TURNER PRIZE .. .

Posted on April 3, 2025 by edenbray

Turner Prize .. .

by your leave
I am not sullied by semantics
my projects
laid out like morning clothes
Charles Wesley
spoke with the chamber maid
lay down your guns
in charcoal
the chamber maid spoke with the cook
lay down your pistols and your swords
in pastel
I’m up for the Turner this year
where nobody understands
what anyone is saying
until they write the book
in ink
Babylon in newsprint
the king told the chamber maid
O’ i do like a little butter with my bread
the chamber maid spoke with the cow
concept concept
set in formaldehyde
cliche cliche
not all prize winners are Damien Hurst
or a preserved animal
an unmade bed
or a sculpture
made of salt, sand
wood, stone
glass or resin
in concrete
difficult to explain
till in the morning light
and on the early tide
they are washed away
concept concept
is the new king
O’, said the king
but i do like a little butter
with my bread

©edenbraytoday30.03.2025

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THE WHITE FUR & THE SABLE .. .

Posted on March 12, 2025 by edenbray

 

 

THE WHITE FUR and THE SABLE

.

the white fur – the sable
black fur dark
all souls capable
they return horned and
homeward through
sand-scarred missal
feet forged at earth’s core
harpooned tusks, volcano
scorched, scored agate
the languid oryx
stands benign

mythological – many are
the animals so cloven hoofed
did she not borrow
curvéd scimitars
of ice whales from 
the frozen north
if so, she hid it well
favouring tranquility
over beasts of burden
slavishness, fears
about hostilities

serenity – the desert
antelope wears his
last owner’s stripe
as sand trickles through
this island preoccupation
    this  w  a  r
oceanic, seismic borders
he who plants broadest foot
makes claim on fairest quarters
desires safe haven wherever
she; he may raise
sons and daughters

..

©edenbraytoday10.03.2025

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WHAT’S THAT PAINTING ON THE WALL .. .

Posted on February 26, 2025 by edenbray

What’s that painting on the wall? …

..

in the half light
it seemed the best place to start
to try to explain
there is a painting on the wall

we were in a cafe
before we all stopped smoking
i moved the pepper toward the salt
it was a philosophical equation

the picture said it all
I had funny lines that could explain it
but suddenly I fell sleepy
a psychological pain behind my eyes

two mugs of coffee arrived
we talked together in hushed tones
as talking is always better
than killing, hating, maiming or blaming

we agreed to differ
about the meaning of the painting
the yellow painting
which hung discreetly on the wall

..

©edenbraytoday22.02.2025

..

(extracts from the yellow book)

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INDIGENOUS INDIGESTION – beat bop

Posted on February 23, 2025 by edenbray

Indigenous indigestion – beat-bop

People are proud of their heritage
sitting on balconies with their windie boxes
wondering if the structure they are sitting on
is secure enough to take their weight
the high-rise boxes they now live in
are no better than the tenements
they were moved from in 1968
when everyone had thought they were great
but now they knock them down
they have found they wasnae sound

And a few hardy bums build their homes
under flyovers and in underpasses
or in shop windies wi’ a recess
who have forgotten their heritage
or where they came from
before they arrived in the city made of concrete
whose chemical production ripped a man-size
hole in the ozone down by the Honduras
where they say it is always warm
you can dip your toes in the sea

There’s a veteran who served in Afghanistan
who hit on hard times after he came hame
and he was born in Scotland
lived in the tenements with high ceilings
and sashy windies and gloomy paper on the walls
and the mammy polished the tiled step stone
at the front door o’ their hoose
as all the people did when they were proud
of their heritage, their standing in the street
the people that they were

©edenbraytoday23.02.2025

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STEINBECK LANE .. .

Posted on January 26, 2025 by edenbray

Steinbeck Lane .. .

..

Where I grew up in gunner’s shale
  shoes polished, faces paper pale
the television flickered bread was stale
  we put a brave face on and smiled

green the carpet spread about us
  sleepy set among post-war housies               
chintzy paper covered cracks all over
  cells wrought strong not jerry built

search to find patriots hidden
  neath the undergrowth were they driven
the anonymity of the poor left bleeding
  to find their own way still believing

young dreamers spake in tongues
  fragile voices with tobacco lungs
learned audacious visions of the past
  wore their hair like broken glass

partizan, brash, all self assuming
  with devils, youth eternally colluding
batter at the hoary head of shame
  vindictive in apportioned blame

they looked for Steinbeck Lane
  midst middle-class cul-de-sacs of pain
found only rough hewn poem sonnets
  buried ‘neath their childhood bonnets

we puffed the dragon, spilt his seed
  rallied ‘gainst the capitalist creed
read the book of thoughts by tse tong
  infected of the wrong of being young

thus bells rang out for class
  smug disappointment settled vast
a generation too soon ran to the hills
  scattered potions, memes and pills

an estuary of guilt and lost romance
  brave ones died, others left the dance
the auditorium emptied and a pale
  shenanigan cemented took its place

where the underground; the subversive
  now that Dylan sold his back catalogue
the rebel rousers all went electric
  relevant protest versed in semantics

a few hardy souls remain transient
  existentially mindful, consciously aware
they stand by their indelicate stain
  watch, listen, elevator music disdain

..

©edenbraytoday26.01.2025

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FORSOOTH .. .

