Intro
The taylor
Photograph
The man on the moon
The house by the sea
Those great loves of mine
Medea/The praties they grow small
At the cafè
The gold shone through
Reality
Reality song
The death of Sitting Bull
Many good songs
The trees
Moon after moon
Outro
Some days or more often nights it’s as if I remember
everything, every little thing. Even the things I’d prefer to forget. Maybe
soon it’ll all go... Well, the mind has its own way, its own rules and
there’s not a lot we can do about it. Yeah, things come back, God knows why,
moments, things one said, he said, she said...
(oh we wished that we were geese, night and morn, night
and morn...
oh we wished that we were geese, night and morn...
oh we wished that we were geese and could live our lives
in peace...
till the hour of our release, night and morn...)
A storm’s coming, the taylor says
his scissors stabbing the sky
but all my words are lost coins
buried deep in the sand, time gone by
I’ve been in these parts for quite awhile
but everyone can tell
I don’t belong, I don’t belong
I don’t belong round here
Just drifting, following my feet
dazed by the song the sea waves repeat
Promising there’s something more out there
but it takes all your poems to pull down the moon
and spot a sail, who knows if it’s coming soon
Just drifting, following my feet
dazed by the song the sea waves repeat
And the taylor he smokes
he knows it all
if you can’t cut it or stitch it
it’s not a truth at all
it’s just a trick of the light
it’s just a trick of the light
as another summer night dies
and a distant shipyard siren cries
And the taylor he’s a loner too
thirty years cutting cloth with such care
I know there’s a dark backroom
with his wife’s portrait in there
storm clouds turn off the sun
but the taylor won’t look up
there’s work still to be done
Just drifting, following my feet
dazed by the song the sea waves repeat
And the taylor he smokes
he knows it all
if you can’t cut it or stitch it
it’s not a truth at all
it’s just a trick of the light
it’s just a trick of the light
as another summer night dies
and a distant shipyard siren cries
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When was this taken?
Looks like morning... yeah
That’s me... her... some other woman...
Who’s that in the background?
We don’t look happy...
Beautiful trees tough, silver birch.
Yes, silver birch.
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The rain comes down like the blackest black night on the
moon
we’re here on the bed
watching those crazy headlights
dot-dashing us
"Keep on searching for a god,
keep on searching for a god
something to adore"
On the table the untouched cold food
the shiny paper from my gift
I can feel your thoughts
spinning by far off stars
we know it can’t be love
it can’t be love
just cashed in time, that slipped away
Remember that great love of yours
he turned up and said
"I got a shadow on my lungs and I’ll soon be dead"
God, how that impressed you
he’s very brave you thought
he’s very brave you thought
yes, like a rat in a corner
a card-sharp with no ace to play
On the radio an empty song plays
you say why don’t we sleep a bit
as if in sleep I could touch again those days
of drinking and writing songs
drinking and writing songs
drinking and writing songs
that’s a past I am bored by now
Too tired to even ask you to leave
you do your face, get dressed and smoke
and those ancient spaceships are left to rust
I think aloud up to the stars
why don’t they burst
and burn this night into my skin
and burn this night into my skin
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THE HOUSE BY THE SEA
It was a night train. Wasn’t going to get in till the early hours. The back
of beyond but the little house was by the sea you told me. A good place to
think, to chill out! Did we say that then? Whatever! We didn’t say that then.
But I had your key in my pocket, a bag with a change of clothes and a few
books in it and a map drawn on a wine stained napkin. You said I could walk
there from the station. And you were going to come down and be there with
me, as soon as you could be.
There was this woman sitting opposite me in the compartment. Now why do I remember her? We hardly exchamged more than a sentence or two. She wanted to talk I think but... I was going down to your house by the sea to wait for you. A sad woman. Sad but beautifully sad it seems to me now. Her eyes were... she looked at me as if maybe she could understand why I was, well, broken. That’s the word. That was how I felt even if I’d done some ot the breaking myself. Yes, there was understanding in those sad eyes. Maybe she was running away from something hopeless too and we could have... but I was going to that house by the sea to wait for you.
I found it all right. Walked through the sleeping town, through the wine stain on your map, up the hill along the narrow road and there it was, white in the moonlight, facing the sea, the waves breaking against the rocks and the key you’d given me fitted the lock on the door to your house.
