…you could almost call it an actual newsletter…

I made a note some weeks back about the feel of the banister in my hands as I descended the stairs at home; the home where I grew up, where I climbed those stairs an innumerable amount of times over 20 or more years. We have a wooden banister there, painted in white gloss with a classic rolled handrail sat on turned spindals. I noticed the paint was worn and darkened in spots along the rail where our hands would grip and then shift and grip again as we went up and down over the years. I could not figure out if I had never noticed it before, or if I had forgotten how it felt considering I have not lived there for nearly 18 years.

Perspective, perhaps. Take a step back for a couple of decades and you are likely to notice the bits and pieces that slip through in the every day. But I did notice a lot about those stairs at the time and I still recall how, as I lay in my bed listening, I could tell who in the family was climbing them by their pace, or by the sound the wooden boards would make under their weight, or by the step they would start up on and the way that it squeaked. I remember appreciating how some would ascend quietly at night so as not to disturb (or to not get caught) while others would shoot up hitting every third step with a thump, waking us all up in the process.

And yet I never noticed the way the handrail felt under my fingers. I suppose I was in the act of making the handrail at the time; we all were. The marks on the banister are the memento we left behind and those who live there now continue to mark it with their presence. I can imagine that below the carpet the wood is worn into soft curves where our feet worked it down over the years. We all come and go but we erode our environment like the wind and the sea - blasting over it on our way through.

A stairwell is a transitory space; neither up nor down, perilous if you pause or hesitate, demanding of your attention. For most of us it is thought of as a necessary detour on the way to where you want to go (a utility that saves you jumping out of a window is a utility indeed!). If you happen to own a chateau or a palace the staircase may be the center of attention, the grand entrance captured in the eyes of all those who wait below. It can be a place of passing glances or for the exchange of clandestine information. A stolen kiss, perhaps…

It is also just as useful as a place to sit - certainly a controversial view, for who would put an obstical on a stairwell!? And yet images are easily conjured in the mind of families sat on brownstone stoops, or crowded plinths above the parade, or lunches munched on civic steps in dazling city sunlight. Where better to stop and people watch than some sunny, granite flight that rises to a town hall or courthouse? Most tasty are the sandwiches one snacks on before a caretaker or warden comes to shoo you away or tap the dreaded sign: “No Loitering”.

So I’ll move on, I shouldn’t dawdle here on this topic, one could slip and hit their head. As kids when our parents were at work over the summer months we lined the stairs with matresses and bed clothes before launching ourselves down them with reckless abandon (nobody died). It was a lot of fun and really stupid. But still, there is something to be said about the potential energy of a stairwell. There is a curious excitement inherent in climbing thirteen steps further away from the Earth’s core. In the mind of a 12 year old it is like pulling the rubber band back that little bit further before letting go, and you just hope it doesn’t slap the back of your thumb on the way to its target.

I have been thinking a lot recently about lasting impact, those made made both deliberately or accidentally. Those marks on the stairs were a bit of a surprise but the more I looked the more I realised just how much of a mark we all make on the world around us regardless of how much we might try to slip by unnoticed.

Thanks for reading and not letting this mark slip by unnoticed!

Until next time.

Dave

Holding me down in the winds that toss my uncut hair and the long days that keep it. Anchored underneath you to the surface of reality so that I feel the texture of our time traced in rivulets and nursery rhymes.

Holding me back from the gears that grind the Sun across the sky and rumble low behind my sunken skin. Pulling hard on me until, unhooked, you let me go. Then of course I know because you held me thus and let me see the crushing world up close.

Holding to account every moment lost behind a ticking hand. My tapping fingers and your shallow breathing. Holding my breath as your every squeeze and subtle shift lifts (as if it were a wisp) the weary weight of my mind.

Holding on to my finger tips so they cannot stray too far toward a toil that would only trouble the stillness stretching out like glass about us. Reflecting your infinite iris blues.

Holding my wary gaze with your voluminous dreams that slip like visions across your soft cheeks and flash as cinematics upon your eye lids.

Away from the decaying world,
Deep into our infinity,
You are gripped about me,
Holding me,
Setting me free. 

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She was biding her time, it seems, waiting for the conversation to find its way to the topic she wanted most to discuss. Until, with an urgency that caused her to lean in suddenly over the table, she gripped her fork and gestured at the empty seat opposite her, “Oh! Let me tell you! Let me tell you all about it!”.

A perverse, exaggerated smile spread across her face like a kabuki mask and offered it up to the aether as if the caller could read the mischief on her lips.

And so, she told it all. Every last detail.

