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PAUL MCCARTNEY - POET
Quietly but effectively, a page of poems written by Paul was published in a January edition of the British weekly New Statesman & Society. We reprint them here, and Paul also tells Club Sandwich the background behind his latest excursion into print
"I was prompted to start writing poems, as opposed to song lyrics, by the death of my friend Ivan Vaughan. [It was Paul's Liverpool Institute pal Ivan whom the world had to thank for introducing Paul to John Lennon back in 1957 - Ed.] I wrote a poem called 'Ivan', which has not yet been published.
"I studied literature when I was at school and have read poetry ever since. I've often written down bits and pieces too, and, of course, John also wrote. The nice thing about poetry is that you can express things within a poem that you might be unable to say in everyday speech.
"The New Statesman publication happened very easily. Quite simply, the poetry editor there is my friend Adrian Mitchell. Readers might remember that he appeared on stage with us when we played in Southend in 1991. [See photo.] Adrian is keen on the fact that song lyrics are near to poems - not everyone believes that, but he does. So he simply asked me to send him some of my work, and I did. The original plan was that he'd run a couple of poems, but then I wrote more and it became quite a spread."
Chasing the Cherry
Fragile fragments
Clattering down
the lavish marble staircase
Tinkling smithereens
Smashing, grabbing
At the china stars
Bursting in clusters,
Scattering E-side cats
Credit card dropping
Prom rain-clouds
Pour down on the well-polished floor
Tortoiseshell hair-combs
and black tape cassettes
Rattle the cages of
knife wielding grand dames
And say, are you chasing the cherry?
The merry go round of the roses
If so, you must know
That the down side
Is sink like a ferry
Ascending the slope
in a herring bone fashion
Holding on chromium steel
Lifting the bar bells
With candlestick motion
Side stepping hot wax,
and wheel
Flying with lizards
All blown in a gust
Through staining glass
windows and covered
with dust blood,
To keep out the rain
And say, are you chasing the cherry?
The merry go round of the roses
If so, you must know
That the down side Is sink like a ferry
A weapon is not worth a button,
When anti-world matters explode
And chandeliers
Drop from the ceiling with sharp shooters skill
Exhausted collapse in the playground
Apeak epileptic remains
And froth at the mouth like a river, 'til
Teachers in apple pie beds
Reach out their
Chalk filled hands
And lift And lift
And say, are you chasing the cherry?
The singular red one on top
It gleams with particular pleasure
That may well never stop
If so, you must know
That the high tide
Is sunk like a ferry.
Mist The Mind
Mist the mind over
with damp's foggy dew
Slide like a tidal wave
over the rock and
Drowning in merriment
Tell me I am not alone
Hum through the carpet
Nudging the undergrowth
Call out the bad names
To curse every midgy mite
Spin me a reverie
To crack me up
And, helpless with laughter
Drop down the mount
Like a highland waterfall
searching for love
Velvet wave
The velvet inside a guitar case
Set the strings
Giddy humming to the silver vibration of a note
A quick flowing
Stream by the roadside
Buzzed towards the seaside
Tattoos and Torture Tents
Along the shingle shore
Thin echoes of headphones
Ride the murky old bass
Screaming feedback
At the fat lady bather
A wave flaps in on itself
The Blue Shines Through
You're responsible
for the hole in my soul
the hole in my tablecloth
the hole in my jacket top
But the hole shines blue
The hole shines blue
I'm responsible
for the bolt in your neck
the bolt from the blue
the bolt on the door
But the blue shines through
the hole in my soul
The hole shines blue
The hole shines blue
Indefensible
the life I lead
Indispensable
the love I need
Reprehensible
to spread the blame
Irresponsible
to kill the flame
Trouble Is
Rabbit running in circles
chasing his tail because
it looks like candy floss.
Trouble is - rabbits don't eat candy floss.
Black labrador barking at the antics
of his own shadow on a wall.
Trouble is - shadows don't fight back.
A pair of gloves hanging from
a back pocket argue about
which hand will hold the rake.
Trouble is - gloves don't give a shit.
Paul with fellow poets Allen Ginsberg, left, and Adrian Mitchell, on stage in Southend, right
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