List
Your letter comes laden with moral veils,
more welcome, in what you say in winking
than the words you choose. In fiddling song
a blackbird, somewhat in mood, flies between
the fence and the brushed concrete of the yard.
Not hard, you say, when speaking of love from
yesterday, and a vantage reticent
to see what we have. And weigh that we knot
in faddle, more heavily still. Do you
still wear your hair to the shoulder, I think,
your eyes greenish bright when smiling - I think -
then think no more of love, crumbling crumbs
between thumb and ring finger, scattering
them upon the nothingness of concrete.
When we meet, you excuse everything, your eyes
more willow in tone, as if caught in water.
Showing posts with label poet. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poet. Show all posts
18/06/2018
05/05/2018
#amwriting #poetry #poem 3am
3am
It is always the heat and the grind and the salted smoke
of cockles on the mesh, raked in parody of the crashing waves.
Their tongues hang, circumcised, like tired dogs, as they roll drop-ward
to the waiting drum. Pumped arms delighting at the back and forth,
a sweat dripped cigarette hanging, half smoked, tasting
of tar, and the darkness beyond the open shed lifting like sand in a glass.
Outside the ring of heat, cold wet morning
clutches it's arms to it's chest, breathing in the canker of the river.
A stiff knee'd old man is how that day comes. Stiff knee'd
and rising from his hard backed chair. It hobbles in
on clubbed feet, toes gripping at the new-lay
as old blood finally flows across the slashed sky of day.
First the green light and then the red, bobbing then chugging,
then throbbing a timbrel beat, and with a clanging bell
in comes the catch. Around the boat's wake swoop gulls
darting to take the spoils, that spill from the laden nets on deck.
Leaning on the rake, I pat at my pockets for matches.
And in that luminescence of phosphor
I notice the spire of St Margaret's outlined at last.
Two more tons to go, I think,
as I set myself once more to work,
with a satisfied pinging crunch of shells.
It is always the heat and the grind and the salted smoke
of cockles on the mesh, raked in parody of the crashing waves.
Their tongues hang, circumcised, like tired dogs, as they roll drop-ward
to the waiting drum. Pumped arms delighting at the back and forth,
a sweat dripped cigarette hanging, half smoked, tasting
of tar, and the darkness beyond the open shed lifting like sand in a glass.
Outside the ring of heat, cold wet morning
clutches it's arms to it's chest, breathing in the canker of the river.
A stiff knee'd old man is how that day comes. Stiff knee'd
and rising from his hard backed chair. It hobbles in
on clubbed feet, toes gripping at the new-lay
as old blood finally flows across the slashed sky of day.
First the green light and then the red, bobbing then chugging,
then throbbing a timbrel beat, and with a clanging bell
in comes the catch. Around the boat's wake swoop gulls
darting to take the spoils, that spill from the laden nets on deck.
Leaning on the rake, I pat at my pockets for matches.
And in that luminescence of phosphor
I notice the spire of St Margaret's outlined at last.
Two more tons to go, I think,
as I set myself once more to work,
with a satisfied pinging crunch of shells.
11/04/2018
#poem #poetry #amwriting Common Core
Common Core
Walking past a playground, I see three girls arm in arm
promenade, with noses raised, in the cage where football's played,
amidst a horoscope of boys, pulling shapes of their stars they seek to ape
without technique nor style, around the pinging ball they pile.
And seeing this, as I pass, provokes a spiteful thought. Alas
how sad would it be for fickle fate to intervene
to put these girls in their place, back in the grounds beyond that space.
My fag ignites, and I delight, gleeful at the ball in flight
scooting, mis-kicked far from goal, and up the arse of the left hand girl.
A schoolyard ma'am, in alarm, calls for calm, knowing well which boy did harm.
He might protest, in tongue bitten rage, but that does not keep him in the game.
To prove the gynocentric point, and push further noses out of joint
she orders that the game must end, and send the boys to join their friend.
Where they all kick their heels against the wall
learning men have dogs lives after all.
Walking past a playground, I see three girls arm in arm
promenade, with noses raised, in the cage where football's played,
amidst a horoscope of boys, pulling shapes of their stars they seek to ape
without technique nor style, around the pinging ball they pile.
And seeing this, as I pass, provokes a spiteful thought. Alas
how sad would it be for fickle fate to intervene
to put these girls in their place, back in the grounds beyond that space.
My fag ignites, and I delight, gleeful at the ball in flight
scooting, mis-kicked far from goal, and up the arse of the left hand girl.
A schoolyard ma'am, in alarm, calls for calm, knowing well which boy did harm.
He might protest, in tongue bitten rage, but that does not keep him in the game.
To prove the gynocentric point, and push further noses out of joint
she orders that the game must end, and send the boys to join their friend.
Where they all kick their heels against the wall
learning men have dogs lives after all.
