TCMC were a collective of eleven musicians who combine their eclectic tastes of funk, hip-hop and soul to create a sound of their own. this track taken from 'Big Sound' ep released 2005 (I think?)

The Haunting - The Common Moral Cause

Some days I am moving easily through the world & I am aware of being present & I am so full with this feeling I could burst. In a good way. Mostly though, I find it hard to relax. I rush to finish things, to have done something rather than be doing it. It feels like my brain never switches off. Learning to stay is the work of a lifetime. For me, poems are part of that work. Seeing and re-seeing the world. Writing and re-writing what I see.

This piece is my second commissioned poem as Poet Laureate for the London Borough of Brent. I have lived in Brent for over five years now, but until recently had never visited BAPS Shri Swaminarayan Mandir, which is popularly known as the ‘Neasden Temple’.  It is the largest Hindu temple outside of India, and is a genuinely awe-inspiring place. The temple is built from over 5,000 tonnes of Italian Marble and Bulgarian limestone, which was shipped to India to be hand carved before being shipped back in 26,300 pieces, which were then assembled on the site where it now stands. I know. It’s gleaming white domes would look incredible anywhere but rising up as they do within the residential streets of Neasden their sublime other worldliness is amplified.

Walking in, you know you are somewhere special. The thing is, sometimes when I know am I somewhere special, particularly somewhere peaceful where it would feel right to be ‘in the moment’ I instead end up with a feeling of watching myself, and wishing I could stop watching myself, and then watching myself wish I could stop watching myself. This time around I tried to embrace that experience by writing about it. Here's the text to accompany the audio:


Inside the mandir at Neasden temple
Each gleaming white pillar is a spotlight of silence.
I read that inner peace brings you in to contact 
with your true divine nature. See the intricate infinity
of patterns in the domed roof above. Silence
1.water, toilet roll, milk, bread. 2. Put a wash on. 
3. Make a plan for the week - factor in time to be spontaneous.
4. Book advance train tickets for Thursday 12th.
I read that Ganesh is the remover of obstacles.
Smile at his one tusked elephants’ head and round belly.
Feel my bare feet warm on the marble floor. Silence
5. Adam’s email about the invoices. 6. Make space
once everything is done to chill out. Stop.
It is rare to see Ganesh dance. And yet up close
this shiny stone column is carved with such music
that he does. In eight different ways
First on tip toes, with knees bent, trunk swung to one side
As two hands of four beat drums, two carve sky palms wide
trunk grips a trumpet, as left heel kicks high
bells ring, shakers shake, horns blow
Ganesh’s father Shiva was the cosmic dancer. 
The rhythm of the shapes that he threw
destroyed a weary universe, clearing the way
for the process of creation, and this silence
is its own dance, the ripples
spreading out into the space between 


Inside the mandir at Neasden Temple

This is my 3rd and final commission as Brent Poet Laureate - another thing that has been interesting me around Brent, and London in general, is the baffling continued presence of the internet café.

Logically there should only be one or two of these left anywhere, and by rights these remaining anachronisms should operate more as museums, you know: “come and watch yesterdays future gather dust like a prototype hoverboard.”

But no, there are actually more than ever. I put this down to the fact that instead of lamenting the demise of their kind with a voice like a dial up modem wailing, net cafes have diversified. Wildly.

What used to be net café express, is now net café EXCHANGE express and you can buy or sell or do virtually anything: untraceable sim cards, next level laptops, money transfers overseas, knock off smart phone covers in dayglo orange or tartan, blank CDs, probably blank cassettes if you ask right. No word of a lie, in Kilburn there is a fishmonger which is also a netcafe.

