Ray & Redhead

Poetry please


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Welcome to our poetry blog

Here is an uncivil partnership made in heaven, a platform for mutual provocation, a public exploration. We’re using the language of the heart alongside the harsh syllables of anger and discontent, stretchingFootprints meanings and metaphors to their limit and pulling words out of shape – respectfully, of course. Our subject is life, in all its shades of red, blue and grey.

Read on, explore the buffet – find some dishes to your taste, perhaps reminding you of a meal you ate once and enjoyed. We don’t promise all the flavours will be good for you – beware of acid indigestion and remember to add a pinch of salt! But why not go ahead – absorb some tasty morsels turned out of the creative kitchens of two other souls?

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New Year’s Day

A gale blowing off the sea

white horses on white horses

great black-backed gulls blown backwards.

Powerless against the wind

they ride the gusts and eddies.

Driven down to safety on the shore

they strut away disdainfully

shrugging off the unplanned landing

.

The evening surfers relish such a storm

casting their boards into that raging mouth

black-suited figures hoisting coloured kites

to steer criss-cross courses

just for fun

.

New Year walkers draw a line in the wet sand

let’s make a fresh start

It feels so clean

every intention pure and strong

we’ll leave the failures of the past behind

forgetting that each year we all make promises

we cannot keep

.

It’s a set-up

unplanned landings lie ahead.

Time rushes on insisting that we

keep in step

sweeping all before it.

None are in control

.

Within hours the rising waters wash away

all markers, pulling up the stakes

we planted, smoothing out the sand as if

we never walked here

leaving footprints

.

The past is gone beneath the flow of time

The future always stays one step beyond

The present tense renews itself

renews itself

renews itself


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Ophelia

the outer edges of hurricane Ophelia swept across the British Isles on 16th October, exactly 30 years on from the Great Storm of 1987. We were on a narrowboat at the time 😉

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Weary of the Caribbean

a tempestuous exotic dancer set her sights on European shores

Picking up her petticoats she sashayed and swirled across the Atlantic

swinging her hips over Africa

lifting the dust of the desert into orbit

scattering Saharan sand, confetti at a wedding of continents

swishing her skirts over Iberia, stirring up forest fires

gathering heat to her bosom

a flamboyant floozy flinging ash into the atmosphere

.

Setting out along the brown canals of Cheshire

an unwieldy long blue barge is navigating narrow passages

made to be a carrier of coal and salt, merrymaking isn’t in her genes

She’s slow and heavy, nudging broken branches in her path

disturbing debris washed from muddy fields trailing in the stream

reminders of the hair of Hamlet’s hapless heroine

.

Red sun and yellow sky, strange heralds of the wild wind

making extraordinary waves on leaf-strewn waters

driving the old lady into shore

October has been turned upon it’s head by the lace of a hem

out-of-season summer heat the hot breath of the uninvited visitor

now kicking up her heels as she demonstrates an Irish jig

.

Careless of the chaos in her wake

the wanton woman blows away, her passion spent

Like waking from a dream normality returns

Slipping her moorings the competent old narrowboat glides out

from underneath the flimsy bivouac of windblown trees

onto the open waterways

Habitual tranquility restored she’s happily at home again

scarcely ruffled, forgetful under newly-polished sky

chugging on to Chester


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No more looking back

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Looking back

we were fleeing for our lives

but slowly, like a caravan of refugees

reluctant to leave home,

lugging loaded carts

eyes and hands preoccupied with

balancing the burdens,

fingers fumbling, feet stumbling

.

Looking back

we realised how far we’d come

almost without meaning to

drifting to the edges of community

isolating, turning in upon ourselves

nursing hurts that could not help but cut us off

becoming displaced persons

at the margins of the land

.

Like a retreating army on a beach

nowhere to go but put to sea

scanning the horizon for a ship

the desperate waiting for the tide to rise

the fear of what’s behind and what’s to come

the in-between of not belonging anywhere

.

We have to walk the plank,

impossible to carry anything

apart from all we cannot leave behind

Farewell familiar places, well-known faces

all we took for granted for so long

it comes to this, the final wrench

the fateful step upon the moving boards

as unknown forces take control

.

All hands on deck!

transition is an all-consuming task

our future now entrusted to the waves

The wind is strong

we have to find our balance

as we cling on to whatever comes to hand

when stinging eyes are often filled with tears

when expectations drown in salty sorrow

when extra cargo’s thrown into the sea

.

Looking back

we watch the home we left

recede and shrink, a disappearing friend

our story sketched across those hills

Inside us gratitude and mourning go to war

we had no choice, we had to leave

abandoning the past, in hope

that life may somehow be renewed

beyond the storms at journey’s end

.

High up in the crow’s nest

I turn to face the rising sun

No more looking back

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Selfish

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Theres been many a sunset

followed by shitty dawns

Rainbows with no treasure

Oysters without pearls

Pride without falls

Paths never seem to

follow expected routes

You said you’d never leave

You did

You said you lived for me

that you’d love me forever

You didn’t


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Nuda Veritas & The Politics of Wholeness

The emancipatory goal of art is

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to transcend the the perceived limits of the senses

and to set them free

 

It is the synthesis of the present and the past

Of the luxury and degradation of the zeitgeist

Of creation and recreation

 

I do not belong here but among the Romantics

and their laudable rhetoric of the

exquisite and the dubious

 

It appears that there is an aristocracy of taste

and I dwell within its charm

In an Orphic underworld of codified mystery

With the blurred golden lines of the sensory and

the erotic vying for my affection

 

I am not alone

There is a small circle in which I reside

We look at the world and reimagine it’s form

in stone, paint and word

We do not boast or presume to be champions worthy of laurels

We are simply a secession

A bunch of Kunstler


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Pursuing the Purple Haze

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The challenge is

How to be on the right

Side of a holy war

That is wholly uncivil

And to keep your soul in the

hushed, still shade of peace and quiet

The challenge is

How to serve

The hurt and the dismissed

To be

In tune with the infinite

In prayer in

A pleasant cooperation and

Strange conceit

That I alone have a hot line to

The Almighty Creator

When it works

Prayer, mantras or positive thinking

Call it what you will

Finds me

Floating as a feather

On the breeze of grace

Fluent in silence

Floating in a purple space

Dancing with the either devils

or gods that I know

Intimately

Safe in the solitude

Of His presence

Asking nothing

– I do not babble

Expecting nothing

– I am never disappointed

It is an exercise of openness and of being

Neither self nor relationally centred

As I can’t trust myself

And you cannot choose your relations


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Sheep Sheeran

 

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Jesus was a nigger

By any other name

A curly haired, pasty faced

GT Jew Boy

Laughed at

Insulted, abused and mocked

Humiliated, rejected and threatened

By those who should know better

Jesus was a nigger by any other name

And only a ginger can call another ginger

Ginger

 

1-Ginger Jesus

Christ Among The Doctors – William Holman Hunt:  New Walk Museum , Leicester

 

Chorus:

Ginger Jesus, meek and mild,

Look upon a redheaded child;

Pity their gingicity,

Suffer them to come to Thee.

 

Ranga of God, I look to Thee;

Thou shalt my example be:

Lord of Ginga’s please make them stop

Thou wast once a carrot top.

 

They make my life a living hell;

When they call me Duracell:

I want to live, I want to dance

Don’t let them call me Fanta Pants

 

Ginger Jesus, gentle Lamb,

In Thy gracious hands I am;

Make me, happy, what Thou art,

A ginger person with a ginger heart.

Amen.

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xUDBzk6F8Dc