19/03/2015
#poem #poetry #amwriting #satire #death #narcissus
Death of Narcissus
'I like my poems to rhythm and rhyme'
wounded stabbed damn'd eye
of the internet poetry buff
did you not
see the swift the gabled end
where you not punched in the gut
by the change in tone
did not Phibus car drive you yonder
did you not
wander alleys you will not go
in shoes more pinched
speckled finch o mourning cloud
did you not
did you not
did you not
poor worm plucked eaten in three parts
while children laugh
'I like my poems to rhythm and rhyme'
wounded stabbed damn'd eye
of the internet poetry buff
did you not
see the swift the gabled end
where you not punched in the gut
by the change in tone
did not Phibus car drive you yonder
did you not
wander alleys you will not go
in shoes more pinched
speckled finch o mourning cloud
did you not
did you not
did you not
poor worm plucked eaten in three parts
while children laugh
so forget
sweet regret
beget yet
gone sunset
signet egged
in blue
will that do
damp churl
sweet regret
beget yet
gone sunset
signet egged
in blue
will that do
damp churl
15/03/2015
#poem #poetry #amwriting #pub #airfield #b17
In A Pub By The Old Airfield
finishing my third pint
I notice the black and white photos
B17s
'Fown a bom' las' year big un an all'
I take my change
I want to go
I want to go
to that place
littered with silver
feel the earth shake
I will slowly suck my weekly ration of sweets
cradle my knees to my chest
as a crow
eats the guts from a shot rabbit
11/03/2015
#poem #poetry #dailymail #satire #amwriting
I've been scribbling again...
Poems in 140 characters or less....
...
up and down
the street
they strike
three minutes aside
of every hour
wound in the morning
checked at night
synchronized
by the World at One
.....
My#applewatch
said I would die
at ten past seven
it ordered pizza
and the crem.
Shame
it missed the ten to seven bus.
....
hallelujah
in rounds they sing
black face
white robe
all hands clapping
hallelujah
knee deep
in the stream
amid the gorse
Africans redeemed
....
My father's shit
was sour as pickle
He apologised
'Don't mention it'
I said
'It's the tumour'
Still the blackbird sings
.......
lift the lid
enter the brick
the single meaning
the lack of wit
don't be frightened
do not quail
it's just a simile
that does not sail
.....
grammar
is
the pedants
way
of drowning artists
surgery
....
peace:)
Poems in 140 characters or less....
...
up and down
the street
they strike
three minutes aside
of every hour
wound in the morning
checked at night
synchronized
by the World at One
.....
My
said I would die
at ten past seven
it ordered pizza
and the crem.
Shame
it missed the ten to seven bus.
....
hallelujah
in rounds they sing
black face
white robe
all hands clapping
hallelujah
knee deep
in the stream
amid the gorse
Africans redeemed
....
My father's shit
was sour as pickle
He apologised
'Don't mention it'
I said
'It's the tumour'
Still the blackbird sings
.......
lift the lid
enter the brick
the single meaning
the lack of wit
don't be frightened
do not quail
it's just a simile
that does not sail
.....
grammar
is
the pedants
way
of drowning artists
surgery
....
peace:)
10/03/2015
#twitter #poems #poetry #amwriting
I've been scribbling again...
Poems in 140 characters or less....
....
She whitemaled me
oh for the old days
of blackmail
when
stuff was extorted
in private
and
without police consent
....
at the bomb factory
we don't
go in for fairtrade
much
though
we have a charity
focused
on children
.....
peace:)
Poems in 140 characters or less....
....
She whitemaled me
oh for the old days
of blackmail
when
stuff was extorted
in private
and
without police consent
....
at the bomb factory
we don't
go in for fairtrade
much
though
we have a charity
focused
on children
.....
peace:)
08/04/2014
Novel
I went to the Beehive last night.
It was a decent session.
The new guy, who I think is called Kev, was apparently talking about my stillbirth poem all of last week to anyone who would listen... which was nice. I read Dusk, which seemed to go down well.
I scribbled a few bits and pieces on the train...
behind the square lit windows
the evening settles in
kids in bed telle on
cups of tea lemonade and gin
and
how melancholy sit the leafless trees
as grey ducky sky descends
and
in the half dark ventian blinded light
she sits down at the computer to write
an email to explain put right last night
and
spartan sky lingers on the moor
Though in truth the sketching I did on the train was more on the Nazi police thing.
It's somewhat of an oddity of the internet that although it offers a world of knowledge - in theory - in practice unless you are hyper careful in your search terms, it gives you the sort of information that can be gleaned in your average pub.
For instance I wanted to find out about the structure of the German legal system. I got some information and ideas from watching a film about the trial of Adolf Hitler. The actual information required was titles, offices, and responsibilities - i.e facts.
Instead I got pages of search results offering useless information telling me the Nazis were unpleasant types, endless stuff about the racial laws, Jews and Crytsal Nacht, bits and pieces on that ranting judge, and not much that was of any use to anyone not looking to cut and paste stuff into a GCSE essay. Not that I am dismissing any of this. But it is rather like asking what the weather is like in Nebraska and being told about the massacre of the Indians, the US prison population and how unpleasant US foreign policy is. It's lacks relevance.
---------------------------------------------------
The Blue Book
It was a decent session.