And everything here happens quickly, in the grunted business language of the high road entrapenour. So, I wrote this next piece in the voice of all north west London net café owners, in fact all web kings capital wide. 
Here is the text version of the poem:

Net Cafe Exchange Express. We buy, we sell, we repair. Up to you Boss.
Everything you have not saved will be lost. Email. Fax international. Calls
low cost. All continents here. See her on number two, with the head scarf
and the many plastic bags. Everyday googling stress and hyper-tension. Up
she gets now look, all bustle quick quick with ages left, her 30 minutes
not yet done. My friend. Everything has a price. Printing Black &amp; White. 10p.
Printing Colour. £1. You know the cafe down the road? The new one, yes.
Free wireless, hot drinks, fancy food. Our Fanta and Kit Kat stay cheap,
up to you boss. This tall man brings his book. To my internet cafe. His book.
But he pays, like all customers. Just watch. He will sit down quick then
turn the screen off. Read many pages in one hour. Go.
He tells me he read the internet, all of it. But now he’s bored of it. Honestly,
rubbish. He say that. With no smiling either. And then old red face on
number eight, always pointing pointing I print something yes? Did that come?
I give in not once. Coz being nice only leads to more questions. Soon
I’ll be typing all emails to their cousin in Greece, scanning their house bills,
Skyping their wife. And probably I do it quicker than they can. Jokes,
but with more speed actually I bring in less money. So I give in to him not once.
Yes 10p per print black &amp; white. Yes 50p minimum internet charge as well. Yes,
for logging on and pressing print only. Yes, if you put 60p in the jar each time
you print something here the last six months, you buy two printers. Yes.
But then here you are again, so probably you did not. End of the day.
It’s up to you boss. Everything you have not saved will be lost. And the time
is running out I know, yes. You’re not going to get done what you need to get done.

Simon Mole, 2013

Net Cafe Exchange Express

Thames Barrier breached! Re-Tweet!
Re-wilding reaches new peak!
Flung full force from a dream 
this giant jawed yawn inventor glides 
all iceberg elegance past Cutty Sark.
Kids climb the rigging, giggle, scream and laugh.
Daddy drops his ice-cream. Waves. On both banks
camera flashes flood tower-block balconies.
The river horse returns! 
It’s massive! I could see it from the plane! Re-tweet!
It’s enormous! They can see it from space! Re-tweet! 
At Canary Wharf city-boys press noses against glass office walls 
“Remember Hungry Hungry Hippos Pete? I really loved that game!”
Traffic stops on Tower Bridge, as both sides rise  
All hail the queen whale pig! 
She ate a dozen London buses for lunch! Re-tweet!
He only needs to breathe once a fortnight. 
Happy tourists on the city’s biggest carousel grin
and jump from side to side: “I can’t believe my London Eyes!” 
Sleek-skinned Bull-king of the swamp goes tidal! 
Re-read. Re-write. Goes viral. Re-tweet. 
Hippo-po-thames goes viral. 
Big Ben strikes thirteen. Cameron quizzed 
at PMQs. Barrel backed behemoth on the move!
Huge Hippo on hunt for new home!  Re-tweet!
At Mi5: “I spy, with my little eye
something beginning with… H”
Tommy’s hospital, a proud dad to new twins
Sees it’s royal hugeness float by. Blinks twice. 
Blames sleep deprived delirium. 
Continues with his day.  At St. George’s Wharf Pier
evening drinkers pause:  “I think it’s slowing down” 
Hippo-po-thames home found! Re-tweet!
A girl in school uniform cycles out of Patmore
down Savona street “it’s stopping here!” 
pedals hard until the river, where she waits for low-tide
alongside construction workers, yellow hard hats under arms
“I heard it turns purple at night. Grows wings”
“It’s got a belly full of treasure! A belly full of fireworks!”
“Or little baby hippos! In Ballet shoes and tutus!”
“It smokes cigars the size of canons! Power station cooling towers!”
Now all rush down to the fore-shore
laughing as a stockbroker casts aside his brogues
to moon-walk slow through gloopy river-mud…

Simon Mole, 2014 


Hippo-po-thames poem

During a visit to the hippo-po-thames sculpture with Griffin Primary School I recorded them speaking some things the hippo might say...

