School with the
Cracked hockey fields
Which lead
To the grass verges
Where you can
See horses run
Freely on summer days

But my focus
Lies across
The thread of stuttering
Street lamps across
The factory tram
Behind which
The crescent moon
Shines like a
Smiling parent

My focus lies
Across black forests
And concrete gardens
And down back lanes
Which most people
Have forgotten about,
Right onto the tip
Of the coastline,
But never into the sea.

              dedicated to 'Andy' (the Voice of M.A.N.)



Eight

There were eight of them
In total.

Eight veterans stood in a line
Like a firing squad.

Some had gloves on their fingers
Which they would have claimed
Helped them
Improve their aim.

Some would have worn caps
But at least two
Stood there
Their heads bare
And blue from the cold.

I was told afterwards
They had been leaning
Against the wall
For probably ages
Before being led outside,

Their faces
Gleaming with spite
Like they had been
Looking forward to
Doing this for days.

No doubt they would
Have planned
Who would Fire first
And who would
Cover them
With parting shots
Right down to their
Path of retreat
Across the back
Of Tandle Hill.

No doubt they would
Have analyzed
Every shot
Making sure to do
Maximum damage
Ensuring we would be
Left begging for mercy
After the first volley
Was fired.

There were eight of them
In total.

Their shots silently
Cut across the distance
Like ghosts.

20 years later
I am still
trying to brush
the snow from my hair.

                dedicated to 'Ant' (from 'July Skies')



The North Pole at Night

No doubt
It’s a little colder.

But not much.

No doubt the snow
Will be a little deeper.

The ice on the lakes
Will be just that little darker.

The sun will be just that
Slightly dimmer,
And the moon
A little more wholehearted.

The sky will be a little
More purple
And the mist on the horizon
Will be denser.

The light will be slightly
More uneven in the forest
The branches on the trees
Uneven like fingers,

And dew dropping
From our fingers
Like tears
Or little beads

But not much.


K.P. (IV)

'Break' he shouted
from the other end
of the kitchen at 11.45 am
so loud it made the plates
on the shelf above me
rattle like they were
shaken by thunder.

'Great'
I thought to myself
and flung
my apron
on the side
like an over excited footballer
taking off his boots
and ran to the loo.

10 minutes later
I joined them all
at the table
with a cheese and onion pie,
chips,
chocolate pudding
and a can of coke.

'You'll do well to eat
all of that'
the other porter
said whose looks
kind of reminded me
of Mr. Magoo
with a slight ginger beard.

'Why' I answered
smiling
'Is it that BAD?'

'No, lunch is at 2 pm.'


British poet, writer, musician, performer, Andy N(icholson), 36, from Manchester has been published world-wide since 1992. He is the lead singer / vocalist of the band 'DIH' (described as Jack Kerouac jamming with The Aphex Twin) and records as well with 'M.A.N.' and ‘Distance’, among other groups. Andy co-runs the internet record music label HICC and runs the spoken word label Setting Sun and is signed in addition with Hallo Excentrico. He is currently working on his first novel and a collection of his poetry. He has wrote two plays which have being performed.



Poetry of Andy N