The new guy, who I think is called Kev, was apparently talking about my stillbirth poem all of last week to anyone who would listen... which was nice. I read Dusk, which seemed to go down well.
I scribbled a few bits and pieces on the train...
behind the square lit windows
the evening settles in
kids in bed telle on
cups of tea lemonade and gin
and
how melancholy sit the leafless trees
as grey ducky sky descends
and
in the half dark ventian blinded light
she sits down at the computer to write
an email to explain put right last night
and
spartan sky lingers on the moor
Though in truth the sketching I did on the train was more on the Nazi police thing.
It's somewhat of an oddity of the internet that although it offers a world of knowledge - in theory - in practice unless you are hyper careful in your search terms, it gives you the sort of information that can be gleaned in your average pub.
For instance I wanted to find out about the structure of the German legal system. I got some information and ideas from watching a film about the trial of Adolf Hitler. The actual information required was titles, offices, and responsibilities - i.e facts.
Instead I got pages of search results offering useless information telling me the Nazis were unpleasant types, endless stuff about the racial laws, Jews and Crytsal Nacht, bits and pieces on that ranting judge, and not much that was of any use to anyone not looking to cut and paste stuff into a GCSE essay. Not that I am dismissing any of this. But it is rather like asking what the weather is like in Nebraska and being told about the massacre of the Indians, the US prison population and how unpleasant US foreign policy is. It's lacks relevance.
---------------------------------------------------
The Blue Book
07/04/2014
Nazi
I went to the first meeting of the #Ilkley Writers group a couple of weeks ago.
The 'homework' for the next meeting was to write a piece about finding something in a person's pocket.
No sniggering at the back.
I've been mulling over what I should write since. The obvious thing would be to write a poem. But, I have been working on various prose pieces, and thought it might be a useful incentive to write a fiction piece.
Like many creative things the story came about by a circuitous route. Regular readers will know I am currently reading Hitler's Children: The Story of the Baader-Meinhof Terrorist Gang
by Jillian Becker. In fact I have been reading a number of things about Germany in WWII. And, I find my preconceptions being rather challenged. For instance, one of the books I have been reading was about the Hitlerjugend in Normandy. All, or most, of whom were in the Hitler Youth, which conjures up images of swinging Indian Clubs and marching about. However according to this first hand account, far from the Hitler Youth being like the Scouts, it was more akin tot he Woodland Folk. And indeed Becker makes the same comparison.
Here is the poem that came out of my reflections on this....
Sabina finds me reading Rilke,
in the lower meadow by the stream.
Again and again I have come here
to paint the little Luthern chapel
but I cannot catch the light.
She brings her mother's regards
and a small cake, which she cuts
with my pocket knife. Stabbing
the crumbs with our finger tips
we read Autumn Day, on the rug,
our bodies almost touching.
The paper curls in the breeze
pinned by the smudged and bloodied
watercolours, in their wooden box.
The water jar sits safe in my shoe.
Angels in the churchyard
turn their backs, as naked
we splash and prance in the stream.
The sunlight runs like spring rain
upon our bodies. But we are not children.
No one is young. For high above,
silver geese fly in formation,
heading south; their reflection
obscured by the brilliance
of our glistening laughter.
So anyway, here is the 300 word story...
The 'homework' for the next meeting was to write a piece about finding something in a person's pocket.
No sniggering at the back.
I've been mulling over what I should write since. The obvious thing would be to write a poem. But, I have been working on various prose pieces, and thought it might be a useful incentive to write a fiction piece.
Like many creative things the story came about by a circuitous route. Regular readers will know I am currently reading Hitler's Children: The Story of the Baader-Meinhof Terrorist Gang
by Jillian Becker. In fact I have been reading a number of things about Germany in WWII. And, I find my preconceptions being rather challenged. For instance, one of the books I have been reading was about the Hitlerjugend in Normandy. All, or most, of whom were in the Hitler Youth, which conjures up images of swinging Indian Clubs and marching about. However according to this first hand account, far from the Hitler Youth being like the Scouts, it was more akin tot he Woodland Folk. And indeed Becker makes the same comparison.Here is the poem that came out of my reflections on this....
Sabina finds me reading Rilke,
in the lower meadow by the stream.
Again and again I have come here
to paint the little Luthern chapel
but I cannot catch the light.
She brings her mother's regards
and a small cake, which she cuts
with my pocket knife. Stabbing
the crumbs with our finger tips
we read Autumn Day, on the rug,
our bodies almost touching.
The paper curls in the breeze
pinned by the smudged and bloodied
watercolours, in their wooden box.
The water jar sits safe in my shoe.
Angels in the churchyard
turn their backs, as naked
we splash and prance in the stream.
The sunlight runs like spring rain
upon our bodies. But we are not children.
No one is young. For high above,
silver geese fly in formation,
heading south; their reflection
obscured by the brilliance
of our glistening laughter.
So anyway, here is the 300 word story...
“Ah the poet,” exclaimed Inspector Meyer, “we meet again and
again.”
“And again and again you make the same joke,” replied Vesper
dryly. He checked the oak lined corridor before closing the door. “It’s about
the Schaub case. There’s something you need to know.”