Posted on January 10, 2025 by edenbray

.

forsooth .. .

...

.

Branded by categories
paranoia on a train
heading east
where sandals divide toes
and sardines lie in tins

I memorise lines of Chaucer
not enough time to digest
all she wrote me
or candles I ever lit
at the sepulchre of meaning

Deconstruct things
maybe all this, is Picasso’s fault
we cannot see things
as once before
subtlety with hidden meaning

There is no reason to deny
we did not share a common tongue
as at Babel we once were one
until mechanics of division kicked in
and we assumed a destiny

Conscious, alternative spores
ingest soulless rhetoric of noughts
empty thoughts and guns
an invasion by the ones
contest a universal Binary

Language is a sphere we kicked around
but did not invent
there are no square planets
only square holes filled
with hate as hats in different sizes

Revolution’s mother
stepped aside in that golden era
bell-bottomed marines
marooned on a philosophical island
a desert not of our choosing

Om: the causalities of war
bestial and banal
creativities icons lay beside
a Naam road with refugees
carts; possessions; dreams

We who had a ticket to ride
and who did not care
began to care very deeply
except the flames of change
burn all things before the running

And to the vets set aside
watching wheels turn
numb spacemen in the bleachers
held arms to change the world
tear down our flag unfurled

.

©edenbraytoday10.01.2025

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LEAF LITTER .. .

Posted on December 24, 2024 by edenbray

leaf litter .. .

..

i look down upon what has been
it sparkles in infinity
the order of life
tales of multiplicity
these chronicles of history

a broken fence lies abandoned
the sounds of dogs barking
echoes in the early evening
i stoop to avoid a dead branch
a swollen pool is still and silent

these leaves spent, pale gold
augustine; a splendent carpet
glimmer in half light
soft the footfall hidden
wait the night bird’s call forgiven

..

©edenbraytoday19.12.2024

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AT HOME WITH JOHN MARTIN .. .

Posted on December 18, 2024 by edenbray

at home with John Martin .. .

.

.

We wrung the neck of life
slashed the face off it
i stumbled around in the dark
reached out my hands
found sheafs of crumpled paper
by a match I read the words
that burned my fingers raw
yet so inspired by what I saw
lines of text so long forgotten
they were not even born yet
thoughts I had begotten
Isaac begat Esau and Jacob
who was the younger son
these words I read again
they became living bread
manna from out of heaven
I sensed a thing I must do
and falling down
behind the spring
I smote the rock
out from it blood spewed
sentiment and feeling
the elements of truth
they were to me
fearfully astounding
or that I ever wrote
these words at all
me with no poetic grounding
and the rain on my face
that became hot spears
I smote the rock again
the mountain crumbled
and there was the path
I had been looking for
for years on years
and then my tears
they became laughter
it seemed the vision cleared
the distant rumble of thunder
pleasantness after rain has fallen
the sky much brighter
I had sat with John Martin
for an hour or two
I had read Dante’s poem
seen Scott’s antarctic
heard VW’s lark ascending
it was enough for me
to have been in Martha’s kitchen
to have ridden stapled to Moby’s back

.

©edenbraytoday18.12.2024

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BRITPOP AS A VISTA .. .

Posted on December 9, 2024 by edenbray

britpop as a vista ...

 
 
 
 

sad as I feel
my teenage duty laid aside
laid down and out on a level floor
our horizons reduced to lard

worlds recycled
in a toxic bin of sourdough and
aspiration dressed in sardine stripes
hollow memories of life

I considered suicide
as one more escape from reality
or was it a movie I had not seen
its ending tragic-misery

a gothic answer
to when bold knights were born
and faced with watching thriller
they fell on swords

la la la moving over
girls wearing dm boots
boys in smooth, fluffy jumpers
said no to drugs

things happened fast
nothing such as happy accident
9/11 revived the holocaust
which slandered all illusion

teeny boppers in
a teeny world of interlopers
split-screen cgi, imaginary spools
a speak n’spell etch-a-sketch

britpop fantasy vista vesta
take me back to the fifties
grandpa washed in a tin bath
sat in the crapper watching stars

sad as I feel I remember
in this old December how we
once rolled ciggies with yellow fingers
nostalgia in suspenders

..

©edenbraytoday09.12.2024

 

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THINGS THAT ARE YEARNED FOR .. .

Posted on December 7, 2024 by edenbray

things that are yearned for .. .

.

.

There comes in time; the moment
  when you lose ability to be artful
you settle for the easy life
  lose agility to duck and dive
lose the jump and jive: your mojo
  the stealthy creature that is time
it’s been creeping on for years
  plays on doubts and fears
about your self; your thought life
  yonder marzipan moon, the
jaundiced eye; drawbridge down
  memory moat mostly empty
lost days of sexy love and plenty
  the only way is looking down
an abyss of your choosing; confusion
  so you choose another hobby
petition one more lobby
  to restore what you have lost
yet you have lost nothing
  but pride in your appearance
skill in dangerous living
  walk on, look up to the sky
you are pathetic looking at the floor
  wash your face, comb your hair
make yourself a double dare
  live for the day not yesteryear
shake off dull, grey lethargy
  start up project that is you

..

©edenbraytoday05.12.2024

.
. .. did the world know it needed one more desiderata?
. .. read Bukowski on hope and you will understand Bukowski .. .
“Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead.”
― Charles Bukowski

.

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