Outside Looking In Poetry and Pictures

by Bernard Young

Outside Looking In Poetry and Pictures

by Bernard Young

© 2012 Bernard Young. All rights reserved. Bernard Young has asserted this right to be identified as the author of this work. Copying and distribution of this PDF other than for the personal use of the person who purchased it to read on Computer or eReader or Tablet is an infringement of the terms of the copyright. Published by Karen Cropper First published in Great Britain 2012 Printed copy available from www.Lulu.com See: http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/bernardyoung Unless otherwise stated on the page all images by and copyright to Bernard Young Designed and typeset by Karen Cropper, Manchester, UK Cover layout Karen Cropper, images copyright Bernard Young.

Embryonic

One Bird

Outside Looking In

In The Dark

I Call Your Name

The Night Bench

We Had To Have The Truth

Nothing But

Virtual

White Lie

Start. Stop.

Not a red herring

Baggage

Return

Mrs Who

Toothbrushes

Where To Draw The Line?

Not A Fine Line

Past It

Enough

Disconnected

Get In Touch With Yourself

Heavy

Driving Rain

Guilty

Wonderful Weather

Them

Not Driving Miss Crazy

Contents

He Drinks, She Speaks

Just Desserts

Chocks Away

Hooked... until death do us part?

Is Gin A Good Idea?

Have you ever been left wondering

BIG

The Present

Nice

One Little Room and the Biggest of Plans

Night's Dreamy Trees

Dream

Perhaps?

Duck

Deep Water

Great Night

Last Night The Rain Came

Be Vague

Who's There?

Us

How Long?

To grab the ball and run with it

White hair. A stoop. A stick.

R U Acting Your Age?

Poem For A Gentleman

Another View

Love

Embryonic

In The Beginning Was

The Word

Early stages

Taking shape

May take ages

I must wait

Words emerging

Fully grown

Happens rarely

With a poem

One Bird

Emerging

from the night

into morning light

I marvel

at the sight

of one bird's flight.

It is as if

I have not seen this miracle

a thousand times before.

I am in awe.

Or

dreaming

still?

Outside Looking In

I've stood on the inside looking out. But this place

had a different owner then.

We were staying here when her depressed brother showed his face.

It was difficult but we tried

to jolly him along. I'd known him have a severe case of the blues before. He'd often

be a closed shell that would open

gradually and, in the space of a day or two, he'd step outside

of his troubled self, or at least hide

that troubled self, and face the day as do other men.

But this is now. That was then.

Though I'm back in this haunted place wondering if there was more we could have done.

In The Dark

In the deep dark

everything seems possible

is possible

until you lurch to the loo

about half past two

and find yourself looking into

the deep dark truthful mirror

I Call Your Name

She heard her name. 'I only have eyes for you,' said the sky. And meant it. But then the clouds came.

The Night Bench

This is where my neighbour sits

when she can't sleep.

Which is most nights.

There was snow on the ground

this time last year.

That didn't stop her.

I recall waking to not a sound.

Waking to that peace you get

when snow has fallen or is falling.

She saw me at my window

and raised a hand.

Lifted it as is if she was holding a glass,

beckoned me with the other hand.

Inviting me for a drink.

A drink in the snow.

I would have gone

but knew that bastard of a husband

she had, still has, wouldn't understand.

We Had To Have The Truth

Oh, we just had to have the truth

It had to come barging in

Like a bloke at a pub quiz

Who always has to win

We had to have the truth

It had to raise its head

You woke up in the morning

And it was there in your bed

Can't the truth be locked up

Away from her and him

Imprisoned behind black padlocked gates

In the basement of somewhere grim?

Nothing But

The truth is, yer Honour,

it's all his fault.

He caused me to have these feelings

that made me do

the things I did.

Before him I'd been asleep.

He woke me up

and for a time

I turned into a monster.

Always hungry. Huge

appetite that couldn't be sated.

