The Fall from the Classical

O Dyslexic poems built
like a row of condemned buildings,
short of some scaffolding.
The thread barely holds,
syntactically, stops and stutters,
breaks off mid-thought
at what might have been a sliver of wisdom.

Lines divert, meanings crash,
form dilapidates, contents trash.
Something has been lost altogether,
the artifice, the skill, the metric chisel
has been dropped.
Any child can riot a crayon
over a page of white noise.

O Dyslexic poems built
like a row of condemned buildings,
that won't hold up any longer;
there are no more coliseums, no more cathedrals,
just long lines of shopping malls,
and bubble-gum sentiments.
The season of falling standards
resounding, everywhere around us.

Just round for a cuppa.

'How honest can a person be?'
In the ensuing silence
the room assumes an immensity.
Someone clears their throat.
A window is opened.

Everyone hides in plain sight,
behind mugs of coffee hoping
this awkward pause will soon pass.
Mr and Mrs Smith, keep their underwear
well and truly ironclad.

'It depends what you have to hide,'
someone admits. At this Mr Smith wipes sweat
for his brow, Mrs Smith kneads her handbag closer
into her lap. Readying themselves to depart,
separate as always, untouched.

'It's not like we could all do with some counselling...'
Mr Smith remarks, 'is it...?' 'Yes...' Mrs Smith says...'
'...who in their right mind needs that?'
They make excuses worth leaving for.

The Maturation Process

Thirty years playing at the perennial child,

when will you grow up, just before the coffin?

Grab yourself by the brain. Become
the Catherine wheel you are. Sing a wall down.
Dance until kissing armies are created. 

Tame the private gloom with beasts of laughter. 

Spontaneously combust the toxic doubt of insecure Self.   

Embarrass yourself publicly and take it as spine strengthener.

Ultimately, we are all dead, so courage to do (and in doing be done),
something that might make you look a fool is a fine art gallery.

It is not the sadness in dying

but the sadness of not living intensely

that should shock you out of docility.  

April Showers

I will be reading at these events this month. Come along. Don't bother. However you see it. You are welcome. At Bletherskites the readings will be filmed for posterity and evidence that we do actually exist. The Holy Show will feature one of my poems which was made into a short film for the religious themed night. Holy Show clearly features some well known writers and musicians who will make it an entertaining night of God knows what. Reading at 'Last Monday At Rio' thanks to Robin Cairns on 29th of April on the The Last Ten Red will be on at the Persevere, come ear the words, if you can stand the silence of listening. 1st of May at 8. 

Yours sincerely,

McGuire. 

Searching For Everything Already There

'The Universe is searching for its long lost relative The Other Universe, as Life also searches, with infinite melancholy, for The Other Life.' - Department of Lost and Found Souls. 

(For Charles Simic) 

The World is a search party looking for itself,

looking for that which is absent;

A key, a cherished stone,  a heart shaped locket,
some lasting impression, something in the dark.

By close of day half the planet goes to bed, exhausted,

leaving the other to wake and continue their search.

A millennium – day after day – without object.
Not so much as a wry smile caught in the glint of a star.

Some say it is not the finding
but the search that is the measure. 

I am inclined to agree

as I look out the window at my lover

who shows no sign yet of disappearing.

Shadow Boxing

A silhouette less defined stretches 
prowls more panther 
beneath tall grass
primed to pull at all that is wild.

   All you compress 
   to hold together,

the clean surface wiped clear of suspicion

betrays nothing of the conflicts

which lie back there in the shade

as you lift the gun to your smile

to wipe your face off the world.


*

A darker number of a poem. My interest in the human shadow never ends. I'm no Jungian analyst but something in that metaphor of the shadow pulls me in and encourages me to shed light through writing on the darkest of human spaces. 'The furies are at home in the mirror.' R. S. Thomas.  http://www.samh.org.uk Don't be crazy alone forever. ;)  photo byjasonlumsden

Featherweight

For Olrando Cruz 

He was a delicate boy dainty as the stem of a carnation.

An eater of fairy cakes and banana bread.

An attender of Yoga classes, weekly bending and stretching

the Ashtanga Sun Salutations.

