Tag Archives: poem

A Dream of Journeys

a pete in hood

In the night I dreamt I was on a journey. I often have dreams of journeys, often a repeat dream where I am heading south to Exeter (I spent 4 years at college there 1969-73) but often I have nowhere to stay, often there’s a feeling of strandedness. In my lived life I sometimes did get stranded with no accommodation for a night or the beginning of a term. But these dreams are more than that; they’re a lifetime concern, a hope that we won’t ever get stranded (like refugees do). That must be one of a human being’s (I prefer my © words for ’em – Ubeen’s or Ubeings*) worst worries, to be stranded at all but even worse for long, indefinite periods.

*You see what I mean is, a Ubeen connotes that you have had a life, you been there and done it etc. a Ubeing is a you being alive Now! You being here, you being around and about. You being a witness etc.

Let’s make that official; ‘Ubeens’ & ‘Ubeings©Pete Kennedy 2017

There’s another dream repeats itself where am walking on country paths around a town which can sometimes be seen down below, sometimes the path gets clogged up, so much so it’s impassable. A feeling of lostness, permanently searching apparently fruitlessly, or with little hope of ‘finding’ the undeclared object of my search. And isn’t that a lot like life itself?

Life is like a dream anyway isn’t it?

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I have almost completed the A4 version of my Shrewd Idiot book, completed the refreshed layout and final edit and additional little bits that crop up, “Oh yeh, it’d be nice to include/exclude that this time”. It’s a story about someone who went to spend 4 years at college in Exeter between 1969-73, but the person in the book isn’t me, he does lots of things I would never dream of doing! There’s little additional comments added to the 1970’s text which may be me, the 66 years old fella, but the 19-23 year old in the story isn’t me. He had hair for one thing (or millions of things if you care to count them). He was rather footloose and fancy free and certainly not steady in his relationships, well that’s not me, is it!

9780950426730 back + spine sm

The back cover has some words from inside the book, shows me in all my uncertainty, prone to the wafting winds. BUT. The book chronicles my ‘growing up’ from a just left school 6th former to a qualified teacher with a honors degree. I know that sounds like the story of millions but believe me mine is not quite the same as all the rest. The book is not a reminiscences thing, no, it were written at the time, several times. I handwrote the first recording of my experiences between 1969-73 (tho not many are actually retold) in exercise books and scraps o paper. It’s NOT blow by blow accounts of day to day happening, the writing was heavily influenced by the likes of Sartre (Nausea), Henry Miller (NOT Artur!) and not his Tropics so much as his later more reflective philosophical writing, Joyce (I did read, if that’s what you can call going thru Fin Er Gain’s Waits and it DID have a massive effect on me. All of my altered spellin probli began with Fint Eee Gaga Awoke), Robert Walser and Albert Camus (Myth of Sysyphus).

The story is not crafted in the way a normal novel might be. The storyline is mostly chronological with occasional flashbacks. The whole book is propelled by copious images of many different sizes. In some ways the images are the ‘Shrewd’ part although one of the characters that I ‘invented’ may take the biscuit for the shrewdest of em all. The (anti-rather-chauvinistic) hero shows himself up to be rather less shrewd. Even to the extent that once he belatedly began to work his trade he didn’t realise that even labouring away 18 hours 24 seven wouldn’t get him his objective, his reputation had gone before him so in the end there could only be sadness. But he never even realised that as he ploughed on thru his days. And thru his various manuscripts of this book.

In 1976 he left his teaching job to be a artisbloke. Disaster. He did write longhand The Shrewd Iriot and took it to be typed by Jill (poor girl, it must have been hell). Then he tried various publishers with some degree of success which is chronicled in the Appendicitis at the bach. Then he hid it away pulled it out in the 80’s and added some hand-notes and re-put it away til in 2015 he decided to spend 3 months making it into a book. 2 ¼ years later, now, it’s complete and ready to be bound. On sale at £45 per copy on July 1st 2017, that’s when as kids our holiday began in Burnley. I should be able to retire on the proceeds of the sales, NOT, as am only printing 50 copies.

