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POETRY OF ANDY N
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 dont 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
Its 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
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 Ill get the
Order back to front
And Ill 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 wont look
Me in the eyes.
Identity
Youre strong without
A thought
Though it may not last
As long as you may think.
Youre easy to smile
Though youre 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 mans 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 didnt mean it
I didnt mean it
It doesnt 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.
Whats 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
Youre doing?
He snapped.
Blushing slightly
I shook my head
And then tried again.
For gods 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 dont
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 Im 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
Its 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.'
Mist
(Written in the style of Derek Jarman)
Mist closed in rapidly at dawn,
As the foghorn's incessant noise
Which had kept me awake
Most of the night
Blasted out again.
The sun had made a determined attempt
To break through the gloom
And slight blush
In the clouds
But soon got pushed back.
An airplane stuttered
Past my eyesight
Leaving two thin lines
Across the sky
Before the mist crushed everything
Like a cruel hunter.
HB slept through the morning
While I painted the garden
And all the flowers
Started to bloom
Almost in sympathy
As the sun finally broke through.
As I painted furiously
I imagined myself
Walking across the beach
At the edge of my painting.
The poppies I walked over
That surrounded the garden
With strange shades of scarlet
Were sending the bees
Wild with excitement
As they danced
On top of the breezes.
As I crossed
Over the gate
I carried on walking
Underneath a slight blue sky
Streaked with a red rust
That reflected itself
On the wet sand
Right up to
The sea.
On the sea
I could see waves brushing
Against waves
Like sensations.
The world is full of
Sensations,
Even in daydreams,
With a sharp spring breeze
On my face
And memories of dead friends
Whose words whisper only
In the breeze now
At the end
Of my sea
Never in the mist.
Party
The party was already
in full flow
by the time I arrived
and there was a line of people
standing by the sink
like a line waiting for a bus.
One of them was
a tall, thin
good looking lad
and he said to me,
'whiskey?'
and reached into
a bag next to the fridge
and pulled out
a bottle of Jack Daniels.
'Call that whiskey?'
I asked.
'It's good stuff'
he answered, puzzled.
'That's not proper
whiskey'
I responded.
'I was only offering'
he answered, slightly offended.
I drank it,
but like I said
it isn't proper whiskey.
Lost Poem
(With A Touch Of Derek Jarman)
Mist closed in rapidly
at dawn
as the foghorn's incessant noise
that had kept me awake
most of the night
blasted out again
in the distance.
The sun had made a
short but determined attempt
to break through the gloom
in the grey clouds
but soon got forced
backwards.
HB slept through
the full of the morning
which left me free
to paint
and literally almost
in a symphony
as I started
all the flowers
started to bloom
in a bright bashful red
as the sun finally
broke through.
I painted slowly
to begin with
marking the frame
of the flowers
with a gentle pencil stroke
until with the paints
in my hand,
they took
a life of their own
and I imagined myself
walking across the back
of the flowers
at the edge of my eyesight
to the nearby beach.
As I walked across the beach
I carried on walking
down a spiralling path
and then through a gate
which hid behind
a forest
of rainbow like colours
until I turned back
to face the sea.
On the sea
I could see waves
brush against each other
like sensations
which were streaked
with a red rust
that reflected itself
on the wet sand.
The world is full of
sensations;
even in day dreams
of far-away magical beaches
and forests
with a sharp
spring breeze
blowing on my face.
The world is full of
sensations;
with memories of dead friends
just outside the tip
of my painting
whose words
now only whisper in
the breeze
at the end of my garden
which mirrors
my heart.
But never the mist..
Some of the shops
The Buddhist temple
The sun dazzled us
The hotel had a musk-ish
In the distance,
But all I could
But I was gone.
I was gone.
I was gone.
Return to Kemptown
The sea still lives
on the horizon
rarely touching
the edge of the shore.
were boarded up
and I could see an advert
on Andy's ex's window
advertising Reiki healing;
when last I knew
he could barely walk
in a straight line.
where had teenagers stood
outside smoking
and tram tracks
on the edge of the beach
were shut for winter
and by the look
of things
also hadn't being open
over the previous summer much.
as we walked past fields
on the side of Hope Road
where once Helen
had tried talking
me into taking
horse riding lessons
but like my
memories of her
were now lost in the tall grass.
smell like burnt words
and the news agent
twenty yards up the road
looked at me
like I was a lost cousin
as he realised
I knew a lot more
about Brighton
than he originally thought.
there was a newspaper
blowing on the floor
which said
as I bent down
to throw it
in the bin
'Kemptown is one
of the more fashionable
bits of Brighton
to live in'
see was the sea
lingering on the tip
of the horizon
which drew me in again
and then tried
to spit me out.