I, A SKINHEAD IN CROYDON TOWN – 1968

Posted on September 13, 2020 by edenbray

I, A SKINHEAD IN CROYDON TOWN – 1968

WEST CROYDON

SUB HEADINGS :

when Croydon was Reggae City – the Boss and Scottie

…

On the London Road, south of Brixton, eight mile north of Coulsdon South
Two friends had slipped the cordon’s leash down the road from Banstead Heath
Notoriety and fame, inside a Consul convertible, they rode to light the fires of youth
That eternal, adolescent flame – tho’ we were still but children playing adult games
In a playground of our choosing, a culture fuelled by boozing and music Caribbean
Cropped-haired girls, shaven-haired lads, intoxicated for a season, drawn by that age-old reason

…

Let loose on a four-bar beat, a syncopated rhythm, culture born of immigration schism
At a time before glam, punk, American pie, when non-LGBT males had no wish to die
Around the brag and dazzle of boy-girl seditions, under a veil of virginal permissions
She learned to drink babycham, attend to boys emissions, excepting all conditions
He was out for tottie cruising, learned to play the game so well, terrified of losing!
Collected girlfriends, proficiency badges, a young gigolo who could talk to the ladies

…

We shared a bed like brothers, not like real lovers, at his parents home near Sutton,
Intoxicated by beers, we shared our hopes and fears, planned our next night out
We never got in fights, earned the right to go on double-dates, we were solid mates
The modesty of the age was far less specific, far more erotic due to a shared naiveté
In truth, a generation raised on Andy Pandy and Woodentops struggled to get randy
Her brand new skates, his brand new key and a wet halfpenny between her knees

…

Teddy boys, beatniks, rockers, looking over her mod-suit, mohair shoulder,
Saw right through her ‘Chelsea’ cut, she tried to look like a skinhead slut,
Talk dirty, wear suits with a slit in her skirt that was split to halfway up
Yet the face she wore betrayed her moral choices, a blur of ‘ten’ adolescent voices
Susie would much rather grasp his shiny key and choke his splendour
Than risk explaining to her mother how her little girl became a sixties lover

…

Tailored, tonic mini skirts and tops discreet, 60’s mod-girls never flashed their teats
Faces pale as pastry, eye-shadow huge, baby cheeks coloured with just a little rouge
Working class girls, sound as a pound, from the top of their heads to their feet on the ground
Accepted attention to their cups and their plates, only allowed on pre-arranged dates
She knew his good-night kiss, that fumbled feel inside her skirt might require a tissue
But as long as she kept her honour – ‘the pill’ wouldn’t become an issue

…

When we were jaunty, walking the streets – ‘All ye skinheads put ya’ boots on yer feet’
Ben Sherman shirts, masted jeans, with roll-over tops and braces
The boys at the disco wore shiny suits, the girls cropped haircuts were honest-cute
Though the papers talked of roving gangs who terrorised London
That being the age-old duty of the press – struth! – in truth, in Croydon Town
You would struggle, to find a better vintage of youth, on or off the vine

…

Where I was raised, upside of sleepy Cheam, identity was not there for the taking
Post-war rationale shaped your life, all that what was expected was a job and a wife
Youth culture was only just emerging and only Billy Butlin offered any hope
So we learned how to dance at the Croydon Suite, to Jamaican bands, a reggae beat
Journeyed to Balham, to an all-blacks store, next to the station to buy some more
Or at the Music shop in London Road, Croydon where you could buy your 45 Trojan’s

…

The panic we carried was nothing to today, violence was minimal whatever they say
The press they love to exaggerate, from Primrose Hill to Watergate
The scariest place I have ever been was a trip to Crystal Palace Hotel Reggae Night
Where each Saturday at the Disco you could dance to ska, reggae and rock-steady 
The place and the faces there, were as black as coal, the Rude-boys ruled the show
Scottie and I, with his shaved blonde head, were the only white boys I saw that night
Then a Rude-boy placed a blade to his back and whispered coldly in his ear
‘White boy you don’t belong in here, don’t ever come back!’

… so we never did!

edenbraytoday

Ref. 12092020

Authors Note

Yes, I was a skinhead in Croydon Town 1966 – 1970!

The relationship between white skinheads and black culture is a hard one to explain. Back in the 60’s, generally, black boys, they humoured us but never welcomed us. The skinhead fascination and love of West Indian music and culture was no doubt in part, prompted psychologically by a recognition that black people had been downtrodden, misunderstood and in lots of ways annexed by middle-class white society. A perfect background resume for an anti-establishment cult-trend you might say. That skinhead cultural shift might even appear today as an early step towards BLM. Unfortunately the facts do not support this idea. The truth is, that us white boy skinheads, suede heads, peanuts, hard-mods, whatever you might have called us back then, were seen by working-class black boys as culture vultures! They saw our interest in their music as intrusive, as an attempt at yet another form of racist exploitation and an attempt to steal and enslave something that was theirs by birth-rite and blood – we weren’t really welcome in their clubs, bars and establishments and generally they didn’t like us or visit ours. It also should be noted that despite enjoying black music and culture, other skinhead hotbeds around the country could be overtly racist with early links to groups like the National Front which kind of creates a cognitive dissonance when attempting to comment on the whole ‘skinhead’ cultural history. It can only be explained I suppose by recognising there were many different outworkings of the cult-fashion-trend and after all we are talking about – Croydon, where the terms suede-head. that Morrissey later sang of and even peanuts were as frequently used to describe skinheads way back in 1967.

