December 20th

never see daylight

empty stencilled quotes mocking

bug eyed sleep deprived

“The greater the obstacle, the more glory in overcoming it” – Moliere

“I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel” – Maya Angelou

These are two empty ironic quotes stencilled on the wall in one of our work meeting rooms. I’ve been stuck in this Slough dungeon for two days. Daylight has been missing from my life. I’m a shadow. I arrive in twilight, I leave in darkness. I’m a bug eyed, sleep deprived bush baby clawing at nothing, my head full of heavy pain. The train there and back again, a grimy windowed realm, all stations to purgatory. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for having this job, but it’s all relative.

This is the world of bids, it drains the brain, brings headaches. The quotes just infuriate me. How do (some) colleagues make me feel? Angry.

November 13th

 

hungry wide pupils

throat barbs ploughed, antagonised

restless, sapped of sleep

I believe it is a bit of a no-no to punctuate Haikus. You’ll have to let me off. I’m ill. Got a raging sore throat. Didn’t get much sleep.

November 10th

spark frazzled old dust

the beast labours underground

through plague pits and sin

 

What do the tube tunnels cut through? What sinister secrets does London have buried under her?

November 8th

the murderous pulse

folded vision, stabs of light

darkness the healer

November 6th

 

the first frost melted

in the rising cocksure sun

whilst I slumbered on

a cherub asleep

in the blackout sanctity

of my feather bed

October 3rd

 

in the dark before

dawn the fish people watch us

from shingle shorelines

drip drip as they walk

gasps from their little used lungs

cold blood translucent

green hued gills gently

billow at their scaly necks

as they plod inland

I’m writing a story about the Fish People. I’m quite enjoying it. Here’s a triple Haiku horror about them.

August 17th

in the heart of the

bramble briar, it’s always

dark full of secrets

the thicket immune

to the sun demolishing

the scowling cloud walls

a body concealed

her one true love scratched and bled

by welcoming thorns

photo’s I took on the moor

Three Haikus today, aren’t you lucky…. we partook in one of our normal walks and headed off to the Pond on Flitton Moor. On the edge of it is quite a dense patch of thick briar, bristling with thorny bramble as well as other tough hardy plants. It’s dark and sheltered there, whatever the weather. It oozes night even when the sun is in full roar. It’s a shady spot, dank and damp. Almost sinister.

It reminded me of an old folk song, a murder ballad. It has three names (Bruton Town, The Merchant’s Daughter and The Bramble Briar) and variations on the lyrics, but I think my favourite is by Martin Simpson (I can’t find it on youtube, but here it is on Spotify).

It is such a sad tale, a girl falls in love with one of her father’s servants, her brothers then secretly murder him as they feel him not good enough for her. They dump his body in a ditch filled with brambles, but his ghost visits her and she sets out and finds his body and the truth. Upon discovering him, the grief stricken girl goes back and meets her brothers “stand off, stand off! you bloody butchers!”  but it seems from the lyrics she will ultimately kill herself too, in her grief. “My love and I, you have both slain”.

So next time someone writes off folk music, think of the murder ballads, they are dark, bloody, graphic and tragic.

The Bramble Briar has a powerful narrative, it’s tragic and has no happy ending, it’s not fair. Sometimes life is like that.

The Bramble Briar (traditional, from Martin Simpson’s version)

In Bruton town there lived a farmer,
Who had two sons and a daughter dear.
By day and night they were contriving
To fill their parents' heart with fear.

He told his secrets to no other,
Unto his brother this he said
'I think our servant courts our sister.
I think they has a great mind to wed.

I'll put an end to all their courtship.
I'll send him silent to his grave.'

They asked him to go out a-hunting,
Without any fear or strife,
And these two bold and wicked villains,
They took away this young man's life.

And in the ditch there was no water,
Where only bush and briars grew.
They could not hide the blood of slaughter,
So in the ditch his body they threw.

When they returned home from hunting,
She's asking for her servant-man.
"I ask because I see you whisper,
Brothers tell me if you can."

"O sister, sister, you do offend me,
Because you so examine me.
We've lost him where we've been a-hunting.
No more of him we could not see."

