(c) Steven Pottle 2007

Friday, 27 February 2009

Podcast with myself and artist Phil Barrington

Talk of art, poems, local towns and lots and lots of gin!


Thursday, 25 September 2008

“This Boy’s Life”

Sat in front of the telly with a wide smile on
These new talking animals introduced him to fun
Cartoon after cartoon flash by in five minute episodes
He sees excitement coloured in his slow dull world
Ignored and bored he needed a friend that wasn’t to be found
Told that they went away, he knew that they were buried in the ground
Mums in the kitchen, Dads still out at work
God knows what’s happening outside but it doesn’t sound good
Little wonder he disappeared to a land far away
When there was nothing but trouble during another grey day…

Safe with his secrets behind locked bedroom doors
Pretending to perform at the Hollywood Bowls
In his mind he was backstage being interviewed by the press
The costumes all gathered and pinned to shocking effect
He normally hates his reflection, but loved the need to change it
Turning the drab on it’s head and so no longer feeling the reject
A broken second-hand microphone fashioned as his best weapon
A moonwalk, a purple scarf, a pointy golden bra for protection
Lasts for a while before he’s called down and then his heart drops
Pity his dream ends when the door opens and the button is ‘stop’…

He’s confused so he tells on the girls and hides from the boys
He retreats to the comfort of dead pets and Star Wars toys
He doesn’t quite understand the need for tongues and ‘quickies’
What does a ‘good shag’ do and what is a hickey?
Teenagers his age are already kissing their cousins
Babies having babies just to parade as the newest single mother
His imagination was running away in the wrong direction, off to a stranger place
He wondered if there was another reason why The Professionals made his heart race
His sister showed concern and so listened at closed doors for the tell tale signs
Searched for words like ‘feathers’ when he spoke and worried that his shoes were always shined
She flipped through his records to get an idea of what he thought he wanted to be?
Listened against the wall and when he sings along is he Neil or is he Dusty?

He’s 'artistic', 'creative', 'sensitive' and "good to his Mum"
So does this make him strange, weird or just a good son?
Being good is bad here and so the bad is everywhere
The morals are forgotten for instinct and the "We couldn’t care"
Why does he say please when the others snatch without consideration?
He feels the winds of change are trying to blow away these faces of destruction
And again he hears that fascinating place calling for him from another county
A place where people think before they speak and where they all want to be something…

Now long gone and stronger for staying away until he’s born again
His days improved as he could see further than his front garden gate
But he’s not forgotten his old bedroom and uplifted by his younger self
So he sends an e-mail to his family every weekend just before he goes out
This boy’s life spent practising is finally unleashed onto the world
With his constant smile, flashing eyes and a denim uniform
Dancing with the foam crowd under many coloured lights
He still loves his own company but he’s never alone at nights
Broken the predicted route of many generations, he has escaped
Those clipped wings now spread eagled the width of a king size bed
He’s an adult now and is happy in the reality of life, work and fun
He’ll never forget this boy’s life and yes, he’s still good to his Mum.

© 2008 Steven Pottle

"Last Birthday Card"

We are having a party
I wish I could have invited you
There will be too much drink, not enough food and all kinds of music
I wish you were there to hear what I have found or downloaded
I think you’d have liked them
And we might of even had a dance together once the others had gone home

It’s going to be my birthday party
I wish I could have contacted you
You know what will happen before the first guest arrives-
I know you’d join in with me acting stupid and showing off
When really we would both be overwhelmed by friendship and well thought out presents

We had a great party
I wish that you could have been there
I think that you’d have loved the atmosphere
As I always wanted you to have been seen by everyone
Lots of old friends, some new strangers and the few that are always around
We might of even had a quiet five minutes to catch on everything that’s been going on…

But I couldn’t find you
And I sent out the messengers
You must be somewhere far, far away
I’d have loved you to be around to be able to celebrate just one day out of life
So I sit here days after the party and I find the last birthday card that you had sent me…
And it read: “Just one day out of life, it would be so nice”.

© 2008 Steven Pottle


Up and down the country from the North to the South
In every loud grunting gym to the libraries silent mouth
There is a whole train of thinking, an unquestioned school of thought
Of what really makes a man and what is his worth

Is this opinion concrete evidence or up to the elbow in complete shit
So do you move through life on instinct or do you question everything
There is a certain strength, a gritty earth tasting dirty nails male
Then there’s his creative light footed, tight bodied talkative self
Do they live peacefully together or are they constantly locked at the horns
Which one braved the face of hate and which one pulled the face in the first place
Which one is the stronger and which one is the survivor
Who’s the one to walk every mile and who admits defeat and hides to cry
Can you explain to me what makes someone a man?

Is it the evocative poems that we sit and write together late at night
Or is it the quick of my spit when my hands need to grip tight
Is it the muscled fist clutching the heavy spanner
Or is it the open palm that gently offers a flower?
Are my feelings buried through the fear of the unknown
These feelings hidden under until they explode
Have I an open heart to express my every turn
An open heart that will always get hurt
Am I intrigued of what lays beyond the cars body
Or will I be the one hiding under the hood
Am I scared of the changes
Or does the change do me good
Do I hide myself in the cubicle
Or am I proud at the urinals
Will I be the master of my house
Or will I let another her control me
So did my sisters damage me by dressing me up in their clothes
Or did they show me how to really treat a beautiful young girl?