Meyer pushed the rape file, he was working on, to one side.
He indicated Vesper to sit. The young sergeant did so, peering at his superior
through the thick lenses of his glasses. “Schaub?” began Meyer, recapping the
case from memory, “Schaub, male, 42,
found floating the river last week. The doctor says he was in the water for
approximately ten days. The neighbours report he had been drinking heavily
following the death of his son at… uh?... did we ever establish were the son
was killed?”
“No sir.”
“The wife and daughter killed by a stray bomb. He was heard
expressing defeatist opinions on the night he died. A witness reports that he
may have been fighting with two men on
the Fliesch bridge. The case remains open, but we are not actively
investigating. Have I missed anything?”
“This,” said Vesper, pushing a crumpled identity card across
the desk.
Meyer took it, opened it, and pouted at the insignificance.
“It’s Herr Schaub’s identity card, what of it?”
“It’s the stamp sir.” Meyer looked more closely. “The stamp
was only issued two days ago, which makes me wonder how it could be found in
Herr Schaub’s jacket pocket.”
Meyer laid the identity card on the desk before him, gently
running his figures across the smudged and blistered cardboard. “Herr Schaub
was a farmer? Was he not? And a farmer must be able to predict the weather if
he is to make money.”
“I don’t think it was suicide sir. In fact I know it wasn’t.
There’s something else.”
Which has got me thinking of ways in which this might be expanded.
-------------------------------------------------
01/04/2014
Train
Last night was an evening of #poetry with the Beehive Poets.
Well it was half an evening of poetry, and half annual general meeting. The details of the meeting don't need to be gone into. The read around was rather interesting because it was a kind of speed reading event, with everyone reading their poem without discussion. It's perhaps not something I'd like to do every week but it did mean that we got through a lot of material, and perhaps heard work that we might not otherwise have.
Christine read a very interesting poem about Goebbels children. Not a subject that gets discussed often, and certainly not one that is given the humane treatment that she gave it. There was a new bloke there who did a most curious piece of performance art. His poem was about how only women and poofters dance - or so his father told him. As a poem it was ok. The curious aspect was that it was written across numerous bits of paper, that appeared to be unconnected with each other - bits of one stanza were on the same piece of paper of bits of another stanza, without seeming rhyme nor reason, Which had me wondering about the process. But regardless, his delivery was strong, and there was entertainment value in watching the poem literally unfold. Steve read a rather good poem about horses and colours and a city - that in terms of sense may have benefited from discussion, but was an aural treat, and rather sensuous. Kevin did a couple of his atonal spikey pieces which is always a treat. John gave a couple of nicely observed vignettes. Frank gave us a lyrical piece that had apparently once made John Hegley cheer.
I had rather too much Mordue Workie Ticket, and offered Remembrance and the Tryptich. In truth I was rather pleased to read both of these without discussion. And it took my best cynical Mockney persona to get through Remembrance without blubbing.
Instead of writing nonsense, I decided to flex my mental muscles by writing sketches of what I saw n the train journey journey....
and again the square windows, lit for tea
slip past with brakes release, into the country
of back yards, bicycles, bar-b-ques, love seats
which in summer soak all work's stress.
---------------------------------
swaying in our seats the familiar
anouncement
-----------------------------------
the familiar robotic intones
plays out, then pips and beeps, doors close.
---------------------------
the cows like cricketers
stand ready
heads down
waiting for the bowlers arm
---------------------------
under the steady gaze of the church clock
cows stand ready, heads down
for the bowlers arm to turn once more.
----------------------
tunnel embankment, embankment tunnel
------------------
black mud road
through the green wall
---------------------------
a thwack, follow through
stand and walk on
trolley behind
still a fair way from the green
--------------------------
last years sycamore pods
hang like foreskins
---------------------
a dead swan
waits on the canal
for sale signs litter
the new built flats
-----------------
Guisley enters in grey slippers
from the cow pastures
---------------------
It remains to be seen if these lead to anything.
I did see a deer, which poetically speaking should be inspiring, at the time I was thinking about the disorderly order of the the countryside between Ilkley and Burley - stands of ungrown trees in plastic rabbit proof sleeves, the sloping land bisected by triangles of bushes, field boundaries, paths, etc. Oh and there was a hovering bird of prey, and six crows flying in antagonistic formation in the grey and misty sky.
------------------------------------------------------
Cue random picture for the facebooks seasoning...
The Blue Book, now with added P, only £1.84
Well it was half an evening of poetry, and half annual general meeting. The details of the meeting don't need to be gone into. The read around was rather interesting because it was a kind of speed reading event, with everyone reading their poem without discussion. It's perhaps not something I'd like to do every week but it did mean that we got through a lot of material, and perhaps heard work that we might not otherwise have.