As she lay dreaming on her pillow,
She thought she saw her heart's delight;
By her bed side as she lay weeping,
He was dressed all in his bloody coat.

"Don't weep for me, my dearest jewel,
Don't weep for me nor care nor pine,
For your two brothers killed me cruel-
In such a place you may me find."

She early rose the very next morning,
With a heavy sigh and a bitter groan,
The only love that she admired,
She found in the ditch where he was thrown.

The blood upon his lips was drying.
Her tears were salt as any brine.
She sometimes kissed him, sometimes crying:
'Here lies the dearest friend of mine.'

Three days and nights she did sit by him,
'Till her poor heart was filled with woe,
And cruel hunger crept upon her,
And home she was obliged to go.

Sister, sister, why do you whisper,
And won't you tell me where you've been?
Stand off! Stand off, you bloody butchers!
My love and I, you have both slain.

May 26th

The egg sac seething

silk severed weave and repair

afraid of the dark

I went to the Freud Museum, to catch the Louise Bourgeois exhibition “the return of the repressed” before it finished. I really admire Bourgeois work, so interesting and unique, so personal.

There is something ancient and deep seated about her art, from the darkest recesses of dreams and metaphor. It speaks of maternal relationships, sadness, abandonment. It really drags you in. It makes you feel something. Her work is honest and beautiful.

I’ve interlaced some of her words in the Haiku.

"I came from a family of repairers. The spider is a repairer. If you bash into the web of a spider, she doesn't get mad. She weaves and repairs it."

(one of Bourgeois’ spiders in the garden, i took the photo, then I noticed the “no photography” sign, oops)

And also from her textile piece “I am afraid”.

 

I am afraid of silence

I am afraid of the dark

I am afraid to fall down

I am afraid of insomnia

I am afraid of emptiness

 

Is something missing?

yes, something is missing and always will be missing

the experience of emptiness

 

To miss

what are you missing?

nothing

I am imperfect but I am lacking nothing

maybe something is missing but I do not know and therefore do not suffer

 

empty stomach empty house empty bottle

the falling into a vacuum signals the abandonment of the mother.

April 16th

A half moon and stars

memories incubating

in the wells dark depths

 

No spoilers, but Murakami’s “Wind up bird chronicle” is oppressively compelling.

March 26th

 

Aphrodites pearl

Ares chariot charges

Blood against the sky

 

I noticed a couple of friends on twitter / facebook suggesting going outside to have a look at the planets clear in the sky. And yes, there was Venus, massively bright, next to the quarter moon, Jupiter just below and higher up, Mars, twinkling pink/red. We walked to the edge of the moors where the light pollution would be less and although I’m not really a stargazer I have to say I was impressed.

Perfect for a haiku about Greek gods. Why Greek gods? Well, flippin’ Romans, what have they ever done for us? Coming over here, nicking our women, nicking our Gods….

March 24th

Rusty pheasants crank

Daffodils pale in the gloom

Dusk light fades to black

 

Was a warm clear day. I walked through the moors to get home from the station (Arsenal beat villa 3-0) at dusk. The temperature was wonderfully cool, where a fleece is perfect. When the daylight falls, you rely on other senses. Hearing and smell. Like our ancestors.

I could hear a right old racket in the woods, Pheasants barking at each other, their grating calls like a 1920s car horn. The daffodils looked pale, almost white in the failing light. I like the lonesomeness of the woods and moors at night.

Not many people use the moors at this time, but I did pass two lads with a flashlight and their inquisitive dog. And a lady, powerwalking with her own canine companion. I bade them all a good evening well in advance of our paths crossing, just in case they hadn’t seen me. I don’t want to startle anyone or make them uncomfortable. Not that the night should make people any less friendly, but the darkness does provoke a mistrust in others. Again, the primitive part of our brain, sensing danger. We’re outside of the cave, we’re exposed, our night vision isn’t as good as the predators. Wolves prowl.

March 19th

Behind the blackouts

a faultless sky forgiving

alive and lucid

 

Blackout curtains are great, I think they help me to sleep better. The absence of light helps me to turn off part of my brain and leads to restful nights. I like the lottery of mornings, blearly eyed, staggering to the window to open it a peep. Check what the weather is like. How do I know it’s morning if I keep going on about flippin’ blackout curtains? Because I’ve got an alarm silly! Dur!