Below is a page from the book, it’s published like a typescript manuscript, cos that’s what it is. Am still looking for a big publisher, d’ya know of any?

Layout 1

Memoir

Why are we here?

To make a mark?

To make our mark?

To leave a trace?

 

A pretty face

Or

A Ugli face

 

My Celtic name is O’Ceinedegh

It means ‘Uglyhead’ you see.

 

My face has changed

It’s not what it used to be

It’s not young any more

It’s Old errrr

Now

Am even uglier than before

 

Age has taught me that

What you see is not all there is to

See

When you look at an old person

You see their age of course

What you don’t see

Is their whole life story

 

That old bloke

Was once a handsome child

A red blooded lad

A constant dad

 

You cannot see the life what he had

The joy that he saw

His merry go round

The life he see saw

 

Young (wo)man

Take a look at me now

I was once a lot more

But I’m not sore

 

And one great consolation

Is the wisdom from my days

Shrewdness took a long time to kick in

Now

Like the whiskers on me chin

It’s come right in

On time.

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a Poetry day fer me too

I write some poyms

As a artis I write some poyms

Some of ‘em are off the cuff

A little bit rough (that’s ruff)

Around th’edges

Burri don’t mek no pledges

Nor hide behind hedges shouting about em

 

No am not pledged to any schools of art

Am just a bloke what writes

In fact

Am just a fella what creates em and

They cum in many colours Oops

In many forms they comes abart

 

Some on em are short and

Not so sweet

About my everyday life

And some are much more

Cleverer

Than that

 

I write about historic tings

Like the heroes I have

Or great names in history who we never heard of much

Cos the text books do not know them as such

But I tinks they shud have some say

In what I calls my poetray

 

Some of ma poems are real clever

Like those shaped in pots

And the ones I did using snaps I took

Of words on the walls

And in books and tings

On my way ome from the poetry library

 

So this blog by this poet wallah

On national poetry day is a show-case

Fer sum of ma werks in words and

Other forms of poems

Taken from my life and all the

Experiences what I have done.

 

2. Don’t Give Up, Things Get Better One Day

 

The fourteenth Dalai Lama, Tenzin Gyatso,

Bodhisattva of Compassion, Ocean of Wisdom, Refugee

Exiled from his home Land in Tibet he had to flee

Escaping into the charitable arms of neighbouring India

 

Do unto others as you would have others do unto thee

 

Meditate on the clear Light of the Void

And everlasting undemanding love

Om ha vajra hung

Padma guru siddi hum

 

Truth and justice and human understanding

Will triumph in the end

Over Ignorance and despair

When the oppressor finally sees the light

 

Everything is always changing

We are interdependent and need one another every which way

Nothing stays the same forever

And in the end, all Empires eventually fade away

 

You must Never give up

Things will get better one day

Things are getting better in every way

If you follow the path with your heart

 

See the Wu Li Masters prancing

Just little lights moving and dancing.

All of us merely bundles of energy

Tripping and skipping along the merry way

 

  1. Vision Of Mud

 vision-of-mud

4. my Gurdjeff Pot Poem, ‘Life Is Real Only Then When I Am’

g-poem-bi-dj

Letterpress print by David Jury

 

  1. Visit this past blArt o mine on th’Poetry Library Open Day way back

https://apulhed.wordpress.com/2014/11/17/a-happy-man/

 

Namaste

found

I gone and found the ‘poem’ I wrote when little Kane died. Bless his soul. Initially it was a note of consideration. I hadn’t even gotten to know the little blighter. i played some good football with his dad and am sure he would have followed in his father’s footsteps. The poem is quite profound. I suppose i had a Van Morrison song at the back of my mind when i wrote it, can’t remember which. I even cut the words into lino in prep to print then didn’t. The reason was, there was no real need to. But now that i done the MA and see how words can make art a print of just words has a lot more to say than the words in it said. if you see what i mean. I shall print it and put it in the show.