Young white girls who tried to retain their moral convictions in white-white relationships, preferring a culture of heavy-petting and male or even mutual masturbation to full sex became easy-prey to black boys whose interest in them was far more direct, sensual and in some cases, definitely predatory. White skinhead girls in Croydon dated black guys as a kind of badge they wore, seeing black boys as the ‘real deal’ and often these girls submitted to the notion of full-sex with black guys whilst in white-white relationships they would defer and offer a hand-job substitute. You have to understand that many parents of teenage girls in both working class and middle class cultures were still reluctant in the mid-sixties to encourage their daughters to take the pill, fearing it would lead to promiscuity and so young people often relied on ineffective condoms as their only means of birth control. Consequently, as birth control and ‘the pill’ were still taboo subjects, many young, white girls became pregnant to black fathers who then sadly then dumped them, I personally knew of several girls who had this happen. Of course there were notable and very happy exceptions to this rule many of whom have gone on to enjoy happy and faithful relationships.

It was only really the arrival and mainstream acceptance of artists like Eddie Grant, Bob Marley and performers like Jimmy Cliff and Desmond Dekkar who alongside white artists who performed ‘reggae’ style songs such as the Beatles, the Specials and UB40 that black youth eventually set free the reggae genre and moved on to other more exclusive and radical black music-styles like rap, hip-hop, gangsta etc.etc.

edenbray in 1967
we called ourselves ‘the boss and scottie’
‘the boss’
Notoriety and fame, inside a Consul convertible, they rode to light the fires of youth
… Tailored, tonic mini skirts, tops discreet, 60’s mod-girls never flash their teats

~ ~ ~

Authors Final Postscript

I agree, this is as raw and basic as it gets. This piece was an experiment in poetry.

Adolescence is far from pretty – It’s fragile, vulnerable, selfish and messy.

It’s about what I need and what I can get whilst I metamorphosize from a child into an adult. Poetry should not always be fine and pretty and honourable, sometimes it should be human, awkward and shitty. There is no one more disillusioned, freaked out, uncool than an adolescent youth. No one has more questions to ask than a young adult. No one is more ashamed of their humanity and its degradation. No one needs more understanding and care and love and support than the adolescent and sadly no other age of young people got less than we did in that time of perceived plenty after the war when apparently we had never had it so good and we should have thought ourselves lucky.

Don’t judge my poem because its not Wordsworth, Byron or Shelley. Understand its honesty, naiveté, its simplicity, its youthful sway and you may discover it is charming.

Therefore, despite it’s sharp rough edges and lack of discernment and taste I’m leaving this poem here on my page as one of my ‘That’s Me In The Middle’ Series of Poems.

It’s autobiographical, very very honest, it’s funny and what’s more it’s true.

edenbraytoday ~ 14th September, 2020

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ORION SPEAKS

Posted on September 3, 2020 by edenbray

.

.

ORION SPEAKS

.

…

It would take too much time to tell the tall man all the mighty moments he had stored

Aboard the centrifugal, the stargate frugal, the narrowest way known to heaven

And he surrounded with adorned pleasure, only this the measure of a stargaze warp

…

And Delaware, a mystic rose whose gown floats above any battle-scarred morning

She of sweeter disposition, she strong, mighty in battle, like a Boadicea on her chariot

Golden as the palace of Versailles where all is wooden like chess pieces in a drama

…

We are always just voyeurs, stepping in and then stepping out, uncertain, yet nervous

Like two small children faced with the problem of adulthood bearing down upon us

No wonder Gerollitas’ generation had that real problem with acceptance and worth

…

I have missed your warm smile and your attention, I digress to the point of annihilation

Only smooth talkers, aristocrats and charlatans eventually find a way with words

The rest of us struggle like warm wasps on the scent of Mexican hunny or fresh apples

…

The accolade interrupted by moon-worshippers heading west to greet a ‘brand new day’

Where sonnets roll around the yard like blue grass tumbleweed, hogs snort contented

And all this while, sound Orion’s gassy surface pumps light into our chosen hemisphere

…

A madrigal plays on softly, borrowed from another time and the latin quarter

Herecles still spinning wool, has surrendered his club to serve Lardanus’s daughter

Even great legends like Hercules or JFK can bow submissive to passions disorder

…

And there’s always a silly wren hopping around inconstant and shallow as a limpet

Clouds can be so disarming, vivacious, yet threaten, they are prone to characterisation

Dispassionate, an undervalued word in a psychiatric world where ambiguity is desired

…

The choices we make, so often strapped to Orion’s belt, drifting ever so slightly

Orion, caught in the dark sky awaiting the makers time to throw off his hunters caution

Climb the seven steps, jettison the seven stars, the sisters who are tied to Orion’s girth

…

Ainitak, Ainilam and Mintaka beautiful names three, but were these the names chosen?

Or the names spoken of in the great counsel where sit the elders golden, twenty four?

