Multiplastic

Phone (A trio of Triolets)   I wanted to tell you the lights had changed But you were staring down at your phone I wanted to tell you how much we’ve aged I wanted to tell you the lights had changed And how an oak tree’s leaves were arranged And how we are never, truly, alone I wanted to tell you the lights had changed But you were staring down at your phone When you were staring down at your phone What was it, that you had seen? Was it a place that felt like home When you were staring down at your phone? And was it better than standing alone Waiting for the lights to turn green? When you were staring down at your phone What was it, that you had seen? So, what was it that you had seen When I wanted to tell you the lights had changed? Did you learn with joy why leaves are green? What was it, that you had seen? And maybe you felt how connected we’d been And laughed inside at how much we’ve all aged What was it, that you had seen When I wanted to tell you the...

Klezmer A noodling clarinet sets the scene A barn, a wedding chuppa, a ghetto Synagogue in the Warsaw slums A shtetl in the fields south of Minsk And then the steps begin *1, 3-1, 3-1, 3-1 on French horn and cello The first notes of Boiberiker Hora rise from the accordion My fingers fumble the fretboard Right hand quavers over the lowest string But I’m a shit musician I hit bum notes, miss my timing My mandolin is flat, the intonation’s off And panic is rising just behind my heart As I try, again, to play the tremolo But I’m not really me any more My edges are blending with violin and clarinet Mistakes are becoming colour and variation And I’m not me any more I’m us, the Kapelye I’m the band, the music, the key of Ahava Raba I’m the ancestors I don’t even know for sure that I’ve got I’m the damp mornings, the brocha over bread I’m the Yiddish I don’t speak I’m not me any more I’m us, the Kapelye I’m community and moment and now The final trill, the sig...

Bad I want to start a Bad Poets’ Society I want to revel in rotten rhymes and exult in awful alliteration I want to celebrate vile villanelles and sonnets that don’t scan I want the Mothers’ Day card to be the height of art I want to create a Bad Film Club I want to munch popcorn with pals while we adore atrocious acting And catalogue every continuity error with a midwife’s care I want broken sound effects and directors who use pen-names out of shame I want to build a Bad Music Band I want to glory in slightly rusted strings and semitonally missed chords I want a dyspraxic drummer and horn sections with leaky valves I want a singer who lost the key somewhere down the back of the sofa I want to join a Bad Health Gym I want weights covered in dust because nobody can be bothered to lift them I want jelly-belly, zits and digestive distress to be signs of achievement I want the café to sell nothing but crisps, beer and cream cakes And I want to not care, to not give a dam...

Metamorphic Metamours (with thanks to Ariana of Verbosemcr for the inspiration)   Metamorphic Metamours resonate like cymbals clashed by a single stick They circulate around the drummer in rank and file awaiting their turn to play Metamorphic Metamours eat chips on a Sunday and order take-out that gets forgotten in their eagerness to accommodate. Metamorphic Metamours gather around virtual kitchen tables and discuss dates, times, events and which pub should be the host They vape inappropriately and greet with hugs that bend ribs Metamorphic Metamours create prize-winning DJ sets on Welsh radio They drive a hundred miles for lunch once a month They look after cats and put ointment on their loved ones’ bruises and backs Metamorphic Metamours walk with sticks and lose weight rapidly Metamorphic Metamours tell stories to small children and understand the history of churches They don’t speak Hindi or Hebrew as well as they think they should, but find connection in dif...

RR8* (a villanelle)   Just a plain grey room and not much more A whiteboard covered in scribbled words An alcove window and a lockable door But inside that space my voice could roar Until it cracked in the mid-chorus Echoed in a plain grey room that wasn’t much more Not having to be me, I could let my mind soar And in that space I created worlds Behind an alcove window and a lockable door All alone, pacing dusty lines on the floor Devising the script, rehearsing the verse In a plain grey room that wasn’t much more And I became new people: two, three, four Some better than me, one much worse Behind an alcove window and a lockable door Every shade and colour that I could pour Streamed through the creations I would nurse Behind an alcove window and a lockable door In a plain grey room that wasn’t much more.   September 2024   *Rehearsal Room Eight, Floor Seven, New Adelphi Building, University of Salford