For Kenny Knight, one of Plymouth’s finest.
You may not know this poet, maybe you should. I have been lacking inspiration of late, after reading Kenny I may have it back.
For Kenny Knight
I’m sitting reading “A long weekend on the sofa” collected poems by Kenny Knight. I’m reading them while sitting on mine, in my dressing gown….I thought it appropriate.
As I wander through Kenny’s world, a voyeur on magic sofa ride, I recall the times our worlds collided at various oases, as I raided across the three towns from Mannamead.
Ending up (often as not) at The Swan Hotel Devonport. Where the clack of the pool table merged with the sound of acoustic guitars, drinkers jostling for space at the bar, where Harry and Paddy ruled their kingdom with convivial laughter.
I wonder we never met in the smoky yesteryears of the Van Dyke club; maybe we did, sharing a moment with Robert Plant or Hawkwind, over a three paper joint and crap beer. Or later, at Ronnie’s on the Barbican; after early doors at the Dolphin.
We lived a life of reckless abandon, while our years slipped away without a passport to the future; and you were still “forty years away from becoming a household name, like Pink Floyd and fish fingers”.
We meet again in the 80’s, me still playing my guitar, visiting folk clubs. You were perfecting your art as a wordsmith, reading to all who would listen. Selling stanzas stapled together, I bought my share.
Here you are now, applying for your bus pass and pension, writing better than ever; reading better than most. Holding on to your integrity, your originality. While I’m on my sofa, guitars lost in the loft, composing words I’ll never sing.
I’m grateful my friend is still out there, striding the Honicknowle hills writing words that span the years, holding the fabric of our lives together with consummate ease.
Rock on Kenny Knight….Rock on old friend.