But I'd waited years

to get my fill.

And boy, did he fill me!

So when he said that was it,

and moved out, I moved in.

For the kill.

So yeah, yer Honour,

that's the truth.

The truth is

I killed him.

And it's all his fault.

Virtual

Let us take this moment

And fake the way we feel

Truth is not an issue

Let's pretend that this is real

Tell me lies, why don't you

Say the words I need to hear

I know that you won't mean it

But tonight I do not care

White Lie

In another place

at another time

this rain would be falling as snow.

Instead of forming puddles

it would be filling the drive

and making getting to work difficult

and making getting to work impossible.

I'd be out there

trying to shovel it away

but as any snowman would tell you:

'It's just no go.'

I'd be phoning up and saying:

'This snow is making getting to work difficult.'

I'd be ringing up and saying:

'This snow is making getting to work impossible.'

I'd be calling up and saying:

'It looks as though I won't be able to make it today.

Maybe tomorrow.'

At another time

in another place

the impossible snow would be falling.

A million excuses would cover the ground.

All of them plausible.

All of them pure and simple.

I pick up the phone:

'This snow is making getting to work difficult.'

'What snow?’

'This snow is making getting to work impossible.’

'What snow?'

'It looks as though

I won't be able to make it today.

Maybe tomorrow.’

'Tomorrow?'

'Maybe.'

Start. Stop.

You start. I stop.

I bottom. You top.

I laugh. You cry.

You hello. I bye.

You whisper. I shout.

I in. You out.

You leap. I flop.

I start. You stop.

Not a red herring

Troubled darling, troubled

All that has gone wrong in our colourful lives

we have brought upon ourselves.

Rather than meet mine you proffer your fish eye

to all who pass by.

I may be feeling unwanted and tense

but I am not fishing for compliments.

Let us accept

that we are swimming in opposite directions

and that I am troubled, darling.

Troubled.

Baggage

Here I am Luggage in the rack

In my seat Heading down the track

I've left a note

To explain Why I've caught

The morning train

Here I am Luggage in the rack A smile on my face

Cos I ain't coming back

Return

Disappearing.

Destination

Watching

Fast.

Backwards

Heading

Mrs Who

He arrived from nowhere

on Valentine's Day.

Burst in on the party

brandishing a bunch of flowers

and a sonic screwdriver.

Not a crease in sight.

He proposed there and then.

Down on one knee

in front of the whole gathering.

And yes, reader,

of course I married him.

Toothbrushes

A familiar and a welcome sight.

It means the day has started

and you've survived the night.

Where To Draw The Line?

She wakes.

She is being kissed.

A hand in the small of her back

presses her against the naked body

of a man who tells her she is wonderful.

He kisses her again.

She is in the shower. Soaping herself.

She feels his hands on her waist.

He kisses her neck.

She turns and he kisses her mouth. Again.

And then again.

She is in the supermarket. She bends

to check the washing powder prices.

She feels a hand on her bottom.

She turns. He kisses her.

His hands are everywhere.

He says, 'Be mine.'

Other shoppers stop to stare.

She wonders if now is the time

to draw the line?

Not A Fine Line

This is not a fine line

between what is happening now

and what happened before.

It's the last straw.

Past It

Past holding hands

Past kissing

Past smiling

Past hello

(Approaching goodbye)

Past any physical, mental, emotional contact

Past anything in any shape or form imaginable

that could be mistaken for love

So I suppose a fuck is definitely out of the question then?

“Enough

is enough,"

she said. Calmly.

But firmly.

I had to admire

her assured authority

even if I didn't like

what she was saying.

My own hunger, desire,

was still in the stalls

applauding wildly.

I wanted to yell

Encore! Encore!

but knew if I did

she'd hit me

with the old adage

that less is more.