He could pirouette as smooth as Billy Elliot.

He read the poetry of Shakespeare

and Dickinson. He quenched the thirst

and trimmed the foliage of countless houseplants.

In the ring though, he'd cave your face in wide as Fingal's Cave,

bring out a flock of bluebirds singing and spinning into concussion.

A proud man, nineteen wins one draw two defeats.

Knocks out teeth round after around.  

Old Man Recovery

All the songs I have sailed
All the drinks I have sank
All the pubs I have ship wrecked ashore
All the alcoholic moonlights.
I have left them all behind 
for the harbour of Sober. 

Stephen Nelson: McGuire poem.

This was made for me by the inimitable Stephen Nelson over at afterlights. I asked for it.

I asked Stephen for a name/poem last year.
He said, Aye!
I received an email.
L.P scratched off abruptly.

What is this mess I was see before me, I thought? It was meaningless. Incomprehensible. Visual nonsense. Ugly. I didn't want to offend. I told him it was a bit harsh or something like that. Then he sent me the name/poem you see above. The original he sent is picture below in red.

I neglected it to be honest. Memory was provoked today when I read the review of his new book - Lunar Poems for New Religions -  by Claire Askew at One Night Stanza.   So with an element of sycophancy and a realisation that the above black and white name/poem is actually pretty damn good and suits my character down to a tee, I thought I'd air it on this here blog.

Stephen Nelson perplexes me. His concrete, visually poetry perplexes me. I look at it like a Doberman looks at a mathematical equation - completely oblivious of the importance of what lies before it, content in its ignorance. Recently I realised that he is pretty damn good, that his avant garde approach is designed to baffle. It certainly isn't for everyone. It's experimental. Yet even simply a visual thing, a 'picture', 'art' they are quite amazing. They beg you to ask questions. Decipher. Find out what they signify. At once playful. Visceral. Free-Associative.

My name/poem contains these ingredients:

*The letters of my surname. Upside down, inverted, some large, others smaller.
*Brackets (or, parenthesis) within which the letters of my name are guarded.
*Two upside down question marks flank either side of the letters and brackets
*Two commas lie beneath the question mark, again upside down.

This is all contained in a wee nucleus like cell which of course encapsulates my name. What does it mean? Nothing. It could be pretentiously put as indicating, the insufficiency of language to full explain the mystery of personal identity. I like that idea. It could be a visual metaphor highlighting the chaotic and baffling nature of McGuire and his slapdash approach to poetry and writing.

At the very least it has a visual riot that I have come to appreciate of recent more than I did when I received it. Have a look at afterlight, you will surely be baffled, intrigued, dismiss it all as preposterous, then notice one you would like on your wall.

With love X
Call-in-Mag-Wire

Save the best/worst till last. This was the original Stephen sent but I wasn't that into it. Meaning, visually it did nothing for me. You might think differently. Look on.

Nocturnal Questions.

When will the ghosts of eternity
clean my dishes hang up my washing
and rake the dry leaves in the back garden?

When will the ghosts of time stop knocking
on my window at three in the morning,
come into the light and smoke on the landing?

When will the ghosts of time do stand-up routines
in the graveyard under moonlight in front of the living
who have nothing but time for them?

When will the ghosts of time run out on us
with only the trail of wind or a door swinging
in the distance to leave us wondering?

A candle stands sentry at the window
smoke lingers and curls from incense
the universe rumbles like an empty stomach;
beyond that as always we are vigilant.

Burns Night Poetry Slam

Thanks to former Slam Champion and bastion of decency Graeme Hawley, there has been a Burns Night Slam organised for this Friday at the Scottish National Liboobry.

I managed to get the rabbit of my name pulled out of the magicians hat alongside a host poets, namely: Rachel Amey, Robin Cairns, Leo Glaister, Tracey Rosenberg, Steve Urwin, Jim Monaghan, George Wilson, Katherine McMahon.

There are a remaining 12 who applied to enter the slam but did not get their names pulled from the hat, these remaining 12 poets are invited to take part in the haiku elimination round, where 3 of them will be chosen by the judging panel to join the 10 (above) in the slam proper.

