9. Paul Dyson
Seeker of the grail, whose artistry takes many forms.
Paul lives down the road - near the Wee Hoose on the Brae. Where he can be found, when not off gallivanting with his wee dog Esmerelda (Ezie for short), searching for the Holy Grail of inspiration.
He believes we all have a basic need to create – to make art, poetry, music, to make love, to build furniture in flat packs from Ikea . . .
Paul spends most of his time writing, painting, playing music, searching for the Holy Grail but still has yet to visit Ikea.
He has recently curated an exhibition of his Artworks, and is now working on his second collection of poems due to be published in the Spring of 2024.
Having squandered a 3 figure lottery win, Paul tries to live his life simply and poetically, helping him to love life, to discover the music and beauty that surrounds us in the everyday.
“It doesn’t always cover the bills,” he says “but it is, very satisfactory”.
Poems
Bridge Diner
We could be in an Edward Hopper painting but there’s only three of us in this night café. She’s young, sitting at the bar legs crossed, staring at her phone. Ed in his shirt-sleeves and cap tops up her coffee – ‘on the house sweet’ a regular, he likes company at night. ‘Bridge Diner 24/7’ the neon flickers a splash of colour onto deserted streets an illuminated stage for absent nighthawks. I’m reading a book, looking up the street, looking at her. ‘What’s it about?’ She asks ‘An old man the sea and a big fish’ ‘Does he catch it?’ ‘Yes’ ‘I love happy endings’ she smiles ‘It’s not happy - the sharks take it all’ It’s a metaphor for life - trying, living, loving there’s not a lot to show sometimes. She takes her call. I close my book. <<<
For Billy
Rock bottom that’s where I was nothing left to live for couldn’t even find a bullet for a gun. I was shaking from this addiction to drink to drugs to life. ‘You can’t come in here’ said the priest In a ‘you might upset the mothers union’ kind of voice. Night after night I walked unholy streets waiting wanting hoping. ‘Over here mate’ a voice drifted from a doorway. He gave me his coat. He gave me a can of white lightening. We sat we talked we broke bread. I stopped shaking from the cold, I stopped shaking from my demons. That was the night I met Jesus - sat outside Poundland. <<<
Madame Picasso
On. He’s permanently switched on. My Andalucian minotaur. Twenty four seven Vingt Quatre Sept Artists and poets calling everyday at the Bateaux. Interfering. He hates being interrupted but loves his friends especially when Apollinaire brings un pipe opium. Our room is small our room is cold I call it ‘La Cube’ Pablo likes that name, says it’s given him an idea. I stay in bed keeping warm while he works. We have no coal We have no fire We have no money We are not miserable – we are in love. I don’t care about the girls he brings back it is our home, it is his atelier. He wanted to paint her as Joan de Arc – her face extraordinary but barely classical. She posed for two days - we both caught fleas. She never came back. The painting remains unfinished unloved unsold.
Miss Stein is visiting tomorrow a collector from Chicago, she wants to see Pablo’s work maybe he’ll paint her too. This could be our windfall We can buy coal We can buy cakes We can pay Frédé at the Lapin We will not be miserable – we are in love we will always be in love.
Equinox
Its September the wind has changed taking the sun the light and our Queen. Anxiety comes calling on darker nights in colder days. We stock up on essentials tea milk coffee and thermals. Dreading the rattle of the letterbox as another red bill falls onto threadbare carpets And as the year enters its twilight zone we look back on ours What have we achieved? Have we loved and lived wisely? Have we cared for others without prejudice? Are our lives in balance? This is our own personal equinox, a time for equality and while the clock is still ticking let us put our own house in order. <<<
Maestro
Was it Gershwin or Bernstein (I like them both) but it’s that opening two and a half octave smear a Rhapsody in lapis lazuli masquerading as jazz more distinctive than that Beethoven cliché. And the orchestra plays a masterpiece No surrealist 12 note abstraction but composition ascending form dancing to the soft curves of woman While a tender angel kisses me as she awakes from la revé for coffee and we share a cigarette. The liquor store on 7th is too far at 9am in the rain so we roll over share another and then I remember his name. <<<
Lady Day
The 5 Spot was smokey, mellow with the jazz of Coltrane and Coleman, Monk and Mingus. Rivers and Koch hold nocturnes of poetry and jazz accompanied by Day’s pianist Mal Waldron, She showed up that night – frail and was persuaded to sing ‘Fuck the law’ she said. Billie did three numbers with Waldron everyone stopped drinking everyone stopped breathing her voice a whisper almost gone. We’d seen Lady two years earlier Summertime ’57 Loew’s Sheridan – a movie theatre in Greenwich unable to play bars no Cabaret-Card after her heroin bust. Lady arrived late I’m glad we waited. Now its ‘59 three days after Bastille day her face on every damn news-stand The Day Lady died I’m so glad we waited Eleanora Fagan we love you. <<<
Interesting stuff, I wish that I could write like you.
Your pen kept its nerve sir and didn’t disappoint. You bring out the tenderness, love and hope in the gritty situations that you make. Well done. Xxx