So I didn't say another

Disconnected I called myself up early today But then I hung up I'd got nothing to say

Get In Touch With Yourself

"If you dial 1049

you will hear a voice

it will be mine

So make your request

State your demand

Whatever it is

I will understand

No need to act

Or strike a pose

You're in a world

Where anything goes"

I picked up the phone

called 1049

I listened to my voice

on the end of the line

Heavy

Sometimes

the unspoken

words hang heavy in the

air. You wish they were not there. They

crush you.

Driving Rain

After a text like that

who would feel like driving?

Best to sit, in the car,

in the rain, and wait

for the storm to abate.

Best to let the thunder

in your brain ease

and allow the tears

on your cheeks

to evaporate.

Guilty

Those clouds have been threatening us.

All day. I'm glad the police arrested them.

No trial necessary. They're guilty.

Cart them off to jail. Throw away the key.

Allow the good, honest sun, the freedom

to shine down on you and me.

Wonderful Weather In the middle of my holiday we met. It was a typical summer's day. Wet. She had a big umbrella. Blue and white. She said, 'You can come under it if you like.’

Beneath it we were close. We stayed dry. I kept a careful eye on the marvellous sky. I thanked the Lord for each welcome rain- drop. And prayed that the rain would never stop.

Them

Sometimes they glide past us

in their sleek cars and shades.

They gaze out at us

but do not see us.

Occasionally we get a glimpse

of their impossibly glamorous faces

and know that they are going places.

Then we crawl back

under our stones

Not Driving Miss Crazy

I'd like to give this pair a happy ending as they head out west in the blistering sun. He's not driving her crazy prattling on about his pride and joy; the motor he dreamed of owning since he was a boy. And she doesn't object to all the time he spends washing and polishing it and tootling around in it at 30 mph.

So they drive to the future where life speeds up and computers and mobile phones are invented and sleeker cars with bigger engines rule the roads. They move forward to the happy ending I have waiting for them where he will propose, I guess, and she will say yes. And they will live happily ever after. Because, on a sunny Saturday, I say so.

He Drinks, She Speaks

but he doesn't hear

her words

all he can concentrate on

is her lips

her shoulders

her bare arms

the black straps

and the way she leans in

towards him

exposing…

Just Desserts

Eventually

our appetites were sated.

Then came some spooning.

Chocks Away

We took off

We didn't worry about landing

with a bump

Hooked... until death do us part? Well, truly Well and truly hooked They're in the church The reception's booked But, like fish out of water they're gasping for breath They've got stuck on that vow about parting and death

Is Gin A Good Idea?

As she was trying to leave the flat

I was hanging on to her ankles.

I think I said, 'If you go

I'll kill the cat.'

Of course, I meant to say,

'If you go I'll kill myself.'

'Pathetic!' was her last word

as she kicked me away.

The cat was half way through

when she unwittingly slammed

the door on him. He loves her

too.

Right now I need a slug

of something sharp and wet.

And then I'd better call

the vet.

how you ended up there? There, in that position among the craters and the holes of your existence? Alone. You're looking for that buried bone. You're thinking you should have known (at your age) better.

You're thinking, life is a bitch. You're desperate for a reason to wag your tail. You're still hoping someone will throw you a stick. Teach you a new trick. And, even as you howl, you're thinking you fucking well deserve to have your day.

Have you ever been left wondering

BIG

On a big day

you need a big drink.

If it's a day

when just a call

could change your life

you might want to sit down

and drink in the view.

Soon, things,

might not look the same to you.

They might seem better,

bigger, brighter,

which is quite a

big deal

or your world might be

abruptly drained

and all your hopes and dreams

seem suddenly less real

which, again,

is a big, big, deal.

The Present

No time like the present

No present like the time

You wrap it up

You hand it out

And the moment is mine

But oh, darling

you're picking me up

then putting me down again

Putting me down again

No time like the present

No present like the time

It's a gift

You give it to me

And the moment is mine

But oh, darling

you're drawing me in

then moving me out again

Moving me out again

No time like the present

No present like the time

I take the here

Accept the now

And the moment is mine

But oh, darling

you're drinking me in

then spitting me out again

You're spitting me out

spitting me out

spitting me out again

Nice

As I called in at the Corner Café

a nasty customer was just leaving.