Christine read a very interesting poem about Goebbels children. Not a subject that gets discussed often, and certainly not one that is given the humane treatment that she gave it. There was a new bloke there who did a most curious piece of performance art. His poem was about how only women and poofters dance - or so his father told him. As a poem it was ok. The curious aspect was that it was written across numerous bits of paper, that appeared to be unconnected with each other - bits of one stanza were on the same piece of paper of bits of another stanza, without seeming rhyme nor reason, Which had me wondering about the process. But regardless, his delivery was strong, and there was entertainment value in watching the poem literally unfold. Steve read a rather good poem about horses and colours and a city - that in terms of sense may have benefited from discussion, but was an aural treat, and rather sensuous. Kevin did a couple of his atonal spikey pieces which is always a treat. John gave a couple of nicely observed vignettes. Frank gave us a lyrical piece that had apparently once made John Hegley cheer.
I had rather too much Mordue Workie Ticket, and offered Remembrance and the Tryptich. In truth I was rather pleased to read both of these without discussion. And it took my best cynical Mockney persona to get through Remembrance without blubbing.
Instead of writing nonsense, I decided to flex my mental muscles by writing sketches of what I saw n the train journey journey....
and again the square windows, lit for tea
slip past with brakes release, into the country
of back yards, bicycles, bar-b-ques, love seats
which in summer soak all work's stress.
---------------------------------
swaying in our seats the familiar
anouncement
-----------------------------------
the familiar robotic intones
plays out, then pips and beeps, doors close.
---------------------------
the cows like cricketers
stand ready
heads down
waiting for the bowlers arm
---------------------------
under the steady gaze of the church clock
cows stand ready, heads down
for the bowlers arm to turn once more.
----------------------
tunnel embankment, embankment tunnel
------------------
black mud road
through the green wall
---------------------------
a thwack, follow through
stand and walk on
trolley behind
still a fair way from the green
--------------------------
last years sycamore pods
hang like foreskins
---------------------
a dead swan
waits on the canal
for sale signs litter
the new built flats
-----------------
Guisley enters in grey slippers
from the cow pastures
---------------------
It remains to be seen if these lead to anything.
I did see a deer, which poetically speaking should be inspiring, at the time I was thinking about the disorderly order of the the countryside between Ilkley and Burley - stands of ungrown trees in plastic rabbit proof sleeves, the sloping land bisected by triangles of bushes, field boundaries, paths, etc. Oh and there was a hovering bird of prey, and six crows flying in antagonistic formation in the grey and misty sky.
------------------------------------------------------
Cue random picture for the facebooks seasoning...
The Blue Book, now with added P, only £1.84
31/03/2014
Syria
I am tempted to go back to nonsense #poetry to clear my mind of various political poems that gnaw at me when I sit down to down.
The impetus behind these poems is fed by the comments I have been reading around the internet about the situation in Ukraine. It is not a debate. Putin is the bad guy. Godwin's law is thrown out of the window. And without the slightest irony 1914 invoked. For some reason no one mentions the oil and gas bonanza in the US.
The farmer poem did touch on these issues, but in an oblique way,
The problem is that the scribbling comes out half formed, too strong in tone, lacking sophistication.
the television carries what passes for news
through the french windows the carcoal glows white,
the birds tweet as they nest
a rather pleasant red slips down
and....
its common sense
Putin is a gangster, he hates gays
a red tzar, who shoots dogs
and...
so in return for America selling Europe gas
Ukraine agrees to kick out the Chinas
pay full price take on loans from us
At which point I found myself thinking about Omar Bakri Muhammed. Who you will recall was Muslim preacher linked to the 7/7 bombings, and became rather a cause-celebre due to efforts to have him extradited. As a person he is rather dull, and follows the same pattern as any fascist leader - placing undue importance on the in-group, and explaining the failings and set backs of the in-group on the activities of external actors.
What interests me is what his story says about relations with Syria.
Depending on which version of the narrative you believe, he was either involved or not in the Hama Revolt of 1982. During which between 10,000 and 40,000 people were killed by the Syrian army. Not much was said about it at the time, Britain was about to be at war with the Argentina over the Falkands, Israel (the perennial bad guys of the politically active) was soon to invade Lebanon. It hardly seemed to matter that Syria was stamping down on the Muslim brotherhood.
It's an interesting country Syria. When the Caliphate was thriving, or not if you were the Caliph, in Baghdad, the mainly Christian population of Syria provided the bulk of the armies. Fast forward a few hundred years, and the country because one of the principle bases for the American missionary movement (the NGO's of their day) they build universities and churches, and following the collapse of the Ottoman Empire after the First World War, provide useful leverage in Allied - British, French, and US - efforts to stabilize the region. Syria comes under French control, and in 1941 became a battlefield between Vichy French and British Imperial forces - with Czechs and Free French - in what was a series of small wars to neutralize Germany's French allies. The war ends, the cold war begins, and perhaps because of Ba'arthisms similarities to Soviet Socialism, Syria becomes a allied/client state of the eastern bloc - while retaining strong diplomatic ties with France, and to some extent Britain, as evidenced by the current Syrian president having studied at a British university,
The point being that I was thinking about these things, particularly in relation to the changing diplomacy surrounding the Muhammed incident.
And came up with this....