It was strange being there waiting for you. Sleeping in the bed where you’d slept and no doubt you’d...and where no doubt we would... would have... if... but... I walked down that empty road most days, bought a paper and food. Looked at the town and the town looked at me. I read my books. I looked in all your cupboards, your wardrobes, drawers. Yes, ran my hands through the flimsy lingerie. There were phones in the town, of course. But you’d said it would be better if I didn’t ring you. You’d tell him, straighten things out and then you’d come to me, in the house by the sea. Of course then we didn’t all have mobiles and nobody is ever out of reach. There was a guitar propped up in the corner of the living room. Whose was that? Who’d left it there? You’d never said anything about playing one. Did he sings songs for you, to you? Did he mean it when he sang them? And there was that book on the bedside table. William Gibson. Kind of science fiction. Good, though somehow I wouldn’t have thought you were into that kind of thing. Probably wasn’t yours of course. When was it that the future went from spaceports and telepathy to background radiation and static?
When you didn’t come and I’d thought about everyone I’d
ever loved and who’d loved me and those whom I didn’t and who hadn’t, I got
up one morning and I locked the door of your house by the sea and walked
away down through the little town. Had another look at it and let them have
another look at me. When the train pulled into the sad woman’s station, I
looked out of the window but she wasn’t there on the platform. Still I hope
sometime, somebody wrote her a song. A song about her eyes and sang it to
her. And meant it. I wish I could have. It might have... eased my soul. Yes,
if I was that old blues singer I would still be singing... for her, about
her, about it all... Yes, about it all...
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When it came to swimming across the bay,
already my shaking hands
were giving me away
still she was very kind
she said she didn’t mind
those great loves of mine
All things good lie in the future
more or less
my wife’s on the phone reminding me
of my forgetfulness
but I don’t remember much anyway
I’ll send her a present every other day
those great loves of mine
Some old friends they are doing well
doing fine
a lot of chatting about where is best to dine
and everyone is so polite
close the door, switch off the light
those great loves of mine
My dad comes in my dreams at night
and he cries, he cries and cries
it’s time to forgive this world, son
it’s just full of lies
so even if it’s rotten to the core
leave your donation at the door
those great loves of mine
still she was very kind
maybe she didn’t mind
those great loves of mine
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MEDEA/THE PRATIES THEY GROW SMALL
(Refers to the great potato famine of 1847-1848, in
Ireland)
When the wind blows, the people of Corinth, who are your
people, Jason, say it is I who has angered it. And they say when spring
comes I call up autumn. And they say I could make the harvest more
prosperous but instead I let the earth’s fruits grow sickly and shrivel...
Destiny is sated, Jason, but we who have survived are not.
You will weep and still think of your kingdom. Now you’ll go knocking on the
doors in your village and nobody will recognize you. You will forget your
own name and forget your people who have gone and left you all alone. They’ve
gone to tell the stories of our deeds, to console themselves for neither
being powerful nor rich nor strong. And so we will live on as we must live
on. Only the Gods know who was the first to do wrong but destiny is sated
Oh the praties they grow small, over here
oh the praties they grow small
and we eat them in the fall
and we eat them coats and all, over here
Oh we’re down into the dust, over here
oh we’re down into the dust
but the Lord in whom we trust
will repay us crumb for crust, over here
Oh we wish that we were geese, night and morn
oh we wish that we were geese
and could live our lives in peace
till the hour of our release, eating corn
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I was in the depths of a cafè, espresso there in front of
me, at my ease, enjoying the Soho ambience, waiting for my son, when this
girl came in. Very confident. Of course, she was beautiful. She selected a
table by the window. Sat, elegantly relaxed and slowly swept the room with
her eyes. As the beam of her gaze reached me she flickered me a half smile
before passing on. Strange. I thought. Charming but strange. After all I no
longer expected young women to notice me, far less to smile. Still, she was
very lovely and there was something more than looks about her. I was
wondering what that might be, trying not to stare of course. When my son
came in. He didn’t see me there at the back but went straight to her table,
she stood up and they embraced and kissed, laughing, full of joy and youth.
Then she turned towards me smiling again and he saw me. "Oh, hi Dad" he said.
"I want you to meet someone very special!" and he pulled her across the room
towards me. I don’t think I’d ever seen him so happy, so shining with love.