She told it with fat, meaty bullet-points. With succulent clauses that dripped over the dial. With tender indentations that fell apart in her mouth. Her eyes rolled. Her lips curled. Her hand gripped the edge of the seat at the thought of their red hot ears, pulsing upon receiving such potent scandal.

Her mind’s eye indulged in the wild fantasy of their fervent enlightenment. How this gossip must be heaving relentlessly upon them, intoxicating their otherwise mundane lunch break with her salacious insights. Oh! What they must be thinking listening to me tell this. They must be covering their phone for the shame and filthy tattle of it all, she thought.

Yielding in ecstacy her body folded over and bent deeper and deeper into the seat. She had pulled one foot up under her calf until it pushed hard into the back of her knee, stretching the fabric of her tights, digging with a desperate excitement to continue. Coiled like a spring, her elbow leaned heavily upon the edge of the table until it slipped suddenly and release under the weight of her wildness. With a clatter her cup overturned and a tan, glossy sheet of tea flowed silently out and over the edge of the coffee table, splashing puddles upon the white floor tiles. The steady din of the café melted for a nosey moment as heads turned and voices lowered to spy silently on what had happened, but she took no notice and skipped not a beat lost as she was in her lunchtime chat:

“And you’ll never believe what he said…”

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You are unexperienced; a pure, potential possibility that waits to be determined. Beyond this door where I pause, straining to imagine what exists in the impossible space outside of me. Straining to see every available point of light from every time and place.

Were I not human, nor animal, nor of physical matter.

If I were extrauniversal; incapable of you.

More amazed than anything else that I could see a thing that far away. A thing with volume in the sky. Known so intimately from afar, like a celebrity or a photo of a departed ancestor. All these stars were just strangers, but here, this ball of gas hanging above me was a thing I felt I knew. Lifted up and off the black depth, perceived as though my hand could pass behind it.

I could see its moons lined up like an ellipsis.

My heart thumped in a moment of recognition that spanned the unbroken line between us. To know it was to feel its pull upon my blood, just as it pulls the vast mantel of Io, plucked like a stretched harmonic from the grip of Europa; resonant and throbbing in Galileo's looping quartet. And I, a mere mortal, straining to look upon Ganymede or Calisto, shivering in the cold on the dark side of the Earth.

I was looking up and feeling as though I was somewhere. More than just a coordinate on a spinning sphere, I was now a point on the astral plane between our sun and this immense god rising in opposition like a terrifying behemoth. I was part of the sky, moving within it and found suddenly amongst these friends and strangers;

Jupiter was looking at me.

I dreamt last night 
The needles of our tree 
Were scattered still about the hall
Where its corpse had clawed the walls.

When its time had come, 
We dumped it out front
With a tenner on its trunk 
For the boys in the club
To take it away.

Away to be chopped 
And sliced 
And ground up
Into tiny little pieces
Down at the council dropoff point. 

Where the festive stench of sap, 
Rising from their severed limbs
Could be savoured on the wind
By the walkers in the park. 

And by the watchers in the woods 
Where they dump their broken bodies 
For the earth to suck and swallow
With a side of ‘toe and holly. 

A Small Update

This is my first post in quite a few weeks as the newsletter is currently on a hiatus while I prioritise family life. All is going great and I am even finding some time to put a few thoughts on paper. I am hoping to be full to the belly with words and writing come the end of winter. Time will tell.

I started this poem last Christmas in a moment of creativity when responding to a note by (I cannot find the note now.. It is lost to the depths of the internet, but I highly recommend for some engrossing poetry and writing). Thankfully I copied it into my notebook when I first wrote it and then built it up a little more before putting it aside. I finished it one night in the middle of summer - it turns out this is the best time to write a Christmas poem.

While I’ve been completely disconnected from Notes and Noises over the past month I knew I had this small, fun peice of writing in the bank and time was running out to send it out considering its festive theme. So I’ve grabbed a few moments to share it with you.

I sincerely hope you enjoy,

Happy New Year,
See you in the Spring,
Dave

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Our vast goodness is forsaken
For the sting of sharp terrors. 
        
        See human tragedy,
        Hear mothers wail,
        Speak holy vengeance.

        Steeled hearts
        Drown in empathy.

Without hope for one another
Our vast goodness is forsaken.

-

The world is full of good people, 
Inheriting the hate of a terrible few.

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Roll your toes.
Push their tops in tight,
Right against your socks.
Rake them across the sheets 
Till the cold rubs off,
Blue and wet and bitten
And Oh! Burning, 
Smouldering thaw.
Viced in phase transition,
Sublime. Sunk
Into the bottom,
Squeeze until
Your skin pales white.
Bleached, hollow bones
Aching joints, 
Fused and still 
As this night;
Frozen, shocked
In a blight. 
Roll up now,
Tight,
Tight,
Tight.