What the hippo says (Griffin Primary school hippo-po-thames vist)


What’s the point? Have the council paid for this?
It’s a bloody hippo innit. Waste of money mate, what’s next?
A two tonne teddy bear in Central Park New York? 
A giant tin-foil horse?! hovering mid-gallop
on the roof of a derelict Esso garage in Hastings.
Three huge Lego spacemen at Stonehenge!
What next? A bloody  billboard sized etch-a-sketch
tilting 3.998 degrees left on the side of Edgware Road
so its perfect line-drawing of the leaning tower of Pisa
now points upwards arrow straight. That’s the direction
this is going. There’ll be a Pegasus My little pony, wings 
outstretched. Purple Angel-of-the-North-size wings 
outstretched over Market Square in Groningen. What next?
A massive shark. Or just its fin like Jaws, I used to love that as a kid.
Yeah a shark, no wait a second mate I used to have this other thing,
some tiny soft toy thing, when I was really little. Take that and make it big.
A colossal knitted octopus plonked atop the gherkin! Or terracotta ants 
as big as cars, following above ground the path that 
the northern line takes through central London. Yes!
that’s pretty good that is, what next?
Teenage mutant ninja turtles. Immense. And in Birmingham. 
Or Bradford! We’re getting somewhere now mate, what next?!
Six plastic cowboy figurines as big as trees, flat on their backs
like helpless beetles in the rain (mid-west plains). 
A huge blue dog in Stockholm. Playing cards 
the size of football pitches, stacked in pyramids
next to the pyramids, but bigger than the pyramids. What next?
A god-sized handful of paving slab scrabble tiles, overflowing 
from the skip outside my aunt’s house in Shrewsbury. 
Bloody hell, yes. I tell you what that’s got me thinking.
All this modern art stuff, not for me mate no. 
But I might give my aunt a ring later.

Simon Mole, 2014. 

What next?

This piece was commissioned by Apples and Snakes as part of their project SPIN, and can be found on the SPIN compilation CD.

More about SPIN:
Join Apples and Snakes word wizards in this exciting and interactive show as they cook up new ways to play with words and show just what you can do with them. Each show includes top-class rappers, poets and storytellers bringing their own distinctive style and have your kids fired up by poetry.

SPIN is a flexible and adaptable children’s show that can be tailored for either 4 to 7, or 7 to 11 year olds. SPIN can be performed in theatres, studios, libraries and schools. To book SPIN for your venue or festival or for more information, please email daniela@applesandsnakes.org.

One Breath

In spring last year I was lucky enough to be involved in an awesome project at Chisenhale Primary school in Bow, East London. I was working with two small-ish groups of boys aged 8 and 9, and a big chunk of what I did was supporting them to build the skills they need to confidently write and perform a group piece about their local area. For the first time on a project like this I also introduced the idea of each group ‘commissioning’ an original poem or rap written by me. They were my bosses, so it was up to them to tell me what they wanted their piece to be about, and to give me feedback at various points in the process. Some of the ideas they came up with were just awesome, and for them to see their off the cuff suggestions transformed into a piece of writing they were genuinely impressed by turned out to be an important part in their journey to writing more confidently themselves.

I’m only blogging about this now months later because life got busy, but also because the other day I found the piece about ‘King Bones’ (the only ninja skeleton living in Bow) and thought it might be fun to record myself speaking it and stick up here to document the project. So, that’s what I’ve done. It’s below, with the text included too. The kids liked it, but were disappointed I did not get to the bit where Bones has a battle on a spaghetti mountain because somebody keyed his car. Who knows, maybe a sequel is coming...

King Bones
If you see a gold mini cooper with tinted windows
It’s probably King Bones, it’s King Bones!
The only ninja skeleton living in Bow. King Bones! King Bones!

Tyres screech. The fire breathing engine smokes out the entire street.
A little grey cat hides behind a tree. The slightest breeze.
Then the car doors open. In slow motion. King Bones has arrived!
King Bones has arrived! He slips out like a deadly whisper.
Moves quick. What would you expect from a ninja?!
Yep, King Bones has arrived!
The mid day sky clouds over, Thunderclaps,
Louder than a hundred hungry hands drumming empty pots and pans,
Then silence. Suddenly night,
Except for the stars, and the gold of the car, nothing is bright.
king bones has arrived. king bones has arrived.

If you hear the roar of the old Trafford crowd as a ring tone
It’s probably King Bones, it’s King Bones!
The only ninja skeleton living in Bow. King Bones! King Bones!