No more reformed alcoholics, literate dyslexics or mental health patients will be able to get in, I'm afraid, as the night is fully booked.

I'm looking forward to the night, though normally I am fert of the slam because it is competitive and a bit of a challenge. I am an anarcho-primitivist who prefers to live life in my log cabin, living off of the land and cultivating private skills in arts and crafts, don't you know.

Bring on the Slam! May there be no third degree Burns!

Craigmillar Burns' Night Reading

McGuire is reading at Craigmillar writers group on the 16th of January. It is also a tribute to Robert Burns. I look forward to it. I will be ranting for quite some time and there will be a host of other readers as well.

Come along if you get the chance. Enjoy. And if you can't enjoy, get drunk. And if you can't get drunk,  get uninhibited sober. And if you can't do either of them stay at home and judge from your armchair.

Starts at 7 p.m. until prison lights are off.

Cast a light
into the darkest corners.

Yours, absentmindedly,
McGuire.

Statistically Significant Happiness.

'Face wiz trippin' the loat ae um...' - Pedestrian.

The graph curves

into

a

frown

of

disappointment.

There is a weather beaten rock were you sit
with your back to the wind trying to light
a hopeless cigarette.

A bus stopped dead at the lights

sealed with young mothers, folded buggies,
and cantankerous soured faced history lessons.

If they took a slice of orange

on the head of their beer
they could enrich their lives
with some vitamin C.

You oil yourself on whiskey

and tough boy humour
and varnish old wounds.
You sure know how

to lighten up a swollen cloud.

A geriatric ward
with fourteen year olds
going on eighty

year old cynicism.

Statistically our laughter
doesn't stand
a chance against

the wall of the cemetery.

There is not enough

sun through the sky 

to cheer up this Nation.

Happiness

is a
dish

best

served

in the
Mediterranean.

Foot of The Walk

He is an old skeleton of a man. Stranded somewhere in his sixties. Stubble tough as sandpaper. Stubble cement grey. His eyes bloodshot and ghosted like a man who has been taken over. He whispers to himself.

He carries a bottle of wine haphazardly under his arm right which spills as he tries to settle it. A cap sits crookedly on his head. His short coat is dirtied by grease and sick mess. His trousers hang loosely around his waist. By all accounts one gone quite mad.

He walks stiffly like a boy who has defecated in his trousers. This is no simile; a sewage leak has stained through and dribbles down his right leg. He mutters to himself.

This is a man who has been burned of his wings and robbed of his halo. No Saints in this city. The burden is yours alone. Stories of despair wait behind so many dank curtains. 

At the junction he edges awkwardly round the corner. We cross the road, walking farther into our lives and further away from his; averting our eyes from the suns glare.  

Cheap Christmas Selection Box

Sky Glass

Snow flakes under magnification

look like complex mechanical structures.

Thank you, Great Voiceless One

for such immense Christmas décor.

We, Royally speaking, always knew you to be

an Interior Designer of the First Order.

Wise Old Beard

Father Christmas has a great white beard, it is:

A snow capped mountain top.

A frozen snow caked lake.

A snow covered gully near the mouth of the fjord.

A candy floss of snow carpeting the land.

Father Christmas's great white beard – adored, revered.

Perennially pruned, combed and sheered.

Let us never forget that large mysterious

most ancient of beards.

Dirty Realist

Santa is in the drinks cabinet using 

Billy Boys new monster truck as a drinks cup.

Bottles surround his black boots in worship. 

Billy in reindeer pyjamas climbs down the stairs, 

mouth open 'O' shaped in shock:

'You fucking drunken materialist whore!

You're not my Father any more!'

*Written in 2005. Edited in 2012. Dreadful for eternity.  

Mainly warm, asleep and safe.

No Einsteins here, no equations,

just gormless, goggle-eyed queues.
Some pray before false angels

end up dancing in psychiatric wards.

Build safe families with a perfect mortgage,

file it all under standard procedure.

Keep the monkey and bananas in the pen.

Hose yourselves down don't run the risk

of catching fire while the comets explode.