I'm sitting in the garden
the birds are siting
the red wine slips down nicely
and for no reason
the name
Omar Bakri Muhammed
comes to mind
It might be the radio
droning in the background
or
the announcement
that the US is about to ship
the gas it is currently
flaring
to Europe
but my mind wanders
back to 1982
when the poor little rich kid
got caught up in the nastiness
and found his faith wanting
personally
I couldn't give a monkies
if oil is sold in dollars or yuan
but
there are people who do
and they have reasons
just as I have red wine
so poor old Bakri
runs for his life
and finds
sanctuary of sorts
among the non drinkers
the political
the vegetarians
and the well fed
It is truncated, and it is a sketch, and perhaps it will get more flesh on the bones if my efforts to free my sub-conscience fails to produce something more poetic.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Cue random picture to give the facebooks the feeling of a provincial museum
The Blue Book, now with 33% more, 60 poems for $2.99
The impetus behind these poems is fed by the comments I have been reading around the internet about the situation in Ukraine. It is not a debate. Putin is the bad guy. Godwin's law is thrown out of the window. And without the slightest irony 1914 invoked. For some reason no one mentions the oil and gas bonanza in the US.
The farmer poem did touch on these issues, but in an oblique way,
The problem is that the scribbling comes out half formed, too strong in tone, lacking sophistication.
the television carries what passes for news
through the french windows the carcoal glows white,
the birds tweet as they nest
a rather pleasant red slips down
and....
its common sense
Putin is a gangster, he hates gays
a red tzar, who shoots dogs
and...
so in return for America selling Europe gas
Ukraine agrees to kick out the Chinas
pay full price take on loans from us
At which point I found myself thinking about Omar Bakri Muhammed. Who you will recall was Muslim preacher linked to the 7/7 bombings, and became rather a cause-celebre due to efforts to have him extradited. As a person he is rather dull, and follows the same pattern as any fascist leader - placing undue importance on the in-group, and explaining the failings and set backs of the in-group on the activities of external actors.
What interests me is what his story says about relations with Syria.
Depending on which version of the narrative you believe, he was either involved or not in the Hama Revolt of 1982. During which between 10,000 and 40,000 people were killed by the Syrian army. Not much was said about it at the time, Britain was about to be at war with the Argentina over the Falkands, Israel (the perennial bad guys of the politically active) was soon to invade Lebanon. It hardly seemed to matter that Syria was stamping down on the Muslim brotherhood.
It's an interesting country Syria. When the Caliphate was thriving, or not if you were the Caliph, in Baghdad, the mainly Christian population of Syria provided the bulk of the armies. Fast forward a few hundred years, and the country because one of the principle bases for the American missionary movement (the NGO's of their day) they build universities and churches, and following the collapse of the Ottoman Empire after the First World War, provide useful leverage in Allied - British, French, and US - efforts to stabilize the region. Syria comes under French control, and in 1941 became a battlefield between Vichy French and British Imperial forces - with Czechs and Free French - in what was a series of small wars to neutralize Germany's French allies. The war ends, the cold war begins, and perhaps because of Ba'arthisms similarities to Soviet Socialism, Syria becomes a allied/client state of the eastern bloc - while retaining strong diplomatic ties with France, and to some extent Britain, as evidenced by the current Syrian president having studied at a British university,
The point being that I was thinking about these things, particularly in relation to the changing diplomacy surrounding the Muhammed incident.
And came up with this....
I'm sitting in the garden
the birds are siting
the red wine slips down nicely
and for no reason
the name
Omar Bakri Muhammed
comes to mind
It might be the radio
droning in the background
or
the announcement
that the US is about to ship
the gas it is currently
flaring
to Europe
but my mind wanders
back to 1982
when the poor little rich kid
got caught up in the nastiness
and found his faith wanting
personally
I couldn't give a monkies
if oil is sold in dollars or yuan
but
there are people who do
and they have reasons
just as I have red wine
so poor old Bakri
runs for his life
and finds
sanctuary of sorts
among the non drinkers
the political
the vegetarians
and the well fed
It is truncated, and it is a sketch, and perhaps it will get more flesh on the bones if my efforts to free my sub-conscience fails to produce something more poetic.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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30/03/2014
Politics
One of the more rolly eyes moments at the Open Mic event yesterday was when this woman started making 'political statements' about Michael Gove.
And of course the sheep in the room clapped like seals, at this bit of dog whistling..
I have no particular feeling toward Michael Gove, he is doing a reasonable job in a department that has long since lost itself with regard consistent policy. However, I do find it ironic that so many leftists choose to target Gove, given his background.
But then one of the acts yesterday stood up and stated that Jesus was a gnostic atheist and then went into this schtick about... well not very much really. As a piece of Medieval Anabaptism it was fine, and no doubt if you were trapped Mainz and allowing your daughters to be semi-raped in the free love mania it would have gone rather well.
And then there was this woman who stood and asked to imagine that we a teenage black girl, in Little Rock in 1964... I believe she said 1964.... or perhaps she was referencing to something other than than the segregation episode in 1957. Anyway, there she was getting shriller and shriller as the fire of her political being grew indignant, at the injustice.