In a sparkling white karate suit and cool black shades
The top of his skull’s shiny, like the surface of a lake
He walks over to the cat, and that’s when we notice that
King bones white Karate suit has got a dark black skull and cross-bones on the back.
He bends down, voice like a rattle
Rattles “lets be friends now!”
The little grey cat looks up, confused
Bones strokes it’s head and it mews
Now this you wont believe but I tell you it’s true
From it’s skull to it’s claws, from that one touch,
the cat’s now a skeleton too
tail wiggling, bony tail wiggling,
follows Bones back to the car, gets in with him.
As soon as the door clicks shut, the sky switches up,
Just like that, the days back, bright sun.
Must be me Mr. Bones, if I were you I’d run!

Simon Mole (and my bosses), 2012

King Bones (the only ninja skeleton living in Bow)

Local poet and spoken word artist Simon Mole is our first Brent Poet Laureate until December 2013.

He has been commissioned to write poems inspired by the area, take part in public performances, deliver workshops and blog about his experiences.

Through this initiative we will raise the profile of poetry in Brent, engage new audiences, celebrate the huge range of voices in the borough and support local artists.

BBC London interview "Brent Poet Laureate" 21.06.13

When I decided to write my first poem as Brent Poet Laureate inspired by my visit to Wembley for the England vs Ireland friendly, I was pretty sure I’d write about the game, or at least the stadium. I wanted to tell people that if a nation can be judged on the way it treats it’s poorest, then surely the way to judge a stadium is the view from it’s cheapest seats, I wanted to shout loud from the rooftops that if this was the case then good old Wembley passed with flying colours! Or failing that, to biggup it’s world record as the venue with the most toilets (2168 to be precise). At least to mention the bloody arch! And I promise that one day I will, perhaps even making my next offering an ode to that glowing single-coloured rainbow of steel spleandour. But this time around I wrote about the pub on the high road. Because I’m sure we’ve all had a long wait for a drink at a busy bar, and for a pub in Wembley before England game, well times your worst experience by about ten… 

The spoons pre-match is three deep at the bar
punters jostle for space, this is their six yard box
some man-mark, making eyes at one bar-staff only
others go zonal, locking down a spot as wide as two Wayne Rooneys
with constant slight shuffles from left to right. In short,
this ain’t your local on a quiet Tuesday night
where any mug can find himself in acres of space. This is Wembley.
Everybody’s touch tight here. Even the designated drivers
Tetchy and in need of a juice. Even the crafty old boys in flat caps
who seem content to grumble-hum about the plastic glasses
only to lunge in with last ditch refill requests. 
I thought I had time for a pint Before kick off. 
But of all buses parked in front of the bar
Of all the rounded bellies with bright white replica kits on
I’m behind the biggest. And I’m parched here. Gasping.
Sod it. I feint left, drop the shoulder, ghost past him
Jink between two lads berating their mate for sipping too slow
“you’re a drink behind already Daz. This is like Majorca all over again.”
One more shimmy, spot the gap, then go. so close I can taste it.
Until, finally, I’m in. That’s that.
I slap my wallet on the damp mat in front of the taps
And for those who don’t know, that’s next up nailed on
A move that makes swift service a stone-wall certainty
The barman nods -  “what can I get ya?”
I inhale, quick look along the taps to check, when out of nowhere
I feel an elbow nudge from the left. “Actually mate, I think she was next.” 
There’s no answer to that. Outgentlemanned. I shrug-Grunt my approval. 
join him on the moral highground. Hold on though… Nooo!  It’s too late when it hits. 
It’s the old one two, he’s gone in with the assist. I just watch
Mouth agog, as his strike-partner orders. Two halves.
And when the drinks come, my worst fears are confirmed
Coz one is his and one is hers. Even Lands a kiss on her cheek before they turn,
And walk right by me. Arms flung over shoulders all smiley.
Beardsley and Lineker. Italia 90. I swear it’s the hope that kills you. 


Three Deep At The Bar

Imagine if Mike Skinner (back in the days of Original Pirate Material) did a one man theatre show. You would go right? 

Simon Mole is the poet from the pub, that rapper from the beach, the friendly guy with the big eyes who told that story.  His infectious enthusiasm for seeing and re-seeing the world around him is an open invitation for you to do the same. Some stuff he says is mad funny, everybody gets it, plus he speaks from the heart, and his love for the craft of writing is there for all to see. Get involved. 


SimonMole

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