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Must be years since I dreamt of you
and it’s years I’ve slept alone
but even so the gold shone through
On the warm young skin
of her velvet legs
right there beside me
A fine new suit
at the parade of regrets
but even so the gold shone through
That voice of mine that broke
the scar on my hand
that grew as I grew
There’s always a lobby empty and grey
where the light’s like a neon death ray
if only I could remember your name
if only I could remember your name
My guilt’s still young
I’d be a good looking corpse
but even so the gold shone through
Disguising the pain, living the lie
burning in the rain
but once I really did fly
You were quick to tidy up when he left
but it’s the mess there in our heads
that cuts the rope
But even so the gold shone through
that scream as he walked out
and slammed the door
There’s always a lobby empty and grey
where the light’s like a neon death ray
You know some men cry
when they lose someone
but even so the gold shone through
writing that letters of goodbye
to prove they were born
and somehow even loved
The dark hotel waits
round the corner
but even so the gold shone through
A fine new suit
at the parade of regrets
but even so the gold shone through
There’s always a lobby empty and grey
where the light’s like a neon death ray
if only I could remember your name
if only I could remember your name
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We’re sitting in my garden, my son and I. A beautiful day but I’m looking at his tear stained, tragic face wishing I could pick him up and comfort him as I did when he was boy but he’s no longer a child and our world has changed. What can I say to him? However much you love there are no guarantees. That the pain will pass. That I understand? That the world has worse things than lost love? What help is that? Clearly very little now but it will pass. It will. Perhaps.
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Ready or not here it comes
like it or not
that’s all you got
here and now, there and then
this is it
it’s called reality, the real thing
the final word
It’s not your dream
but it’s where you’re at
it’s not what you dreamt
it’s nor what you meant
here and now, there and then
this is it
it’s called reality, the real thing
the final word
The old world was your oyster
you had time to play the game
money was easy, you had no shame
it was a one man show
but nobody came
It’s not your aim, it’s what you hit
no more driftin’, no more shit
here and now, there and then
this is it
it’s called reality, the real thing
the final word
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Sitting Bull stood with his arms raised up towards the
sun, blood streaming from tiny wounds, each one about the size of a matchead,
which he had carved into his forearm. He was praying. For victory I thought
then. Now, I think it was for justice.
My father was Sitting Bull.
I don’t think he was very really tall, though he seemed
huge to me, but his chest was broad and deep and his brown skin had a
distinctively red tinge. He had wide cheekbones, a very square jaw and his
nose was hooked and bony. Strangely, his eyes were blue.
My father gave me the Sitting Bull book. He probably read
it to me the first time though afterwards I read it myself, many times, till
eventually it was put away with my other books in German. When I came across
it again I hardly remembered that language and all I could do was look at
the pictures. I still see Sitting Bull, his arms raised to the sun and blood
streaming from his forearms, praying for justice, still with some belief in
a just universe or at least it was a possibility.
My father had been a sailor, he’d boxed then and on a
sporting occasion or in a fight to settle a grudge, his nose was broken and
took on the shape which made him look like Sitting Bull. His Navy no longer
exists, but before it disappeared it had made him into a
Redskin, the sun shining down, reflected back off the water tanning him over
and over again, as he steered a Motor Torpedo Boat across the blue Adriatic.
Cowboys had hats on their heads and the Indians had feathers. Some young men
wore a small brass Swastika on the underside of their lapels, others had a
little Red Carnation hidden there. In order to be recognised as what they
were, all they had to do was to lift those lapels. My father had given me a
Red Carnation pin of which I was very proud before I lost it. When the
swastikas began to be worn openly, my mother remembered my red pin and tried
to find it. We looked all over the flat, in all the places where it might be,
in the large zinc basin where I kept my toys, under the lapels of my green
loden Tyrolean jacket, among my shoes at the bottom of the wardrobe, in my
school satchel, in all the drawers, cupboards, amongst the books; with her
fingers my mother carefully felt the woollen scarves and hats I wore in the
winter for skiing and skating but she couldn’t find it and cursed my father
for giving it to me and cried.
I saw my father cry once, tears running down his cheeks
as he listened to the radio. I asked him why and he told me that Madrid had
fallen. Soon afterwards I was in England, roaming through green woods, a
knife in my hand, cutting saplings to make spears, and bows and arrows. No
grey uniformed parachutists dropped out of the sky which was always blue
during those years of war and childhood. I never had to run for the spears
and bows and arrows which were strategically cached in copses and woods all
around me. No troops of arrogant U.S. cavalry came sweeping over the meadows
to be ambushed, our cunning and desperate courage making up for their
superior fire power, so that perhaps just for once, as at Little Big Horn,
we might have won and felt that some kind of justice had been done.
