Rupert Loydell writes

AT TATE MODERN

for Oliver

He can remember the smog from when he was three, and the room full of smoke and light reminds him of crossing the road, slow moons of car lights approaching, holding his father’s hand tight.

We cannot see far enough although the city looks beautiful at night from here, grids of red and white lamps and lights, with distorting river in front.

I do not want to walk any more but the bus in the rain was all fogged up, too slow. I couldn’t see a thing, had forgotten anyway.

Rupert Loydell writes

INTERMITTENT STATIC

Intermittent static interrupts the radio, makes

a nonsense of both music and drama, disrupts

the flow. It is like a dialogue with sound;

I cannot tune into either fuzz or melody,

the storyline is lost and gone astray.

I go find a CD of glitch and noise

to keep my blur of thought organised,

turn the radio off, tune out from today.

Rupert Loydell writes

AIMLESS

The cat's abandoned sleeping places:

nests of leaves under the bushes

A hesitant gull decides whether

to grab bread from the bird table

Knocked back because

you didn't like my paintings

(Best I've ever done)

Are his poems imagistic

or something beyond?

Started to rain as I sat down

at the garden table

Too much egg, sunshine, talk

Not enough to drink

Hidden landscapes revealed

interior monologues within

the poem I've found again

Now seems like a good one

Email quiet over the summer

Everyone bored or gone away

Rupert Loydell writes

SOUNDCHECK

The people hanging around by the stage door seem more interested in getting their records signed than the music. I'm drawn here because I can hear the band playing, but these guys are busy talking incorrect nonsense about who's on which record, before moving onto recent stories of other signings in totally different genres and locations. The records they want autographed aren't even in good condition, the sleeves are worn, with edges crumpled, stickers left on the card. I wonder what the vinyl is like inside.

It's clearly a different type of world to the one I live in. Maybe it's their business, how they make a living, maybe they ship them out abroad. They all seem to know each other, from the youngest to the most ancient, who talks in half sentences whilst sucking on roll-ups jammed in gaps where teeth should be. They are all oblivious to the cold.

The security guard seems mildly amused, but I suspect he's seen it before: different bands, same cluster of misfits, same obsessions. I pretend I've seen someone I've been waiting for and move away, will return later as a normal fan, keen but not that keen, shrouding myself in a layer of irony and distance, saying it's all nostalgia. And mostly it is, but I love this band!

Rock Band -- Roseann Munger

Rupert Loydell writes

LATE FOR CLASS

Eucalytpus bark scrolls in the wind
as early footballers call to each other
in the park, hoping it won't rain.

My daughter's friend lives in
a different world from ours;
he is flying to there now.

Lots of silences live in my head
but can't find their way out.
Change yes change; change we must.

I am almost in a good mood
but here comes the rain
and dreams of somewhere else.

When crisis comes along
something in my brain shuts down
and it is hard to embrace life;

when tomorrow comes along
I always worry about next week.
Change yes change; change we must.

I am only human but not like you.
Future ghosts and old memories
conspire to make me doubt;

I can't find out how to work
with sorry or make-do. Untime me,
the now is still too near.
 
 Les Joueurs de football -- Albert Gleizes