But today as I walk just a few steps behind a female
I’m riddled with guilt feelings of potential rape
Not because of anything that I would ever do
But that I’m always aware of the evil that men have done before me-
These men of snarling hordes
The male entertainment bores
Their banging of the pub doors
His face pushed to the floors
Leading each other into another endless war
Only to push the button for the end of the world…

So what makes me a real man?
And which one am I?
I cannot think
As the sudden thump sound of a football still makes my heart sink.

© 2008 Steven Pottle

“Still Born”

Does the daylight come and find you
And does that signify the beginning of a life?

Is the sunshine already there
Do you move or wait for something to arrive?

So if light never finds me
Am I finished before I’ve even started?

Or if the sun never shines on me
Am I the new addition or am I the dearly departed?

© 2008 Steven Pottle

“Who You Are Now”

Running from something that happened some 16 years ago
You can never quite get one day away from who you used to be
Letting them catch up whenever your barriers are down
Why don’t you ever stop sprinting, just accept them and walk through these seconds together
Stop counting the hours or wishing that everything will be better in the future
It’s always in the past or future with you
What about who you are now?

I know that there must be better days ahead
But how will you know when you are up if you’ve never ever been down?
I know that this must be really hurting your head
So try to appreciate that at least you feel something and understand where that hurt is coming from
And right in this very moment there are people who love what stands before them
Why can’t you be one of them?
We can all see who you are now.

In this second we reckon that you should be aware of
Every smell, every drop, every touch, every silent blink
Not complicating a tired mind with what should have been, what will never be
Unless you start to feel every moment like it’s never gonna happen again…
And you know what?
It’s never gonna happen again
So why don’t you live with who you are now?

“This is not sober thought
Or a lesson quickly taught
This is wanting to not wish my life away
This is just living in this minute, today”.

© 2008 Steven Pottle

“Bee Keeping”

Heavy with pollen, wings of sudden
Movement slowed to a nothing
I watched your little body stop
I witnessed the life leaving you
I could see a spirit looking down at me
He could be seen by anyone now that he was flying again
But no one wanted to see him…

Why are the tiny things forgotten about?
I know there are bigger problems all through the universe
But if you forget about the barely seen
Then the barely seen will soon become the no more here
And those quiet little ripples will end in great waves of destruction for everyone…

The honey no more
Quick falling to the floor
The buzzing of time
That awakes the people
But it may be just too late.

© 2008 Steven Pottle

“Heaven On Earth”

So if heaven exists then does it ever appear here on Earth
Does something from above ever descend to mend these men
Does the feeling ever reach out and creep around these streets
Will angels shine bright over moss roofs and bird shit lampposts
Will they fly over and smooth out all of these complicated rough roads
Will the light ever find us here leaning up against this wall
The place where all the bad and dog piss falls
As nobody here wants to believe in anything other than celebrity and T.V.
But the convenience of his existence during heartache and loss is overwhelming
And you hope that he’s alive the next time you sit and cry
So could we ever find a God who will sit comfortably in our lives?

© 2008 Steven Pottle

"My Indian Summer"

Here with me
Down in the depths in the worst of messes
Look at me
Drawn to the dagger black and dark of hearts
Speak to me
I'm unable to see the dawn that brings with her a new day
Feel for me
I thought bird song was a horrible noise that was out of my control…

Talk to me
He tells me all about the things he sees and it isn't all badness
Words for me
He convinces that just over the horizon there is a future waiting patiently
Hold onto me
Just one touch blows away the cobwebs and makes the limbs feel real
Care for me
An embrace that lasts the whole night long and well into tomorrow…

Returned to me
I was afraid I'd be alone and that you wouldn't ever come back to the house
Stand with me
I was about to give up the ghost of myself and slumber into an endless rest
So I turn to you
Your warm breeze that whispers to the sky and asks for constant sunshine
Praise to you
I thank you for keeping me safe through the worst of the Autumns
Love for you
What would I have done without the warmth from my Indian Summer.

(For Matthew...thank you.)

© 2008 Steven Pottle

“His And Hers”

A kiss trembles down the nape of her neck
The skin was soft and the breath was fresh
Hand to hand, pulse to pulse
The waterfalls prepare for what is next

Any movement here will please her
Twisting into place for his arrival
She’s wide eyed and laughing
Smug with her own actions again

Another cup of her
Swills round his thirty mouth
Never spit, he always swallows
A full belly- all hairy and dead common

He breaks into the back of her
Swift, quick but gentle with it
Touching velvet walls
He stays inside to enjoy the view

Their bed keeps heated
Hot rocks for another extended 12 inch remix!
She dances herself stupid on it
He holds her down before she gets too high

The blankets crumpled as the bodies double
Hour after hour of skin thrown around the room
They both fall together in jerked back breath
Another kiss trembles down the nape of her neck

All is still, all is quiet, all is open
Fingers caress with the touch of sudden silk
He keeps her warm with a pulled over quilt
She stares up into the ceiling…

She can’t quite explain
She couldn’t even begin to
But a sun shines in his eyes in the middle of the night
And on his shoulders she can see the greatest sky.

© 2008 Steven Pottle

"The Beginning...Or The End?"

"The Beginning...Or The End?"
(c) Steven Pottle 2007