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NEW SIMPLE MINDS ALBUM REVIEW - DIRECTIONS OF THE HEART

This wouldn't be an Eyewear blog without a review of a Simple Minds album. In rear-view, none of the recent, critically lauded comeback LPs have been truly as great as that run from the 1980s - but usually as pompous, majestic, grandiose, religious, and shimmering. My love for this band is in their sure-fire surges of greatness cranked up to 11, and utter refusal of irony - they are the sincerest, and most engaged of bands - emotive, political, passionate - lacking nothing in the way of conviction. In terms of launching into the crowd with dedication to songcraft, pulse of inspiration, and faith in a better future - this is maximum uplift. Now, 40 years after 1982's New Gold Dream 81-82-83-84 - the greatest new romantic/ new wave LP of the 1980s, tied with one by Echo & The Bunnymen maybe; and arguably one of the most romantic and religious works of Scottish poetry and music ever composed, their latest is back - more bombastic than ever. In terms of grandeur, and rock dr
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new poem

  eyewear because you see through it     i can indent with the best        of them but the curving lens is housed ultimately              by an acetate formal design as shapely as a Hart Crane bridge                   slung between failure and visionary        which is where love & desire want to be    ,     in defence         of all short-sighted crests waving coke bottles at light

POEM IN MEMORIAM FOR HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN

  In Memoriam   The storm has taken down the tree, which stood seventy seasons by four, to leave the arbour restless, without a roof’s rising crown, almost without a floor, so skittering leaves flood about, revealing lost acorns; the forest is aghast, forlorn; a tossed tempest grown out; it is horrible emptiness. There is a legacy that lasts past loss, the quick torn apart - roots only deepen to be flown.   September 8, 2022

New Poem

  NEW POEM.... On Circus Road I sat down, in NW8, so I knew what I was doing with a resonant trope, circling the tightrope tighter, after seeing my heart doctor, not my heart’s desire, no, on the six month anniversary of the cardiac implant for a broken heart; we cope, when we do, like Wendy, taking cocoa; or like Yeats, lamenting the circus animals who got away. The young actor from Mad Max: Fury Road cycled past, a baby strapped to his chest. I was happy to see him ride. I have eight years maybe, or thereabouts, to keep on going. To make a go of it all. Standing up to endure feathered stallions on a curving weathered saddle, as if starring in the big show. Or not. No point in acting up, just to make a symbolic exit; there’s time left to write more, if not better, and finally grow adult enough to love-glide, part barker, part swan, all heart. SEPTEMBER 5, 2022

APOCALYPSE NEW

I am back here from some personally challenging times, health-wise, including having a three-wire device implanted into my heart, a large blood clot on my heart, heart failure, and Covid twice in past two months. But enough about me. Recently I went on my first family vacation since the pandemic, and it was truly wonderful to see my brother, sister in law and godson. To swim. To even sip a bit of sangria. Anyway, since I have been gone, the Ukraine war has increased in ferocity, and tens of thousands of people have died in the battle between Western liberal freedoms and the alternative autocratic vision; we have a European drought the worst in 500 years; polio back in London's water; Trump a martyr to the FBI and likely to be the next president; a China threatening Taiwan; and the worst economic slump in the UK in over 27 years, leading to severe fuel shortages, and a crisis for families trying to pay their bills, with inflation at 10% and rising and 5 quarters of recession on the

Poem day before my 56th birthday

Poem day before my 56 th birthday   The perfect poem is out of sight, around the bend, Part optic fibre cables being laid underground, Part cherry blossoms staggeringly impermanent, Outrageous as Stravinsky music in the air,   Part finely shattered, gold-re-joined, Satsuma vase, Part so-brazenly broken national laws, Part of the world as it moves around other worlds, Part so personal it embarrasses even itself,   Part cruelly stern as a witchfinder general, Part wonderfully iconoclastic as a witch’s brew, Part cat sleeping, part cat leaping, part paw, Part mouse that got away; part all the pain   We ever knew, and then some, and then some more; The treasure under the floorboards under the stairs, Is being written for someone else’s birthday, By someone else; won’t ever be written, to be true,   Because perfection is the enemy of any friend To what is troubling to imagine, harder to rephrase. That won’t stop me from summoning this one up, Stolen from the mystery shelf where languag