Who cast their crowns down by virtue of their knowledge of Job’s understandable folly

…

O bright counsel informs the stars brighter than the planets, the knowledge of the free

O marvellous reason that unfolds the seasons to offer words of hope to the bold Orion

Caught in Samson’s madness, overcome by the sadness only the pure must endure

…

Arise, shake off the morning, pledge the moon, salute the burning sun and stars,

Write words in sand, travel long, acknowledge now that time like Orion is not free

Run to greet the crashing waves of futures dawning, surely Orion’s summer has come

…

The sisters sound the warning, cascading and drawing, lines of perspective in the sky

We learn much from tales of splendour, prophets candour, the rigmarole of anger

An unfurled banner, as Apollo’s lie and bad manners direct Artemis’s arrows as they fly

…

The arena of consequence is now settled like an evening sky, the band play Perfidia

Even Orion cursed by this polygamy of treachery and betrayal awaits his redemption

The old man of the night bound by satans light, cross-referenced to his heathen plight

…

The dichotomy of reason hides so well the magical and submissive virtue that was Isaac

History’s vaults released some 10, some 20, yet the unknown is also known by its father

The truth set free for all to see attended by the spill of wine, sounds of joyous laughter

…

Collect the pages now, assemble them in order, bind them down with cord and gum

Clear the back room, Gallileo’s horn points t’ward the sky, Caxton’s press of ink runs dry

Guttenberg, a godlike hero like Alexander Graham Bell, Newton, Maximillian Schell?

…

Absurdity, nestles in with honesty and valour, frailty and discord find no place in Valhalla

Asgaard’s mountains resound with echoes of heroes fallen, not tales of treachery

Within such silver vaults, Orion and the brothers walk and talk of mankind’s destiny

…

There is not time to tell of all embroidered yarns, plaitted curls on Adam’s tattoed earth

Or book a seat alongside mother Eve, watch commentary of her iconic, anguished birth

The globe turns slowly for the lost and lonely who look hard for the noble and holy

…

Orion speaks into a chaos, a catastrophe, centred around metropolis’s pained contusion

We all sit, full of learning in the counsel of King Arthur, knights who wait for their end

Summon Jupiter, Methuselah, Odin’s son, the counsel of the wise, armed with weapons of iron

…

Hammer the breastplate, gild the helmet, mount the white horse, rouse the sentry

Here we, masters of our inheritance, regal champions who slew Behemoth in turn

Circle like crows beneath the dome of Andromeda, afeared the hunters beak and claw

…

There steps forth then, as bold to speak, from out the carbon skies

One who has listened deep and cold to many stories, myths, and to their many lies

Not a fourth comforter whose disgrace and pain of shame never were well hidden

…

A bright star listed in the book written by the heart of god if not by his injured hand

Collected words from a sorry band of misfits, harlequin and humbled rogues

Who in their weakness and their folly, sowed frailty and brokenness, to cut a slice of holy 

…

Orion speaks for those with fears, for those who stand a little nervous in Jibrails hall

For those who stepped outside the tent, whose eyes arched away from heaven

Who true of heart, enjoy the strangest loyalty to Pleiades band of seven

…

Listen now ye coldest moon who lights the bleakest beacon and ye dumb Trojan horse

Whose wooden, blanket eyes hide the stench of good men stolen, listen as Orion speaks

He understands your treason, shows pity, understanding, God’s mercy, bronze-swollen

edenbraytoday

Ref. 02092020

…

#AUTHOR’S NOTE

In common with a lot of my recent work and in part motivated by a habit I picked up during my recent CV-19 Isolation, I have taken to writing a kind of PREQUEL – FOREWARD – an ‘AFTERWARD’ if you will but at any rate an Author’s ‘comment’.

I do this, not by way of translation but rather as a suggestion or possibly a more attainable connection. Poetry is actually how I prefer to communicate with others but its a hard language with which to develop relationships.

‘ORION SPEAKS’ as a written piece has been brewing a long time inside and I’m still not sure its finished. ‘Distilling’ may actually be a better choice of word than brewing.

It forms a ‘pair’ with the TRIALS OF MILES BLACKMAN which I also may open up and work some more on. A POEM is a sculpture that is never finished, a story that really has no conclusion. There may even be a 3rd Part to follow.

ORION is a mannequin upon which to hang my clothes and it might also be termed ‘autobiographical’, I’m not certain I can claim that.

Can you step away from EARTH for a brief ten minutes to view the stars and ‘listen’?

Can you search your soul for one brief hour and consider in truth our beginning?

ORION has been important throughout the story of mankind. ORION SPEAKS and has spoken to many generations.

edenbraytoday – 3rd. August 2020

…

REFERENCE GLOSSARY:

PSALM 147:4  

He determines the number of the stars; he gives to all of them their names.

JOB 38:31 

“Can you bind the chains of the Pleiades or loose the cords of Orion?”

JOB 38:1-41

Then the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind and said: “Who is this that darkens counsel by words without knowledge? Dress for action like a man; I will question you, and you make it known to me. “Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth? Tell me, if you have understanding. Who determined its measurements—surely you know! Or who stretched the line upon it? …

AMOS 5:8

He who made the Pleiades and Orion, and turns deep darkness into the morning and darkens the day into night, who calls for the waters of the sea and pours them out on the surface of the earth, the Lord is his name; AMOS

…

The Orion Arm is a minor spiral arm of the Milky Way Galaxy that is 3,500 light-years (1,100 parsecs) across and approximately 10,000 light-years (3,100 parsecs) in length, containing the Solar System, including Earth.

