90. John Curry

Flair and style from the poet/broadcaster

John Curry is relatively new to poetry, but he has embraced it with real flair and style. He broadcasts a music and interview show - Ordinary People on Sine FM radio. Catch up episodes are available online.

Poems

Brass, Polish and Bourbon
Pity the Geese
Cocoon
The Gods of Gracious Living
En Plein Air
Belle Vue Road

Brass Polish and Bourbon

Inspired by the book, And the Roots of Rhythm Remain by Joe Boyd

Elvis shakes through the door of Sun Records, air thick with hot vinyl, stale coffee, 
walls breath faint traces of sweat and ambition, his voice, when it rises, is brittle as shellac: 
‘How much to record a song?’
The receptionist’s smile flickers like an old neon, still trying to shine,
the fluorescent light buzzing, a swarm of invisible bees. 


Louis stands under a spotlight, feels the breath of the room against his skin, 
the lyrics hang mid-air, mixing with the smell of brass polish and Bourbon 
In their place, sounds tumble out, jagged, raw, the texture of gravel underfoot, 
sharp-edged scat stitched from the scraps of forgotten words,
each note tastes metallic, rhythmic echoes bouncing off sweat-slick walls.


James melts into the shadows of a roadhouse, where the floorboards 
groan with restless ghosts, soaked in the spilled spirits of a hundred lost nights,
the scent of fried grease and old stogies, clings to the air, thick enough to chew.
his eyes glassy marbles reflecting Little Richard’s every twitch, every move,
the crackle of an amp speaker, frayed at the edges, every stomp 
slaps the dust into eddies, every chord rattles ribs, loose change in a buskers cup.


Mick meets Keith on a Dartford platform, dusted with coal grit and rust,
the sky low, bruised with clouds, the wind tastes of iron and old rain, 
voices thin against the whistle of an approaching freight train, conversation tuned
invisible strings, taut, vibrating, the ground hums beneath their feet, 
not from the approaching engine, but something older, deeper, 
the static crackle of futures coiled tight in the spaces between the lines. 


< < < 

Pity the Geese of England

Pity the geese of England, when war comes
fletchers bind the pinions, arrows spinning true
to rent the banners, men fall like brittle stalks,
feathers splattered with gore and snow.
The Bloody Meadow, a scarred plateau

where the late snows of March blew from the north
oaths uttered from frost-bitten tongues,
steel sang hymns through brittle air,
and the earth bore witness, mute, ash-white 
sleet veils the sun, 

the folly of crowned ambition,
where brother cleaved brother,
Sinew snapped, hearts pulped to crimson slush,
and the earth drank deep of lineage,
tangled with marrow and grief,

mud thick with echoes of dying prayers
Ghosts rise, as mist, heavy with absence,
shrouded in frost, their steps lost to time,
cries long forgotten echo in the wind,
history feeds on blood and does not forget.


< < < 

Cocoon

I woke beside her, light seeping 
through the window, her hair spilling 
over the pillow, my fingers 
brushing over bare skin, trailing 
the curve of her shoulder, our eyes 
met I leaned in, the faint rustle 

of sheets whispering around us, 
the soft, delicate touch of a 
kiss feather-light, lingering, a 
slow sinking into each other.
Her head settled on my shoulder,
its weight comforting, a warmth that 

seeped into my chest, My hand traced 
idle patterns along her arm, 
feeling goosebumps rise with the 
delicate thrum of her pulse 
beneath my fingertips. She drifted 
back into sleep, an arm draped 

across my chest, her palm warm, fingers
curled loosely, tethered to the 
moment. I lay still, feeling the 
rise and fall of her breath, a slow, 
steady rhythm, hoping to stay wrapped 
in this fragile cocoon forever.


< < < 

The Gods of Gracious Living

Inspired by George Szirtes - The Photographer in Winter

The gods of gracious living pass me by, a cavalcade
 of polished glass and metal shells reflecting nothing. 
The watchers, impervious, indifferent, stand,
their unblinking eye, behind cold lenses, 
capturing fleeting fragments, of these hollow deities, we dissolve

into the cracks of forgotten places, where light 
does not venture, where voices won’t be heard, nothing stirs,
only the slow spread of emptiness 
weaving itself around us, our presence becomes a fragile myth, whispered and brittle, 
and we? So much more than that.


< < < 

En Plein Air

The practice of painting outdoors, capturing the natural light and atmosphere of a scene in real time

The warm black asphalt road, climbs weaving and winding
past limestone cottages glowing pink in the evening light.
The Norman church tower visible now 
through a gap in the brush splattered leaves of the ancient oak,
ascending past crudely sketched stone wall and dry ditch.
Until the olive green fields give way to the purple heather of the moorland
and the sap green painted  heath grass, 
to join a  lilac sky with strokes of red orange.
Then it crests the hill to begin that last, gentle, meandering, descent home.


< < < 

Belle Vue Road

This cobbled street where echoes linger 
in every uneven stone, 
whispers of footsteps past—
miners trudging home, pockets heavy 
with dust, children weave between shadows,

laughter skipping like pebbles tossed on the Don.
Each stone a memory,
worn smooth by time and tread,
cradling rainwater in shallow dimples,
reflecting murky clouds drifting like forgotten thoughts.

The lamplight spills like amber syrup,
softening edges, pooling in cracks,
casting long silhouettes of quiet lives
the silent poetry of ordinary days.
Here, the air carries the scent of history 

etched - coal smoke deep— tangled with the iron sweet drift
of late summer blossoms from adjacent gardens.
This street speaks - its voice - the rhythm of wheels and soles,
the heartbeat of a town, etched
into each stubborn, enduring stone. 



< < < 

---