But hang on, why does black girl not have a name?
Why can't we imagine that we are Carlotta Walls LaNier, or Minnijean Brown-Trickey. or Gloria Ray Kalmark, or Thelma Mothershed-Wair, or Melba Pattillo Beals, or Elizabeth Eckford, - or indeed Ernest Green or Jefferson Thomas but we asked image being a black girl, so they don't count. Particularly Eckford, as it arguably the picture of he being harangued by 'a piece of white trash' - yes she did that phrase in her poem (perhaps I should complaint to the police about racist behaviour at a council funded event) - that gave the incident its notoriety around the word.
At which point, up steps another earnest female soul who is going to give her poetic tribute to Nelson Mandela.
There was something about Thatcher, those people who called Mandela a terrorist, and.... hang on a minute... he was a terrorist. What you on about woman..... no she's moved on now.... the hagiography in preparation for beautification, and no doubt inquisition for those who disagree, is in full flow - stuff about what his life teaches us about something-or-another, and this and that.
To not accept that terrorism is the central tenet of Mandela's life is rather miss the point. It is as vital to understand, as his later rejection of violence - well partial rejection - given the nature of his Pan African politics.
I suppose all of this was agit-prop stuff was in my head as a scribbled a few lines of free verse last night....
they're the anti-political
political fringe
of the anti-political front
they're the anti-critical
critical falange
of the anti-critical....
and...
yeah but carbon dioxide has increased
nine per cent
and the temperature has remained stable
the kafiyah gasps
the nuclear power nej tak medals
rattle like dying polar bears
the free trade unbleached sugar pours into
the free trade grown by women coffee
with free trade trampled by autistic kids soya milk
I sip my bog standard red label
we take a detour
around syria palestine banking
the exploitation of women
none of which makes much sense
but then I'm not political
and neither is she really
and....
I got an email today from a coral
wanting to know why I don't have a car
I replied it is none of your business
blooming nosy crustacean
but corals aren't the type to let things lie
three phone calls, two texts
and registered delivered letter
later
I received a cheque from his mates
on the barrier reef
so I can buy an SUV
but I'm not that sort of bloke
I sponsored a rhino instead
and spent the rest on wine and cigars
and lego for the kids
now the coral have hired a dolphin
to do me in
when it has fulfilled the contract
the coral took out
on Julia Gilard
--------------------------------------------------------
Cue random picture for the facebooks stain glass...
The Blue Book, now with ideas, only $2.99
And of course the sheep in the room clapped like seals, at this bit of dog whistling..
I have no particular feeling toward Michael Gove, he is doing a reasonable job in a department that has long since lost itself with regard consistent policy. However, I do find it ironic that so many leftists choose to target Gove, given his background.
But then one of the acts yesterday stood up and stated that Jesus was a gnostic atheist and then went into this schtick about... well not very much really. As a piece of Medieval Anabaptism it was fine, and no doubt if you were trapped Mainz and allowing your daughters to be semi-raped in the free love mania it would have gone rather well.
And then there was this woman who stood and asked to imagine that we a teenage black girl, in Little Rock in 1964... I believe she said 1964.... or perhaps she was referencing to something other than than the segregation episode in 1957. Anyway, there she was getting shriller and shriller as the fire of her political being grew indignant, at the injustice.
But hang on, why does black girl not have a name?
Why can't we imagine that we are Carlotta Walls LaNier, or Minnijean Brown-Trickey. or Gloria Ray Kalmark, or Thelma Mothershed-Wair, or Melba Pattillo Beals, or Elizabeth Eckford, - or indeed Ernest Green or Jefferson Thomas but we asked image being a black girl, so they don't count. Particularly Eckford, as it arguably the picture of he being harangued by 'a piece of white trash' - yes she did that phrase in her poem (perhaps I should complaint to the police about racist behaviour at a council funded event) - that gave the incident its notoriety around the word.
At which point, up steps another earnest female soul who is going to give her poetic tribute to Nelson Mandela.
There was something about Thatcher, those people who called Mandela a terrorist, and.... hang on a minute... he was a terrorist. What you on about woman..... no she's moved on now.... the hagiography in preparation for beautification, and no doubt inquisition for those who disagree, is in full flow - stuff about what his life teaches us about something-or-another, and this and that.
To not accept that terrorism is the central tenet of Mandela's life is rather miss the point. It is as vital to understand, as his later rejection of violence - well partial rejection - given the nature of his Pan African politics.
I suppose all of this was agit-prop stuff was in my head as a scribbled a few lines of free verse last night....
they're the anti-political
political fringe
of the anti-political front
they're the anti-critical
critical falange
of the anti-critical....
and...
yeah but carbon dioxide has increased
nine per cent
and the temperature has remained stable
the kafiyah gasps
the nuclear power nej tak medals
rattle like dying polar bears
the free trade unbleached sugar pours into
the free trade grown by women coffee
with free trade trampled by autistic kids soya milk
I sip my bog standard red label
we take a detour
around syria palestine banking
the exploitation of women
none of which makes much sense
but then I'm not political
and neither is she really
and....