Orion’s Belt or the Belt of Orion, also known as the Three Kings or Three Sisters, is an asterism in the constellation Orion. It consists of the three bright stars Alnitak, Alnilamand Mintaka. Looking for Orion’s Belt in the night sky is the easiest way to locate Orion in the sky.

Which star shines the brightest?Sirius ASirius A and B. The brightest star in the sky is Sirius, also known as the “Dog Star” or, more officially, Alpha Canis Majoris, for its position in the constellation Canis Major. Sirius is a binary star dominated by a luminous main sequence star, Sirius A, with an apparent magnitude of -1.46.

…

 “Over 25,000 individual measures of the Pleiades stars are now available, and their study led to the important discovery that the whole cluster is moving in a southeasterly direction. The Pleiades stars may thus be compared to a swarm of birds, flying together to a distant goal. This leaves no doubt that the Pleiades are not a temporary or accidental agglomeration of stars, but a system in which the stars are bound together by a close kinship.” From our perspective on Earth, the Pleiades will not change in appearance; these stars are marching together in formation toward the same destination, bound in unison, just as God described them.

…

Two of the greatest of its stars, Betelgeuse and Rigel, possess, as far as has been ascertained, no perceptible motion across the line of sight, but there is a little movement perceptible in the ‘Belt.’ At the present time this consists of an almost perfect straight line, a row of second-magnitude stars about equally spaced and of the most striking beauty. In the course of time, however, the two right-hand stars, Mintaka and Alnilam (how fine are these Arabic star names!) will approach each other and form a naked-eye double, but the third, Alnita, will drift away eastward, so that the ‘Belt’ will no longer exist.” Unlike the Pleaides clusters, the stars in the band of Orion do not share a common trajectory. In the course of time, Orion’s belt will be loosened just as God told Job.

ORION and

ARTEMIS

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NOLI TIMERE ~ DO NOT BE AFRAID

Posted on August 13, 2020 by edenbray

NOLI TIMERE – DO NOT BE AFRAID

…   ⚐⚐⚐  …

.

I came very late to the party

By the time I arrived it had started

Coleridge was dancing with Langston

Emily had a whole group of admirers

In the corner I noticed was Seamus

and the spotless Paul Muldoon

Shamelessly chatting of McClaverty

with Longley and Andrew Motion

Keates and Byron they were there

And Shelley at one point stood on a chair

Hemmingway kind of got in the door

Eminem sat in the corner on the floor

The music was loud they were playing Dylan

Some fool was heard reciting Ibsen

I heard some voices raised,

might just be Ginsberg, Kerouac

along with other bad seeds and Nick Cave

out the back, on the table, in the kitchen

In the yard, some actor fellows

had started a fire with guffaws

and a pair of ancient bellows

Wordsworth was seated at a bureau

he wrote an ode 

While ‘the bard’ was there

directing the show

In the far distance I heard an owl

and later a pussycats soft meow

..

edenbraytoday

ref.13082020


							

	
			

													
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OUTTAKES ~ 04 – Guilt never wears a happy face!


			

				Posted on August 10, 2020 by edenbray			


					

				
OUTTAKES – 04


I’ve been in the attic, I’ve been in the cellar, I raided my notebooks –I’M HAVING A YARD SALE – It’s a Car Boot – THEY’RE UNFINISHED LINES, unfinished poems, POEMS THAT MISSED OUT ON PREVIOUS RETROSPECTIVES, good ideas, BAD IDEES, inspiration, OR JUST GOOD TITLES, abortive attempts – IM CLEARING THE BACKLOG – opening up the storehouse – IT’S A COLONIC IRRIGATION – an enema – I’M MILKING THE PAPS – so mother writer’s milk might flow through fresh again!


… … …


GUILT NEVER WEARS A HAPPY FACE


tumblr_loyzjurT1U1qa3a12


Setting aside our current concerns over Covid-19, people of today get paranoid about a number of relatively illogical things, depending on your point of view or your particular peccadillo. From the dangers of passive smoking, through asbestos poisoning and wells disease to the many and varied phobias including the usual and familiar, like claustrophobia, aracnaphobia and onto those even more extreme than the likes of brontophobia (fear of thunderstorms) or mysophobia (fear of germs)!


However damaging the subject of these rattlesnake fears may be to their victims, none of them can ever be as controlling or debilitating than the inner curse that is the nub of that mischievous little 5-letter symptomia known as – guilt (cue – flashing thunder and scary music please) … Psychologists, psychoanalysts, fundamentalist Christians theologians, Catholic priests and basically most world religions teachers, philosophers, political leaders and social analysts would all give you differing, possibly predictable but non the less worthy responses to the age old question,  what is guilt?


pre-CGI-alien-431x300


Edenbray is not here today to catalogue, reiterate, confirm or criticise these many well documented beliefs or respected, proven and accepted diagnosis. No, today I just want to simply take a cool, long and hard look in the eye of the little blighter. This annoying, secretive parasite of the human psyche that can burrow its way into the human mind and soul and grow to such an unhealthy scale that apparently, it can help create mass murderers, serial killers and psychoanalytic nightmares of the weirdest and strangest order, yet for the most of us ( hastily he separates himself from the earlier list ) guilt has at the least, been the cause of not a few arguments, both inner and vocalised, has wrought untold emotional pain and angst and contributed to not a few very stupid actions and reactions. Or am I the only one? 