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I heard them shouting,
“We cannot find him!“,
So I started running, 
Searching in the dust.

Wondering,
Where had my boy gone?
I screamed, 
"Where's my son!?"

                I could not see him.

Then I heard someone 
Calling in the cloud,
"He's alive! 
                He's alive!"

I thank God my son 
Is next to me. 

And he is probably re-running the scene as I am doing. 
I can handle it, but he is small, he can’t.

Source: bbc.com, Nov. 5th, 2024

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I’ll remain, until you allow me go: 

Where the copper light folds and sifts 
Our ombre pool of leaven molecules
Deep into the dark well, 
Dashing sparks along the sides, 
Aglow under the welders spell.

And still, until you allow me drift: 

Where our soft stare holds a hymnal
Soaring on our haggard harmony,
To where I felt you once at peace in the silence
Between the fourth and fifth of a diatonic
Scaling the walls of a flooded heart.

And I’ll persist, until you give in:

Where our signal is zeroed out, dissolved 
And fuzzed in the space between us, painted
Transparent in our single phase denouement,
Humming vibrant colours in a shadow cast 
Long across our face by the rising sun. 

Until you allow me go,

Until you allow me drift,

Until you give in.

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I found the bodies
you left me.

Buried them
behind the garage 
with the others.

One, still alive, 
got away. 

I watched them pull
their broken body
over the back wall.

I let them go
knowing
they'd not get far. 

How many is it now?
How much blood 
have you spilled
at my altar?

All for tummy rubs 
and belly scritches
on the couch
as we watch 
University Challenge
followed by the news:

“14 dead, 12 missing, no leads.
Investigation continues...”

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King - 29 Bars of Sunday (2009)

85 - 365

Eighty-five photos,
     Not three-hundred-and-sixty-five
     Point two-five.

On possibility. 
     Not calculated risk probability.
     (Point two-five) 

Letting it happen. 
    The fool!

Letting it stop.
    When did it all stop?

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Look Up

That space between the stones 
Where the filling hardened, holds
The pavement intact and he, 
Going about it like the hammer jack, 
Lets loose the slap of flat soles 
And heel clacks thumping 
The business of the day. 

“But look up” he’d say, “it’s above your head.”

In the canopy where the city’s sound 
Is fractured and trounced about 
And bounced around the shapes 
And lines and ornaments in slow decline,
Where creeping urban grime abounds.

The corner’s edge, the arch’s soffit. 
The steel and concrete stacks of profit,
Spite the toil of ancient spires,
Hosts gull and pidgeon flocks that paint 
Their plans expired upon the domes 
And balustrades and chipping slate, 

And chimney pots choked and stopped 
Like the gilded clocks or the copper tops, 
Coked and spotted, or the painted sash 
All rotted, where the glass has thinned, 
Blotting a bokeh view from his living room, 
Frigid and damp, up above the avenue.

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Permanent Things

The iron rail, 
Slapped blue 
By the brushing sea, 
Carries a bruised hue, 
Washed with amber strands of oxide  
Where the salt has burrowed through, 
And lifted out its ferric core 
And flipped its innards overboard.

        Waiting,
Like the dead, heaped stone awaits the wind that blows
Smooth its grit crust;
Slow as acid time allows.

        Waiting, 
Until the sodden mass of this world’s weight is moved
To crush it all in an unknowable instant
Into another permanent thing.

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Two Perennials

Sitting across from her, she wants
To explode bulbous and ripe into the space
Between their fizzing tips. Cuticles 
Peached and glowing under her gaze.

    Buds pop; wet lip red.
    Heaving hearts and heavy hopes.
    All over come the fall.

Sitting across from him, the pennies drop
From his languid gaze and he gathers them 
Like petals fallen from a broken stem; 
They wither on the cloth beside the bill. 

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He had found a corner cafe half-way into the center, sitting just off Gran Via where the city began to fall gently towards Puerta Del Sol. He was sat by an open window just above street level and watched as the city’s veins and arteries filled with the footsteps and laughter and excitement of its people. All of whom appeared to be draining into the square, following the contours like marbles in a funnel.

Fed and watered he settled the bill and followed on slowly into the heart; ambling on tired feet down into its thrumming core. He could feel it beat as he approached. Until suddenly he spilled into its vast chamber and spun loose amongst the musicians and street sellers and ice cream eaters and evening lovers and thieves and prostitutes and peace keepers and destitutes and dancers in the night swinging amber shapes in the brass plates of the band and clapping in time and cheering the ending and the beginning of every uplifting song that bounced between their smiles and their looks and their anticipation of the night that lay ahead of them down any of the streets that led away from this place.