Bolt the doors, lock the windows.

God forbid the chaos of the fearless spirit

should catch our eye.

(2005)

A Word on December

I have some readings this December. Here is a note of them. If you can come, do come! All in Edinburgh. When will I turn my coat back to Glasgow? 2013.

December 5th TENRED Persevere on Easter Road: 7:30 until late. Buy a juice for me as I go wild with calmness. Ten Poets reading, stay for 5, 6 or 7 if you can. Reading alongside the likes of Hawley, Turnbull, Monaghan, Giles, Amey, McMahon, McCrum, Lindsay, Dillion, Sithole. Come let your ears bleed.

December 10th open mic slot at Blind Poetics reading alongside Chris Emslie and James T Harding. Hosted by ALec Beattie and Roddy Shippin. At the Blind Poet Bar, 32 west Nicolson Street. It can be hard to see the quality. 8 until 11. 

December 12th I will be reading at The National Library of Scotland. I think, though must confirm, I am reading as part of the  Callum Macdonald Poetry Pamphlet Fair 12 December 2012

Then on to Xmas...and New Year...! 

In Praise of Worthwhile things.

Things are afoot. Plans. Actions. The backburner has been thrown out and the present moment contains all the right tools for being alive. Thank fuck for that. Thank God, that mighiest of abstract nouns, which refers to everything and nothing, simultaneously.

New Press In Eden - Stewed Rhubarab: http://stewedrhubarb.org/

Run by the sweet ensemble that is Rachel McCrum and James T Harding. They produce some artfully crafted pamphlets. They recently held their launch at the Jazz Cafe in Edinburgh. Featuring hot cakes and hot cross buns: Rachel McCrum, reading from 'The Glass Blower Dances', Katherine McMahon reading from her collection 'Treasure In The History of Things' and the keen observations of Jenny Lindsay from 'The Eejit Pit'. Good night. God people, but not in a religious sense, in the sense of decent altogether alive.

Stewed Rhubarb have just produced novelist Tracey S. Rosenberg's first collection 'Lipstick Is Always A Plus' and the inimitable Harry Giles has also just brought out his collection with them 'Visa Wedding'. Watch Rhubarb grow. Send over your submissions. Go read. Go buy. Go to it.

Banana Cake - or Banana Loaf: Easy Banana Cake

Banana Cake Banana Loaf Banana Man Banana rama. Not enough drug addicts and alcoholics are discovering the benefits of home baking. I wonder why!? Imagine the baking shelves empty in the supermarkets? The streets silent. The kitchens bustling with activity. Glasgow Young Team, Edinburgh Young Team, aspiring to make the best banana choc chip hash cakes this side of Scotland. How about some home grown magic mushroom tea to go with that?

There must be some way to provoke the youth out of indolence and cynical violence. Maybe the news is prejudiced and they are a fine lot. Business Gateway should really be funding the youth in baking.

Buckfast Cake, Hash cakes, mushroom tea?

Poet Russell Jones will be launching an anthology of Sci-Fi poetry he recently edited which includes over 40 poets from the UK. Where Rockets Burn Through is a comprehensive collection of Sci-Fi poetry from a shitload of poets from this planet. There is a mind-expanding 'sci-fi-essay-poem' by the maganificently articulate and creator of a few amazing neologisms, Steve Sney. Plus a preface from the imaginarium of Alsadair Gray's mind, and a sobering introduction by Russell Jones. Read it and weep spaces boys and girls.

There is a launch at Blackwells in Edinburgh on Southbridge (EH1 1YS) on Thursday 29th November at 6:00pm. The book costs 9.99. If you are in London there is another book launch at Toynbee Studios
28 Commercial Street London E1 6AB on the 6th of December.

Penned In The Margins are the publishers! http://www.pennedinthemargins.co.uk/

Prayer For Rightwingers.

May you be seated at 

the right hand of 

a left handed person.

Amen.

Lady Brassica Oleracea

Thy chlorochrous miniature forest. 
Thy Olympic torch of antioxidants. 
Proud Sister of the Brassica Family. 
In honour, we plate and devour thee!