Deny guilt has a say in your life to your peril my friend, for this devious little ‘shit’ will gnaw out your very soul right in the fleshy centre of that denial and at the very least ruin many a pleasant afternoon stroll or even a healthy game of scrabble. No, joking aside, we are not all psychopathic monsters riddled with parent-induced, strict religious guilt but we all do on some scale or other, fall prey from time to time, to the little monster known as ‘guilt’. 


#Note :~ the word guilt rhymes with ‘quilt’ which seems kind of poetic as squares of guilt when sewn together will eventually grow into huge proportions in much the same way as a patchwork quilt??


2700791173_7f3c8e02e2


It has to be said that bed linen may not actually disguise guilt but it could be seen to cover those many acts of unfaithfulness and deceit that can easily lead to one very common cause of guilt. In my search to determine what guilt actually looks like, I have decided to organise an ‘identikit’ operation that hopefully will lead to a kind of IDENTITY PARADE and to eventually single out the little shit. We may then stitch these patchwork cameo’s of ‘guilt’ together and ultimately learn to recognise the traits of this insidious little demon known as ‘guilt’.


Guilt never has a happy face


We may process what we know about guilt more by what we know it doesn’t look like than what it does. For example true guilt never has a happy face, nor is it particularly attractive. It may smile but that smile mostly turns out to be little more than a sneer. G.u.i.l.t can never really be beachball jolly, I’m sorry but that’s the way it is!


When we have eventually singled ‘guilt’ out, isolated it, named it and shamed it we may begin to ask – How did we ever fall prey to its wiles and devious schemes? How did we let this little phsyco bully us, invade us, worry us, negatively influence us and ultimately dominate us.


Paragons of un-virtue will interlude at this point that they have no truck with this ‘pious’, self-righteous and shameless little roadster. ‘I feel no guilt’ is the monogram on many a playboys shorts, embezzlers wallet or dodgy tradesmen’s van. Any shyster, con-artist or on a bawdy tarts bra and knickers, if she wears any. To these and all those who manage to control their inner voices like Al Capone wielding a baseball bat, they will maintain they remain ‘guiltless’, yet guilt still remains an Alien in our midst, under our skin and inside our heads and personally should I ever meet such a one, face to face, he’ll get short shrift from my particular maple bat as I’m certainly not one of those to entertain the notion of change, open-mindedness or to willingly allow any one, sick, psycho to influence my life or actions.


So this essay on guilt is clearly aimed at those who believe in visitors from out of space or  that have already met the slimy little monster with a head full of teeth whose name begins with a ‘gee’ and ends with a ‘tee’.


Yes, guilt my friend affects us all I would propose at some time or other, even the supposed ‘guiltless’ and while guilt is not beautiful, alluring, pretty, handsome or desirable it is not necessarily ugly either, in the same way as say a malignant cancer’s physical appearance to the naked eye can be mute and non-alarming. 


The problem with guilt is that it nags like a puss-filled boil, an insect bite, a domineering wife, husband or partner. It chaffs and worries us like a hungry baby, a pain in the groin or an unpaid bill. Until we meet its demands, it hangs over us like a blackmailer with the darkest of our secrets. It sends messages with devious cunning that we uncover in the unlikeliest moments. It can make us act strange and if we bury it deep, it leaves molehills on the surface of our landscaped lives to remind us it has escaped and is still roaming ‘out there’, dangerous, naked and free.


Guilt is no respecter of a persons age, background or social standing and people caught in its spidery web resort to the strangest, wildest, most diabolic recourse to remove its incessant taunts. You might say its vengeance is extreme. 


Guilt does not let you be your ‘real’ self


Guilt hides away in the crevices of the human heart and the folds of the human brain and teaches us to do likewise. It is a skeleton in the closet, a ghost in the dark night, a rat in the attic – appearing at moments when you think it may has gone for good. Guilt is ‘your’ secret, even though you hide it so well, or you think you did. You’re better off without it but how do you ‘out’ it and how do you get the alien ‘out of the closet’? How do you set that particular demon free? It’s a dilemma and no mistake and one that keeps a whole lotta’ people in work. 


Multiple analysts, counsellors, doctors, priests – all earn a good living dealing with other peoples guilt …. So how do we cut loose from this fettered monster? Choose your poison. Maybe we should all learn to become a bit more honest about the things that make us feel guilty. Drag them screaming out into the light of day and expose them for what they are. Make coffee-time with your friends your personal confessional. Come on, get it off your chest, you know you want to and you might be surprised where it will all lead, just a little of that good old heartfelt honesty. Maybe people will find you a lot more interesting. It might turn out a real turn-on for them or maybe they will recognise you are human after all and a lot more like themselves than they had realised. Open the cage and step out into the light my friends. 


Right then whose first?