Anyway this morning was beautifully sunny, my pupils shrunk in pain at the sunlight assault pouring through onto my retinas. When they adjusted a bit I looked out to a perfect blue sky. The clouds were absent. Wonderful.

March 12th

In the misty chill,

River skips through the mill wheel,

Distant tawny calls.

 

I walked back from the station in the dead of night, I’d been to see Arsenal play with my old Dutch friend Chris and his brother in law Ari, both of them enjoying the spat between their two countrymen Van Persie and Krul.

The air was damp with mist and as it was later than normal (I would normally rush back after a game, but I stayed for a goodbye drink) there was no background noise, there was an absence of cars and people. Bizarrely, as I’d lived in the area for years, this was the first time I could hear the river splashing against the old Mill Wheel (now fixed in place) on the edge of Flitwick. I also heard Tawny Owls calling in the far distance.

March 7th

I am only real,

When the headlights burn my back,

Long shadow walking.

 

Was walking back from the station late last night, bar a timid moon peeking through the thin cloud, the route to Greenfield from the station passes down a particularly dark lane. Walking this route late at night, I feel invisible, I disappear with my music in the darkness. Or if I have no music, I listen for tawny owls, the distant barking of dogs, or freight trains, unbuffered, rattling onwards.

I only exist when an approaching car blinds me or when a car drives past me from behind. As cars approach, I observe my shadow, racing and striding ahead of me, a hundred metres long. Then as the vehicles pass, I disappear, become invisible again.

February 28th

Blackbirds duel at dusk,

Songs soaked in battleship grey,

Echoes bounce off steel.

 

Most of my Haikus seem to be about birds. That’s because birds are awesome. Tonight, I left work around 6.30, it was pretty much dark. The car park was quiet apart from two blackbirds having a sing off. I could see one of them quite clearly, taking the high point in the photo above. The little spot on top of the tower.

The complexity of a blackbird song is impressive, trills and tuneful whistles, no two compositions the same. One would start, then the other would reply. It was loud. This is the the time of year when territory is all important. Spring is pretty much here. Time to find a mate and nest. The two combatants were fighting it out for the large but spartan landscape of our work car park in Stevenage. For what little foliage there is.

February 6th

 

Cautious movements, light,

Dim then bright, swirling, obscured,

Breaking through the mist.

 

I don’t like driving when the weather is awful. The possibility of ice on the roads combined with a thick mist in the dark. Stresses me out.

February 3rd

 

Disembodied head,

Eyes tight shut, I know he’s there,

Waiting by my bed.

 

There was a book club at my junior school. It was a special treat getting a book. Books were luxuries, I had the library of course, but I didn’t have many books of my own, which is why I cherished those I owned, comics (I got one a week) or otherwise. So I was absolutely delighted when I got one of the Usborne Pocketbooks, Supernatural guides. It was the “Haunted Houses, Ghosts and Spectres” one.

The artwork still has quite an impact for me, it smacks me in the chest with that thrill of fear I used to feel as an 8 year old. I used to be scared of the dark, one particular image stuck with me. It was of a blue disembodied head which haunted someone in an old country house. I used to hide under the covers (a classic ward against evil) terrified to peek, eyes shut fast, thinking if I opened my eyes and looked upwards, he would be there, looking down on me, silent, judgemental, evil, his mouth slowly opening and closing with no sound coming out. My imagination was rampant. I felt if I looked at him, he would literally scare me to death, by floating towards my face, till he was only inches away from me and then enter my face and possess me. I was that scared. Interestingly, the artist must’ve used an image of old horror actor Lon Chaney Jr to base his work on, when he played the phantom of the opera. Years later I saw the image of the Phantom and instantly thought “that’s my ghost!”, I’d forgotten about the book by then. So I went back to my old bedroom at my mums house then and retrieved it.

I still have the book, I’ll never throw it away. It’s beautiful, the artwork is amazing, it makes me feel happy and sad. Sometimes it’s nice to feel like you’re little again. South Harringay infants and junior school, aged 5 to 10 were wonderful times. I was so happy there.