More poetry in circulation

E-zine Various Artists is currently circulating five new poems of mine. To have them delivered to your inbox, simply drop a line to VA at: variousartists986@gmail.com

Just a reminder ...

... that the next post on new Anglo-Bulgarian art/writing site Colourful Star goes live tomorrow (Friday 31 Jan) and features a painting by Bulgarian artist Marina Shiderova, with an accompanying poem by me. Find it here: http://msvstp.blogspot.co.uk

Launching Colourful Star

If you like reading the kind of thing that's posted here, on Recreation Ground, then do click through to Colourful Star.

This is a new Anglo-Bulgarian collaborative arts project which has just gone on line and features paintings by the Bulgarian artist Marina Shiderova with accompanying texts written by myself and Marina's sister. We will be posting regularly on the site - there will be still lifes, landscapes and portraits; poems, stories and articles. There isn't an overall theme as such - just the aim of exploring and celebrating the possibilities of collaboration between artists working in different fields and in different countries.

Like many projects, Colourful Star originates in chance meetings and the discovery of shared interests - with the ideas behind it slowly being modified and developed through emails and Facebook exchanges. And no doubt those ideas will continue to develop as the project progresses.
To my knowledge, collaborative art projects between the UK and Bulgaria (and SE Europe in general for that matter) are few and far between - and as part of this project we will also be looking to explore elements of Bulgarian culture and cultural traditions. 

The first post - featuring Marina's painting 'Jars' and a short poem written in response to it - is up now - with new posts appearing once a week from now on ... 

Moment of recognition

Draft of a poem found in a drawer

For Sarra

His speaking of an unexpected coming true

is what puts me in mind

of that winter on the coast,

holed up in a closed hotel

where you were camping out,

with the job of just minding the place.

Maybe we did discover something there

in that high-ceilinged room,

that accidental moment,

with friends occupied with gossip and wine

and us slipping off to smoke

overlooking the wave-striated harbour.

Or maybe we simply agreed

to pool our resources

under a not-quite-threatening sky.

Either way, now, in our kitchen,

sorting recyclable debris,

I’m telling you stories

of her yearnings, his betrayals,

the impulsive gestures

of their love affair, reminders

of what we flirted with ourselves.

Tom Phillips

With any luck

Above ground crisped with frost,

a robin takes it chances,

braving cats, dogs, us,

for a moment

in this cherry tree lattice.

Its song calls up the joys

and hurts of other lovers.

Distance is an atrocity

they might endure.

Proximity is another

which, with any luck,

and the wind in the right direction,

we might well survive.

Tom Phillips 2014

Vocabulary test

Well, here’s something –

an almost balmy January day

and pale green bulb shoots

across saturated ground.

Unpicked apples still hang

and finches squabble.

It’s not too late for us now.

No frost or breeze to speak of.

Amid coffee, packed lunches,

drying washing, fried eggs,

weather reports on Radio Four,

it might be that I’ve just returned.

On the table, exercise books

with words from that language

I’m trying to learn: verb-forms,

participles, slender distinctions

between ‘want’, ‘desire’ and ‘love’.

Tom Phillips, Jan 2014

4 September

Hard to hear clearly

on that breezy shore:

shouted anniversary wishes –

and intermitting signal, what’s more.

Only now the frail connection’s gone

and I’m browsing crowded stalls

for postcards, magnets, souvenirs,

it’s as if a few words of broken language

might come and catch me unawares –

because, yes, love, I’m wondering again

at resurgent silences, old scenes,

here, on the continent’s edge,

in this late-summer seaside town.

*

You’d never seen

quite so many bicycles, racked

as if for the start of a race

or quick getaways.

Sulphur light and thin fog

colluded in that clogged lane,

devices of a mood

which had closed in too soon

and made little sense

from where I stood,

doing nothing  

to convince you or distract.

*

Without time to grow sure

of street plans, orientations,

alleyways’ jags and shortcuts,

I could be here for hours

and none the wiser for it:

a day of places I’ll not find again.

From a terrace let into the castle wall,

the bay’s streaked by what’s left of the sun.

First promenade lights are turned on –

and here I am, love, frightening myself

with thoughts of how close we’ve come

to there being no way back at all.

Tom Phillips, January 2014