							

	
			

													
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OUTTAKES – 05 ~ MAUD & MARIANNE


			

				Posted on August 9, 2020 by edenbray			


					

				
OUTTAKES – 05


I’ve been in the attic, I’ve been in the cellar, I raided my notebooks – I’M HAVING A YARD SALE – It’s a Car Boot – THEY’RE UNFINISHED LINES, unfinished poems, POEMS THAT MISSED OUT ON PREVIOUS RETROSPECTIVES, good ideas, BAD IDEES, inspiration, OR JUST GOOD TITLES, abortive attempts – IM CLEARING THE BACKLOG – opening up the storehouse – IT’S A COLONIC IRRIGATION – an enema – I’M MILKING THE PAPS – so mother writer’s milk might flow through fresh again!


.


⚙︎   ⚙︎   ⚙︎


… … …


MAUD & MARIANNE


…   …   …


birds and bees


§  §  §


It was a thunderclap that woke them


Woven as they were golden


They had slept that way for hours


Carried home honey from the bees


§


They first met in ’54 when what they did


Was way below the law


Marianne always the clever one


And Maud who wore the shawl


§


They both drank bourbon from


A tall tin cup; an amphora


A crystal chalice or a beaker


But when they held hands it was cleaner


§


Not many people had said


They were made for each other


Then Marianne bought pansies


Maud wept & then became her lover


§


Souls twine like rope, useful and strong


The head of a horse stands up


As proud as the day is long


These two wore vivid silk sarongs


§


And hiding in the fisher hut


Her Polish father’s sweet garret


They spoke for hours of love and pain


Till Maud guessed the amber stain


§


Their ’78 became a by-word flame


The cultured opulence of their modern day


Glitter, gave way to the raw colours of earth


So they made a kind of docu-film


§


This day, to-day – people stop & listen


When their love was at its strongest


Opinion divided by hatreds engine driven


Love’s purple flower was too well hidden


§


People’s views change, glow & glisten


In the dockyard, schoolyard or the mission


Mauds temper finally broke the bowl & strew


Diamonds, soft lilies & golden fishes


§


So lovely, the hands of Marianne


Who could’ve sat in forest wolds, in a felt hat


Strumming words, loving birds, telling Maud


No other matter matters, but Love.


§


…   …   …


a ballad


…


writtenbyedenbraycompleted24.09.2017


⚙︎   ⚙︎   ⚙︎


.


… thanks for listening …

							

	
			

													
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OUTTAKES ~ 02 – COMMON PEOPLE –


			

				Posted on August 8, 2020 by edenbray			


					

				


… … …


COMMON PEOPLE


…


image


…   …   …


 


The common man is hidden


He hides


Society once dressed him in grey


And navy


But now out of the magician’s hat


Badly free


Punctured skin and stored notes


NHS notes


Honey bee hives, sweet and gammy


Political votes


Enter the torn horse kicking gaily


A New Daily


Opinion shattered, warming sugar-sweet


A viral horn


TV people collecting crushed data, ice


Overpriced


Nature as usual, nothing much said, led


Red river-bed


Back down in the verdant silver valley


Money talks


…   …   …


writtenbyedenbray16/17/1/15.


.


… thanks for listening …


 


⚙︎   ⚙︎   ⚙︎


 


I’ve been in the attic, I’ve been in the cellar, I raided my notebooks – I’M HAVING A YARD SALE – It’s a Car Boot – THEY’RE UNFINISHED LINES, unfinished poems, POEMS THAT MISSED OUT ON PREVIOUS RETROSPECTIVES, good ideas, maybe BAD IDEES, inspiration, OR JUST GOOD TITLES, MISFIRES, abortive attempts – IM CLEARING THE BACKLOG – opening up the storehouse, come on in!  – I’M MILKING THE PAPS – so mother-writer’s milk might flow on through!


.


⚙︎   ⚙︎   ⚙︎


 

							

	
			

													
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BUCKETS OF RAIN


			

				Posted on August 7, 2020 by edenbray			


					

				






























BUCKETS OF RAIN


by Bob Dylan


GUEST POEM


(Lyrics)






Buckets of rain

Buckets of tears

Got all them buckets comin’ out of my ears

Buckets of moonbeams in my hand

You got all the love

Honey baby, I can stand


.










I been meek

And hard like an oak

I’ve seen pretty people disappear like smoke

Friends will arrive, friends will disappear

If you want me

Honey baby, I’ll be here


I like your smile

And your fingertips

I like the way that you move your hips

I like the cool way you look at me

Everything about you is bringing me misery


Little red wagon

Little red bike

I ain’t no monkey, but I know what I like

I like the way you love me strong and slow

I’m taking you with me

Honey baby, when I go


Life is sad

Life is a bust

All you can do is do what you must

You do what you must do, and you do it well

I do it for you

Honey baby, can’t you tell?













							

	
			

													
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OUTTAKES – 03 ~ THE TRASH MAN


			

				Posted on August 7, 2020 by edenbray			


					

				
OUTTAKES – 03




.


⚙︎   ⚙︎   ⚙︎




…  …  …


THE TRASH MAN


…   …   …




.


nunun


.


I am a bin man taking the trash


Loading up on peoples throw-outs


I seen my share of care


Fourteen cents and a dollar bill


In the back pocket of a pair of strides


And a full box of cigarillos on Tues-a-day


Tuesday afternoon with a stack o’Newsweek


That had been, hardly read


One ole’ woman wanted us to take her cat


It was dead, thats what she said


She cried when I said ‘No,


But that cat should be buried


My pay-check pays for my bills


Mose’ times but I ain’t no Leadbelly


I cane’ do nothin’ more than carry this trash


But I read the magazines when I get home.