It was a nice day. Sun shining.

Birds singing (I expect).

A good time to sit and reflect

on my life.

(It was a veggie sort of place.

John Martyn playing on the turntable.

Yes! Turntable. Vinyl.

Racks of records to browse through).

I ordered tea and cake. A generous

dark slice with Guinness in it.

And then I heard a man's laugh.

It went on and on. And on.

I joined in. Then everyone in the café

(5 of us) began to laugh.

Wildly. Insanely.

But gradually our laughs were exhausted.

But not him. He laughed loudest.

And longest.

One Little Room and the Biggest of Plans*

Within these walls a plan takes shape

Within these walls

we escape

Within these walls hopes are high

Within these walls

we learn to fly

* T

itle

an

d po

em in

spir

ed b

y ly

rics

from

Elb

ow’s

“W

eath

er t

o fl

y”

Night's Dreamy Trees After the weekend you've had you know that the sensible thing to do is sleep. That moment passes and night's dreamy trees keep you wide

awake. They rustle their papery leaves. Persuade the night owls into flight. You hear the beating of their wings. You know that they are calling to you. Too-whit, too-whoo. Too-whit, too-whoo. Too-whit, too-whoo.

Dream

To beach the boat

and make our way

around the harbour

until we reach

the high house

overlooking the sea

would, I think,

be good for you and me.

A weekend away

from the world

and its woes?

We could find out

how the land lies.

Dip our toes.

See how it goes.

© C

ait

lin

Yo

un

g

Perhaps?

Perhaps that really is a mountain and not a molehill?

Perhaps we can cross that bridge

when we come to it?

Perhaps we can sit under that tree? I can read to you. You can read to me.

© C

ait

lin

Yo

un

g

Duck!

I was admiring the whiteness of him

and his orange beak

when my thoughts drifted back

to the time I tried to sneak

out of Wanker Wortley's chemistry class

once he'd taken the afternoon register.

"Duck!" I heard. Too late.

The blackboard rubber hit me hard

on the back of the head

and sent me flying.

Briefly I felt myself floating.

His voice anchored me.

"Detention Young. Tonight. One hour."

"But sir?"

But there were never any buts.

Rules were rules in Grammar Schools.

Blackboard. Rubber. Back. Of. The. Head.

The bastard wouldn't get away with it

these days.

Back then we hadn't a clue.

Today we'd sue.

Deep Water

Sometimes

I forget

I'm in deep water.

I surface.

Feel the sun

on my face.

Delicious air.

I gulp

it down.

For seconds,

sometimes minutes,

I refuse to drown.

Ima

ge

© K

are

n C

rop

per

Great Night

but as we left I began to feel

something was not quite right

and wondered if it was only me

who knew we were wading

through a liquid floor

and that once again the world

was turning all Sgt Pepper

and Lucy in the Strawberry Fields Forever...

Last Night The Rain Came

It was a steady drumming

in the dark.

It was a presence. A humming

in the air.

It was an influence. A pulsing

in the atmosphere.

It was a change coming. A shifting.

A worry in the heart.

And I closed my eyes to it. And I felt

weary and frightened.

And I fell asleep to the sound of it.

And in the world behind my eyes

apprehensive dreams occurred.

And I was scared. And I wanted to wake

and be soothed by the sun.

But I didn't. Couldn't. Didn't.

Be Vague

You can walk through my garden

ill defined

You can be a vague shape

I don't mind

You can be foggy and fuzzy

blurred and blind

You can be a figment

if you're so inclined

As you walk through my garden

ill defined

Who's There? A presence A vagueness A shadow A blur A hint A suggestion A notion A purr?

