I was brought up well
respected my parents
and never drew trouble to the door
I worked hard at school
was good at sport
and passed my exams
I married young
fathered four, taught them well
and never wandered
I’ve hurt no-one,
have protected some
never used drugs
I pay my taxes
never taken benefits
observe the highway code
I’m not a hero, neither brave
nor a coward
but I’ll look you in the eye
I’m normal, just normal
most of us are
so what’s your problem?
© Graham Sherwood 09/2018
Do you remember La Tuilliere
the old winery farmhouse
at the end of that lane
bordering the ruined church
in the hamlet of St Nazaire?
We would arrive for each summer’s lease
eagerly anticipating which crops
had been sown and where,
the vines, always situated to the south of course
then clockwise, sunflowers, maize and cattle grass
rotated every year,
whilst we all secretly hoped
the beautiful golden tournesols
would still be bordering the lawn.
If you recall
I had been told that first year
by a local vigneron
that Dame Kiri Te Kanawa
had a house nearby
and that he tended her vines, made her wine.
Although situated on a hill
overlooking La Tuilliere
her house was well shielded by trees,
the swimming pool water, mirror-like
glinting through the branches and
after dark lights were turned on
and we mused what she would be eating
that evening for dinner.
Sometimes on those magical nights
as the last finger of pastis
swirled in our glasses
we could hear gentle arias
tumbling through the vines
plaintive but soft enough
not to wake the drowsily bowed sunflowers,
we preferring to think it was herself singing
and not a recording being played.
Years later,
with you four all grown up, independent
off backpacking, interrailing and the like,
I went back to visit Thierry once again
to take some more of his wine prisoner
catch up, chew le cud! and he told me
that Dame Kiri had sold up
that he had bought her vines
and the enchanting music had gone away
© Graham Sherwood 09/2018
Old friends meet loudly, hug and call each other “man”
their heads on other days would turn to Tim or James or Dan
Suburbanites who freely mix with New Age scruffs
safe in the folds of music, smoke, real ale and stuff.
On their acre’s nest of tiny multi-colour nylon domes,
these torch-lit tics smell of sweat and spunk and pheromones
dressed in tie-dyed, damp, old outrageous threads
until Monday comes, the suit, the tie, the tube, the talking heads.
In feathered drizzle, stretching last nights’ stiff necks legs and backs
strolling aimlessly with skinny dogs who sniff for discarded burger scraps
before the music calls, the thudding bass, the squealing riffs, the angry drawl
as Eloi turn and amble toward the hypnotic churning call.
Demure young girls then sensually writhe and show their tits
and hope they won’t appear on someone’s Facebook pics
henge-like some stare, some sway, some jig, some surf and fall
it’s Glastosphere, you have to be here, come one come all.
© Graham Sherwood 09/2018
I walk into the large white box,
some young people look really cool
others just take the piss.
Three students appear informed, anguished even, intelligent,
others merely shake their heads.
I study Wine Crucifix, Arnulf Rainer,
old ladies stand up straight and tilt their heads,
others lean closer in wistful passivity.
A large group of children are shown Jackson Pollock, Summertime 9a.
most are expressionless dismissive uncomfortable,
some speak of images I cannot recognise, only one gets it.
A well-dressed man, American perhaps, is ambivalent,
a half-dressed girl is beautiful and knows it,
others are imprisoned by their ugliness.
Cy Twombly’s Quattro Stagione beguiles me completely,
like a Mucha poster left in the rain.
Tourists read the captions, inquisitive and scratch their chins,
Japanese, study it, leave reverentially but return for yet another look.
La femme et son Poisson, Man Ray shimmers,
both lithe, both swim, both dream.
A small group do not look, but look at each other,
some are tired and blow out their cheeks, vacant,
others sympathetically recoil, feeling conned.
I puzzle at Brague but fall in love with Metzinger’s
La femme a la Cafetiere, sensual, ovoid, warm.
Schoolgirls look like schoolgirls, are schoolgirls
but wish not to be at school,
clutching books for authenticity,
others leave hurriedly, reluctant to stay.
Everyone notices the crack across the floor.
© Graham Sherwood 10/2008
Would that we were privy to the paths of musical notes
that dance and dither around our heads.
Music must be set free to take its course
in clean air, uncaptured frivolous brave,
and when spent, revered praised immortalized.
Music must never be captured or held
perched in the grasping boughs of trees
or lodged, stuck fast amongst dark rafters
in dusty attics
or entangled amongst bristling wires
like a wet paper kite
snagged, repressed, frantically
repeating its pitch in the hope of escape.
Music must have freedom to permeate
the naivety to wander, allowed to drip and seep,
to infuse its listener
become lifeblood, an essence
© Graham Sherwood 09/2018
After the long drought
the barely damp plough has a foot feel
of poorly made meringue,
a red kite circles at great height
its looping plaintive squeal mimics
the lusty wolf whistle of a butcher’s boy,
wheeling down majestically
with the elegance of a pantomime angel
carrion is daintily plucked, lifted skyward,
blackberries hang forgotten,
unwanted farm gate windfalls too
a cordial invitation ignored,
weak late-afternoon sun
plays hide and seek in smoky clouds
somewhere manure is smouldering,
seasons are negotiating dates
both listless for the change
newly barren plough lies pregnant
© Graham Sherwood 09/2018
Five tethered skiffs nod and bow,
carousel horses, tugging at salty ropes
that rise, then dip into the flotsam,
like skipping ropes twirled by lazy children.
Scornful, gulls balance on these bucking prows,
and from time to time take irritated flight
only to return to station
each bringing a grumbling squeal.
The fret flicks across the harbour
with an unheralded slap,
the sharp edge of its tongue
catching us unawares.
A windswept busker, back to harbour wall
sends flamenco notes into the maelstrom,
a box of urchin shells
like shiny painted fruits
for sale offered near his feet.
© Graham Sherwood 10/2012