.


ununu


writtenbyedenbray


⚙︎   ⚙︎   ⚙︎






 


 




 


 


… thanks for listening …


 


⚙︎   ⚙︎   ⚙︎


 


I’ve been in the attic, I’ve been in the cellar, I raided my notebooks – I’M HAVING A YARD SALE – It’s a Car Boot – THEY’RE UNFINISHED LINES, unfinished poems, POEMS THAT MISSED OUT ON PREVIOUS RETROSPECTIVES, good ideas, maybe BAD IDEES, inspiration, OR JUST GOOD TITLES, MISFIRES, abortive attempts – IM CLEARING THE BACKLOG – opening up the the storehouse  – I’M MILKING THE PAPS – so mother writer’s milk might flow on through!


.


⚙︎   ⚙︎   ⚙︎

							

	
			

													
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A FOREWARD & AN ESSAY ~ ‘The Trials Of Miles Blackman’


			

				Posted on August 5, 2020 by edenbray			


					

				
An Essay and a Foreward


to the autobiographical poem


THE TRIALS OF MILES BLACKMAN


⚛︎


During the early lockdown period of the Covid-19 pandemic I ran a series of Posts on my edenbray8 blog site with helpful notes from my own point of view. I did this for a number of reasons and not simply for the purpose of translating my verse. Essentially, if a poetic piece needs to be translated, it becomes like a joke where no one laughed or a cartoon that flew over but the truth is, I enjoyed that first-person writing experience and adding a little context. Poetry, to me, isn’t just about telling a story either but hey, now I’m trying to tell you what to think and what you probably already know.


As a poet, I always hope to trigger the readers imaginative response, educate the ‘third eye’ of intuition and feeling, develop understanding and wisdom, that greatest of human, mental and spiritual traits and fully engage the emotional person. Life, I believe is never one dimensional or shouldn’t be, even though trauma, pain and sadness can dull those left-field centres of our creative brains, we are always more than machines. If we can follow life’s stream even a little under the surface, maybe a half note off-key, stray, however briefly, beyond our own ‘safety’ limits or rebound our opinions and dogma off another wall it helps us to stay the course and complete the individual  journey we are all on.


Sometimes our paths will cross and occasionally you will meet someone with a part of their story that is similar to your own but never quite the same and then we move on. We try to keep our journeys together but it cannot always be. It’s not necessarily unfaithfulness that causes people to drift apart. Our emotional life is always evolving. Swans and pigeons mate for life but I don’t believe they encounter that particular problem.


I don’t want to try and translate ‘The Trials of Miles Blackman‘ but then again perhaps I do. I really want my readers to get it for themselves. There may be one line, one stanza, one verse or maybe one whole section that connects with another’s life and experience or explains itself at all. If just one punch-point gets through to my readers on any level of appreciation, personally I would be happy with that. All I know is, I put a lot of work into this piece, a lot of myself and I seriously made a lot of effort to get it right. If your response to that is ‘hey, then you wasted your time’ then yes, I think I would even take that.


edenbraytoday 


Ref. 05082020

							

	
			

													
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THE TRIALS OF MILES BLACKMAN – a modern-day saint


			

				Posted on August 3, 2020 by edenbray			


					

				
three masted schooner


THE TRIALS OF MILES BLACKMAN


A MODERN DAY SAINT


..

This day the sun had shone it’s fair share, it was a lemon in the sky

Purple stained clouds hanging like stranded, used confetti drifting by

The wedding happened earlier, we decided, too late now to cry

…

The bell on the old church rang 2am, in my mind I started up an ancient hymn

A song of a better time when I drank wine over whisky and words they still rhymed

when I could at least post vivid memories in a box marked lost and found

…

Jonah had told me of snakes in Ghana and Gary he taught me ladders

The one you avoid, the other you climb, whether its pantiles or its adders

The people you meet in life build you up or they can leave your life in tatters

…

Miles he wasn’t black nor brown, didn’t fancy men, didn’t wear a gown

Started out a happy child, later turned out wild, out where poppy seeds are sown

The thirties are your best years, mens minds tell them they are grown

…

Diomedes, Heracles, Dionysus, which is true and which is legend?

Who is secret agent, who the hero of the working class, who the bastard felon?

Miles on miles, had met them all since the grand old age of seven

…

Tribulations, trouble, tantrums tres, they ride the palest horse

While Andreas untroubled comes walking, across the well-mown course

The church clock strikes eleven, cousin Ruben is accused of using too much force

…

Miles started out drawing line upon lie, miles of line, like a regular sea fisherman

Alone for days with his solitary ways, became an enigma in his own prison

Tennyson twisted, teflon-gifted, troubled and torn, no one there to listen

…

Women, much like girls are on the other side, like road signs in another country

Miles never had a sister, truth is true but like Nautilus he still missed her

Understanding and patience are often born into another’s hands, we help each other

…

The neon lights, sights, noise and smell of a London town, a Rome, make another spell

In this fond intoxication I find I lose my alienation, by this most charming attenuation

It was about this time in Green Park that Jagger stepped out wearing a dress

…

The clergyman’s daughter is now doing precisely what Pygmalion ain’t oughta

Sitting on a park bench in Trafalgar Square, sleeping and reading classics on trains

Caddying for artists, observing disorder, next stop, becoming a hospital porter

…

Milos wandered through the warm butterfly-strong fields of gold-seed and flax

Maybe it was there he birthed so many thoughts and flowered complications

Miles always loved birds of all persuasions, he chuckled, that he never met another dove

…

And when push comes to shove, he should, instead he met a girl of purest wood

A gleaner gathering wheat up in her dress the factory girl of whom Jagger had sang

Her zip broke, her clothes were in a mess, still, isn’t it good, Norwegian wood?