And so, he followed on down the next street he found and moved away into the night.

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Lines

Draw a line. 
Make it full and bitter. 
Lump it on the nib. 
Louder than the surface of the Sun. 

Draw a line. 
Grip the throat. 
Catch the knuckles. 
Lift the skin red.

Draw a line. 
Stiff the page. 
Bite the lip. 
Fill the want.

Draw a line
Of loose association. 
Clouds of smokey small talk
Snuck behind the shed.

Draw a line.
Forbidden.
Wet to touch and suck
From thumb and forefinger. 

Draw a line.
Again. Again.
Flames and disguise.
Behind the eyes, again.

A line inside 
A line 
That never ends 
In you, a line.  

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If you spend enough time sitting and watching you will see there a fascianting coming together of all people, life and occurance. Every type of person having every type of day you could ever imagine.

Regulars and blow-ins, commuters and pensioners, happy and poor, sad and wealthy. They colide like particles in the accellerator, their debris revealing the most bizarre and inexplicable building blocks of life. Amongst it all the barista who pulls the strings and laces their caffeinated lives together with every grind and foam. They swing by for a high intensity sling shot around the coffee cup, flung out into the chaotic, dismal abyss for another go-round until they run dry and slowly but inevitably fall back into the cafe’s merciless gravity.

Here sits the writer in stable orbit. Keeping from the mayhem so that it may be observed like a scientist poring over their data. Eyes searching across the scene, taking it all in, pen at the ready - waiting for inspiration to walk through the door and order a latte.

It’s a cliché and yet it’s nothing new for those curious enough to find themselves sitting quietly and watching the world go by in the very spot where the world goes by. Be it a bar or a train station or a local cafe, if you stand still long enough something remarkable will eventually happen.

I have taken many notes in many different cafes of the annonymous people that I’ve come across. I thought I’d share a few raw ones here and point to others that I’ve published in the past.

“What in the hell is going on!?”

This was something I wrote a long time ago that is a little dark. I found it recently when looking over my archives from www.intheblackbox.com. Most of what I have there is highly random and means very little to anyone other than myself, but sometimes it rings a bell and brings me right back to a specific time and place.

It’s quite raw so I’ve given it a quick edit:

Sitting Across From It

He came in and picked his seat,
Pushed it aside and proceeded to sit. 
Ordered quickly. 

Suited. With a long coat, 
Both formal and weather resistant; 
A suitable functional choice for the commuter. 

He mumbles to himself 
With a mad suppressed energy, 
As if wondering, 
"What in the hell is going on!?"

The strain of life on his face. 
What mess he is in... 
It is written all over his brow. 

His coat; 
Trapped between his arse and the bench, 
Falling disheveled onto the floor in a paused action. 

He continues muttering into his sandwich. 
No added fries or soup. 
No time it seems. 

The napkin pulled, 
Squeezed and compressed into a ball 
Sitting on the edge 
Of his crumbed plate. 

He's too distracted to feel its effects. 
His mind is on whatever he left, 
And whatever he has to pick up 
When this torturous break has finished. 

And paid. 
And exited,
With his coattails flowing 
Behind his shined shoes. 

The bench is now empty. 
Waiting, 
Perhaps for a young mother 
With an infant boy mumbling to himself 
As if wondering, 
"What in the hell is going on?"

At Breakfast (2021)

Read the full Poem here.

I have also found inspiration in some more hopeful scenes. My first Substack poem was inspired by the sight of a young family who appeared to be having a quick breakfast with their newborn alongside them. I was not yet a dad myself but I was struck by how they dressed, looking so adolescent and yet setting off on this massive new life with their new baby.

He is proud. Well kept. A clean beard with maybe a days growth blurring the edges. Holding it all steady. No panic, not on the surface anyway. 

She is proud. Wearing velcro runners that sparkle. Nervous but determined to get it right. Confident. Excited for the years ahead and the November birthday parties.

At Breakfast - January 2nd, 2021

Read the full Poem here.

A Little Different (2024)

Read the full poem here

More recently I published a poem about a particular waitress who appeared to be struggling to find her feet in one cafe I had visited. I found the way in which she jarred with the pace of life within the cafe and the world around her to be quite relatable - although an unfortunate situation for her in that time and place. Out of it came this small poem of observation:

And her telling eyes 
Softly searched 
The swirling currents
For safe harbour. 