I think my father wrote me one letter from Russia, just
one. I remember it saying something like this "I’ve had many adventures
since I last wrote to you, and one day I will tell you all about them. They
took me to a kind of camp in Poland, but some of us escaped. Now we’re in
Russia, where they are treating us well and soon they are going to let us
join a Militia and I will be able to fight..." I thought that somehow he
must have been able to keep his Red Carnation Pin and when they came out of
the woods and it was Russia, he had it to show the soldiers with Red Stars
on their caps and they would have lowered their guns and smiled.
It must have been towards the end of the war, perhaps the
last of those perfect summers when I went swimming in the river most days,
the water always soft, warm and so clear that when you stood on the bank you
could see the weeds on the bottom waving slowly in the current. Where the
river curved towards some woods a dark pool had formed and I used to climb a
tree that leant a little way over the water and dive from it into a deep
greenness. I had just swum up from a dive, up towards the surface from which
shafts of sunlight stabbed down towards me, scrambled up onto the grassy
bank and as I was brushing the water from my arms I saw him coming
towards me across the meadow. He was walking slowly, very upright, his arms
swinging loosely, his stride firm, a strong, solid man and as he came closer
I could see he was smiling. Sitting Bull coming back to find me, to tell me
the story of his adventures and to take me home.
How could he? Just the very fact that he’d briefly evened
the score had condemned him. He’d found a kind of sanctuary in Canada but
they tempted him back over the border with the chimera of still another
treaty, perhaps a just one this time. Somehow they’d found a way to breathe
enough life into the ashes of his hope to make him come to them and then
they killed him. I can still see the drawing in that old lost book. His
horse rears up, as all around him soldiers level their rifles, one ducks
down trying to hold onto the mustang’s bridle without getting into the line
of fire, an officer points a revolver and above them Sitting Bull with his
feathers war bonnet and his hooked nose, knows that he’ll never see his son
again.
Listen son, if you fall into the water
you’ll freeze to death in a minute
as your body heat will be dispersed
in all that mighty sea
What does he know, I thought
coming from night-shifts
purple catholic church backyards
steep hills and vineyards
descending to a scorching promenade
of retired old man
just like him
How you managed to keep silent for twenty years
before that second war
and he marvels at my words and says
"we never realized there were going to be that many..."
I picture the little girl
staring at that single parachute
falling slowly from the sky
before she was a Japanese fatality
Shall I tell my father
how many good songs I wrote
or just accept that he wrote the best of all
shall I just watch him
walking out slowly silently
leaving this sinking boat behind?
leaving this lazy afternoon behind?
Come and sit still at the window
just watch the world passing by
the clouds shadow grow and die
as they move above the hills
Lay down, put your ear to the ground
deep under you’ll find the sound
the smell of resin fresh and strong
spring can’t wait for long
The trees roar into my silent room
sweet is my soul at rest
in the ocean’s womb
and my heart beats sore
earth’s blood flows cold no more
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As I was sitting on a bench
few seasons passed me by
right trough my hands and high into the sky
I feel I’ve been left behind
I’ve been called upon
rejected and begged for love
and then was time to go home
have my tea and kiss you goodnite
fold my clothes neatly on a chair
smiling at my old desire for despair
My dreams harden
like the mountain waters freeze
but time’s not a river
it’s a garden, a sweet deceiver
time does not flow
it hardens like a rock
under the sun, under the snow
Moon after moon
a hand on your arm
moon after moon
staring at the bird’s carcass
worms working hard
but soon the sea will wash all of this away
Coney island, it’s not past
it’s only a black piano key
Moon after moon
a hand on your arm
moon after moon
mum’s offering me a smoke
blocks of flats going up
high-rise concrete steel beam
"la mia America,
that wasn’t home
just the old man’s dream"
Moon after moon
a hand on your arm
moon after moon
you can take your shirt off now
brother says
leading our gang under the burning sun
I’m a big boy now, for a minute
me and brother we are one
Moon after moon
love after love
sailing after sailing
freedom and fighting
and fighting and living
carrying the fire
with their children
our children
my children
your children
all those children
are children, that’s all
sailing, resting, playing your song
forever young
just play your old broken song
It’s a Sunday morning
it’s me, you and your sister
and someone else in the background.
We all look very happy in the picture
sun shining, through these beautiful trees,
silver birch. Perhaps.