…

A turpid tale with turgid momentum, turns, takes in corners and kerb stones

Sharp suited becomes the woodcutters son, no hope rolls over, we learn how to drum

So many angles, so many strokes, Miles had his moments as just one of the blokes

…

The grazing deer showed a face of surprise, a gentleness lost in her cold, black eyes

Princely birds circled above azure washéd skies, every mothers son eventually dies

Becomes a father, or a leader, or a tramp, Miles often took up mothers Nightingale lamp

…

Imagined himself with Julie, like Terence Stamp, we give so much of ourselves to cinema 

To irrational fears, alcohol and tea, Long John wrestles Israel Hands on the Hispaniola

Young Miles sipped the froth off his cola, played housey housey at the Camp Tombola

…

The war hadn’t been kind to very many, nursing the scars of hearth and home

The loss of feeling, of limbs, noses, bones, the smell of fear after the drone

Adding the distance the doodle-bugs had flown or the sweated space under the stair

…

Martha had sat at the feet of Jesu only after her duties, Miles sat like Mary had lonely

With mother he listened, her true one and only, to tales that didn’t need the lengthening

Or chapter or verse, or detail to make them worse, he loved mother like a tortured monk

…

As soon as he could Miles learned to get drunk, his moral compass on life it had sunk

without trace, like the Nazi lie or the Bismarck, Miles gregarious soul wore an Iron Cross

On his barrel chest, under his breast, determination sings sweetest in the evening mizzle

…

When life gives you tough cuts, leave only gristle, Miles searched hard for Lesley’s nipple

It’s not true she was emotionally crippled, Miles tried to love everyone in his life

Baguettes, cobs, rolls and of course his sweet wife, In his forties he even learned to stipple

…

Somehow, we are almost always waiting for the end (Tristan)

Miles had catalogued this earlier in oils, on one long, lascivious, traumatic spread

While reading Tolkien, Voltaire and Leary, for once in his life his eyelids grew weary

…

Now thank God for the internet, Caravan and whisky, summer sun, memories gone misty

Those cellophane fires of Altamont, Jagger pleaded for cool, they almost have expired

The wake of Meredith Hunter, young, gifted, black, maybe sadder than George Floyd

…

The legends of Morrison, Morrissey and Dolores O’Riordan each telling a different tale

Miles upon miles in the morning still hoping, still yearning this ship may eventually sail

Across the blue-grey yonder, peat filled fields of wonder, Leviathon split asunder 

…

Standing still calm on the frosted horizon a three-masted schooner named Sorrow

An opportunity borrowed from the maiden’s master to light a welcoming fire

Fire of desire, a towering spire out on the water, for the saint whose heart God sees 


… 


edenbraytoday


ref. 03082020


MeredithGrave


Remembering


MEREDITH CURLY HUNTER


24.10.1951 – 06.12.1969


~ ~ ~


Authors Note: –


During the early lockdown period of the Covid-19  pandemic I ran a series of Posts here on my edenbray8 blog site with notes I wrote from my own point of view. I did this for a number of reasons and not simply for the purpose of translation. Essentially, if the whole of a poetic piece needs to be translated, it becomes like a joke where no one laughed or a cartoon that flew over but the truth is, I enjoyed the first-person writing experience and adding a little context. Poetry, to me, isn’t about telling a story either but hey, now I’m telling you what to think and what you probably already knew.


As a poet, I always hope to trigger the readers imaginative response, educate the ‘third eye’ of intuition and feeling, develop ‘understanding’ and wisdom, that greatest of human, mental and spiritual characteristics and fully engage the emotional person. Life, I believe is never one dimensional or shouldn’t be, even though trauma, pain and sadness can dull those left-field centres of our creative brains, we are always more than machines. If we can follow life’s stream just slightly under the surface, maybe a half note off-key, stray briefly beyond our own ‘safety’ limits and rebound our opinions and dogma off another wall, it helps us to stay the course and complete the journey we are all on.


Sometimes our paths will cross and occasionally you will meet someone with part of their story that is similar to your own but never quite the same and then we move on. We try to keep our journeys together but it cannot always be. It’s not necessarily unfaithfulness that causes people to drift apart. Our emotional life is evolving. Swans and pigeons mate for life but I don’t believe they encounter that particular problem.


I don’t want to translate ‘The Trials of Miles Blackman‘ I want my readers to get it for themselves. There may only be one line, one stanza, one verse or maybe only one whole section that connects with another’s life and experience or explains itself at all. If just one punch-point gets through to the reader on any level of appreciation, personally I would be happy with any or all of that. All I know is, I put a lot of work into this piece, a lot of myself and I seriously made a lot of effort. If your response to that is ‘hey, then you wasted your time’ then yes, I would even take that.


edenbraytoday ~ 04.08.2020

							

	
			

													
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