Afloat; 
    Adrift, 

In her own perfect present, 
Processing her past, 
Despite her future;

A Little Different - April, 2024

Read the full poem here

Waiting on a sandwich

Sometimes the notes are just a highly factual stream of observation that I capture in order to fill in the time. I took this note while waiting outside in the sun for my lunchtime sandwich one day… the simple lines bring me right back to the moment and I can recall far more detail than what is written here - this comes in handy when eventually turning something like this into a more finished piece of writing:

Men pub bus smoking, man throw to ground bags, old team
Shadow light breaking
Deliveries too heavy - boxes - door hitting bike
Man eating take away box crocs
Road blocked but not hard to get around
Cold but sunny and warm
The warehouse for sale forever
The dream you had and the house next door and the renovations the wall the driveway the contractor the diaagreement
The car waiting on cars to move. The blocked laneway and the tut tut.
The bus that barely fits
Waiting longer than expected for a slow day. But in the sun. Warm but cold.

January 2024

From the above I can distinctly recall the dream I had the night before that must have been going through in my head - I remember how it felt and how I told it to my wife later on when eating the sandwich at home.

I also recall how the low angle of the January light was dancing through the trees across the road behind me and landing on the footpath at my feet. I was entraced by the way it shifted in the wind. And clearly my eyes caught the footware of another customer who was wearing their crocs while eating their take away… I must have an opinion on crocs…

“the tut tut” was the reaction of a disgruntled driver as they saw the laneway was blocked.. I didn’t hear it but the expression on the face of the driver through the car window was all I needed to see!

And a group of men were congregating outside the pub on the street. They were waiting on bus it seems, they each had a gear bag as if they were part of a team but they were all dressed very differently and most were smoking heavily. One man threw down his bags right in the path and proceeded to light up loudly. He was well dressed but a bit dishevelled and unshaven.., he just didn’t seem to give a shit - that was interesting to me. Perhaps it was the afternoon after the night before. I was 50 yards away but I was as if I could smell him.

These things stick in my head!

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All seasons are ultimately defined by their beginnings and their endings, and so the third season of Notes and Noises must come to its inevitable end.

Last week saw the last poem of the series “Two Portraits” land in inboxes and, as it has been throughout this season, I have been blown away by the interest, support and comment of this small but dedicated community of readers. I am massively appreciative of your time and attention. Thank you.

I continue to see value in the seasonal approach to publishing my writing. I will try to continue publishing some work in between seasons but for the most part I will focus on producing a full set of edited and curated pieces which will hopefully resonate with you all and be well worth the wait. You may see a slight slow down over the next few weeks but I hope it will allow for a more fruitful season in the months to come!

The gaps between seasons also present an opportunity for me to explore other types of writing, formats, music and media - I look forward to what the next few weeks will have in store and I hope you all enjoy coming along for the ride. I will definitely return to the Notes On: pieces that I have explored in the past, and I feel the “Noises” part of this publication has been sorely lacking of late so I look forward to sharing more music and sounds with you week to week.

A recap of Season 3…

Why not take a quick look at some of the posts in the series and if you enjoy any of them please leave a comment or share with your friends!

1. Wake Up!

2. All That I Could Do

3. Home

4. To That Tree Atop The Hill

5. On The Way Home

6. Weeds

7. Pauses

8. This Time

9. Be Ready To Do The Thing

10. Tar Isteach

11. Little Boys and Girls

12. Two Portraits

Again, thank you all so much for coming along each week and taking a few moments to read. It means a lot.

Looking forward to continuing this joirney with you all and Season 4 which I hope to start publishing before the end of the year!

Cradling her grandchild.

Eyes draining 
Over every inch
Of her day old age.

Behold this life;

A bloodline 
Strung through skin
And thumping heart.

And sprouts now 
From her loving limbs
And coils about her gaze,  

Just as ash trees
Gripped those drumlin roads
That rose above her home

Of parler songs,  
And oft told poems,
On horseback at Grousehall.

She stretches now, 
To shoot and grow
Away from trunk and bough;

A blossom in the canopy.
A light, so pink and whole.
An echo on the dapple lanes.

Those lanes,
That drew her up 
And out the root

Out! Beyond
The thorned rows,
To love unknown.

To this astonishment.
This beating heart; 
Her heart.

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Read more from Season 3…

This is the third season of Notes and Noises. If you liked this (or didn’t) why not take a quick look at some of the other posts in the series:

1. Wake Up!

2. All That I Could Do

3. Home

4. To That Tree Atop The Hill

5. On The Way Home

6. Weeds

7. Pauses

8. This Time

9. Be Ready To Do The Thing

10. Tar Isteach

11. Little Boys and Girls

12. Two Portraits