April is National Poetry Writing Month. In celebration of poets everywhere, and to encourage those who are just embarking on their literary journey, I will be posting poetry (not mine) each day for the month of April. Please take a look and enjoy this special art.
My poetry roots come from a mix of the Beat poets, certain strands of contemporary performance poetry and to a certain extent the Brutalists. In other words it’s a bit of a mish mash though the emphasis is on lyricality and emotional honesty and rawness. It would be truest of all though to say that my main influence is the confessional wing of Young British Art, in particular Tracey Emin. I like art that reaches deep down inside the artist, wriggling under every layer of artifice to get to the red raw truth whatever that may be.
My solo show “Some Of These Things Are Beautiful” will be premiering at Cheltenham Poetry Festival on April 24th.
http://danholloway.wordpress.com (where you can download my current collection “i cannot bring myself to look at walls in case you have graffitied them with love poetry” for free)
http://eightcuts.com is a literary project I run that combines online exhibitions and spoken word shows
http://79ratpress.blogspot.com is my experimental publisher, launching 6 collections by new poets this June.
Remember the day we lay under
just for us? London
Like balletic bullets in a John Woo film
We toured the stillness.
Skateboards and blades played our private soundtrack
Scored from the clacketing
Backbeats of the Thamesside track.
We played hopscotch on Bankside,
Poured pints of London Pride
And downed them on the docks in Rotherhithe,
Embraced in the space between Bridget Riley’s stripes,
Defaced the latest White Cube canvas hype
With lines of lust typed blind on absinthe
And declaimed them to the planeless skies from Trafalgar’s empty plinth.
Neon flared through our
Electric reflections glared.
We spotted pimps and toms in strip joints coming up
And in clip joints frotted by despairing gimps and johns,
The silenced timpani of
We stole tubes of lube and 90 percent proof,
Got pissed on
Fisted, lay on Wembley’s centre spot
And kissed till our lips were blistered
And our minds went missing.
We met them by the river,
An army of the alkies and the dispossessed,
The depressed, repressed, the not so easily impressed,
The inconsolable and unconfessed
Who repossessed their lives for just one night
Howling Baudelaire like loons
And raving by a quarter moon,
Piping crazy tunes across the water –
A glorious guttersnipe Brigadoon.
Forget the lazy days,
The backward gaze, the haze, the sugar glaze we paint
upon our yesterdays.
in our veins, London
Inked in electricity and linked up to the mains:
Its maze of urban arteries,
Its winding streets that bleed from us
Plying meths to find the key to us,
Suppress the lethargy that hides our dreams from us,
That lies against our sighing breast to squeeze from us
The dying breaths that wheeze from us
And leak into a lullaby that pleads with us –
Remember the day we lay under
just for us. London