Us We have arrived for the awakening For the new beginning For the birth It is going to happen We know this We feel this We have arrived As one There is but one dissenter amongst us A blemish, a doubter, a scaremonger Who dares to turn his back On the future our future

How Long?

So, you reach 40 and suddenly 41

comes along. OK, you can cope with that.

But it continues. Your life is laid out

like a tape measure. 42. 43. 44.

Up and up and up go the numbers.

You mark them off. Annually. With a

party, a booze-up. Something special

for each Big One. 50! Can you believe it?

You have to believe it. It's true.

You whinge a bit but consider the alternative.

If the numbers are stopped short,

if someone, as it were, cuts the end off

your tape measure, you'll really

have something to complain about.

Not that you'll be able to.

To grab the ball and run with it

His radio. He turns up the volume a little.

Just enough to drown out the sound

of next door's Sunday morning orgasms.

Please please me, oh yeah...

That's an old one he thinks. Smiling.

To grab the ball and run with it

To have a bit of fun with it

To give it back when you're done with it

That's the aim of the game

She stood on the sidelines

watching him play. Cheering him on.

That's when she knew, she told him,

years later, that he was the one.

He remembers their Sunday mornings. Smiles.

To grab the ball and run with it

To have a bit of fun with it

To give it back when you're done with it

That's the aim of the game

The pitch is still there. Sometimes he goes

and stands among the ghostly trees

and recalls running with the ball.

His heart beats faster. He pictures her young face,

her cheers lost amongst the roaring crowd.

She's smiling.

White hair. A stoop. A stick.

I caught a glimpse of the future me.

White hair. A stoop. A stick.

I'm hoping I'll still have poems in my head

and not be feeble and sick

when I reach that stage.

And be with a woman less than half my age!

Yes, I'm hoping I'll still know affection

and how love feels.

And I'm counting on having the strength

to beat off all the young whippersnappers

who'll be snapping at my heels.

R U Acting Your Age?

The stoop?

A pretence.

The white hair?

Deliberate.

I've gone for the distinguished look.

I don't even need this walking stick.

And when I forget my lines?

I'm acting, dear boy.

I'm acting old.

And everyone's fooled.

Poem For A Gentleman

The gates are closed.

He needs them open.

He wants to get to the other side.

A train thunders past.

It is full of faces he recognizes.

He waves.

They wave back.

They are hurtling into a future

without him.

Goodbye, good man.

Another View

After the cars and the crowds and the streets

and the trains and the buses and the timetables

and the sights and the sounds

it's great to take in another point to view.

Another view to point

at.

I'm not sure I need too much reality.

And I've had enough of all this

grown up stuff.

I just want to read, write, eat, play guitar

and kiss.

Love

To hold a loved one's face

and kiss in a public place

is something

I might have frowned upon

and been jealous of

before I found love

and rediscovered

what a joy it is

to kiss like this.

About the Author Bernard Young has been writing poems and ‘songs’ since his early teens. He is a poet and performer who works in schools. He has also published several books of poems for children. This book, however, is aimed at a more grown up audience. All of the poems and images have already appeared on blipfoto.com. Bernard has been putting a photo a day on that site since June 2010, mostly with a poem too. Blipfoto.com is a photography site, so Bernard tries to get some interesting shots, but the poems are an integral part of his journal, and the interaction, support and feedback from fellow blippers has been invaluable in bringing him back to writing for adults. Also the discipline of writing something every day has helped him to rekindle his enthusiasm for his art. On his 730th blip he wrote, "So that's it. 730 blips (with gaps). I can stop now." He could, but he hasn't! For more information about Bernard, see: www.bernardyoung.co.uk

Bernard Young has been writing poems and ‘songs’ since his early teens. He is a poet and performer who works in schools. He has also published several books of poems for children. This book, however, is aimed at a more grown up audience. For more information about Bernard, see: www.bernardyoung.co.uk