I got an email today from a coral
wanting to know why I don't have a car
I replied it is none of your business
blooming nosy crustacean
but corals aren't the type to let things lie
three phone calls, two texts
and registered delivered letter
later
I received a cheque from his mates
on the barrier reef
so I can buy an SUV
but I'm not that sort of bloke
I sponsored a rhino instead
and spent the rest on wine and cigars
and lego for the kids
now the coral have hired a dolphin
to do me in
when it has fulfilled the contract
the coral took out
on Julia Gilard
--------------------------------------------------------
Cue random picture for the facebooks stain glass...
The Blue Book, now with ideas, only $2.99
29/03/2014
Non Event
I have been to the Open Mic event at the Otley Word Feast.
It was a nice afternoon, the Black Sheep slipped down nicely - even is it is a pint that lacks body and sophistication.
The judge was a lesbian, and as per usual for these events the standard of their work was poor, Char March was her name.... no, I've never heard of her either.... and having suffering through her set before hand I wasn't expecting much discernment in her judging. And she duly delivered, giving the first prize to a stand up comedy routine that included the word 'fuck'. had nothing to say of any worth or interest, was a semi-rap and rhymed every other word in annoying runs. Oh and she was a a woman of a certain type that appeals to the inhabits of Lesbos.
Meh....
Sour grapes?
Not at all.
I rather enjoyed myself. I got to catch up with people I haven't seen in years, Brendan Partlin was his usual quirky self, and played the host admirably - it's a shame that Wicked Words has gone the way of all flesh. I got to hear the wonderful dialect of wot-his-name, I'd like to tell you his name, as he is poet I greatly admire for the way his uses his Lancashire burr to crunch the art of the ordinary, but unfortunately I can't. For despite having the most interesting conversations with him smoking outside, for some reason we never remember each other's name.... probably because we are too busy talking to actually exchange monikers....
Kevin Byrne was on good form, and his friend Dave gave the best poem of the day with his piece about Muriel, the love of his life. Other notables were the bloke who gave the subtle villanelle about not being able to write a villanelle, and a woman, who I think was called Ros, with two short and very intelligently constructed poems.
I also rather liked the chap who performed ancient Greek poetry with an umbrella to beat out the rhythm and a tuneless harp for the second piece. Obviously he is not going to win - because he had something interesting to say about the nature of these events but fair play to him to have the balls to actually stand up and say it.
I did find myself sniggering at the end when the winner was described as someone we would be hearing more of in the future.... yeah right....
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Cue random picture to illustrate the facebooks
The Blue Book, now with stuff, £1.84
It was a nice afternoon, the Black Sheep slipped down nicely - even is it is a pint that lacks body and sophistication.
The judge was a lesbian, and as per usual for these events the standard of their work was poor, Char March was her name.... no, I've never heard of her either.... and having suffering through her set before hand I wasn't expecting much discernment in her judging. And she duly delivered, giving the first prize to a stand up comedy routine that included the word 'fuck'. had nothing to say of any worth or interest, was a semi-rap and rhymed every other word in annoying runs. Oh and she was a a woman of a certain type that appeals to the inhabits of Lesbos.
Meh....
Sour grapes?
Not at all.
I rather enjoyed myself. I got to catch up with people I haven't seen in years, Brendan Partlin was his usual quirky self, and played the host admirably - it's a shame that Wicked Words has gone the way of all flesh. I got to hear the wonderful dialect of wot-his-name, I'd like to tell you his name, as he is poet I greatly admire for the way his uses his Lancashire burr to crunch the art of the ordinary, but unfortunately I can't. For despite having the most interesting conversations with him smoking outside, for some reason we never remember each other's name.... probably because we are too busy talking to actually exchange monikers....
Kevin Byrne was on good form, and his friend Dave gave the best poem of the day with his piece about Muriel, the love of his life. Other notables were the bloke who gave the subtle villanelle about not being able to write a villanelle, and a woman, who I think was called Ros, with two short and very intelligently constructed poems.
I also rather liked the chap who performed ancient Greek poetry with an umbrella to beat out the rhythm and a tuneless harp for the second piece. Obviously he is not going to win - because he had something interesting to say about the nature of these events but fair play to him to have the balls to actually stand up and say it.
I did find myself sniggering at the end when the winner was described as someone we would be hearing more of in the future.... yeah right....
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Cue random picture to illustrate the facebooks
The Blue Book, now with stuff, £1.84
27/03/2014
Greek
A great deal has changed since I was at school.
There is no longer an Iron Curtain in Geography, Maths is now unfathomable, History, is as ever, ever changing in it slants and bias, and seemingly there is a notion being taught in school that unless a poem is written in iambic pentameter then it is free form and not metered.
When I were a lad we learned about such things... yes the word of the day... dithyrambs.
I am aware regular readers will now be pointing at the screen and shouting, 'YOU ARE THE GUY WHO TRIED TO CLAIM CURIOSITY AND SATISFIED WERE THREE SYLLABLES AND THEREFORE FITTED A DITHYRAMBIC BEAT." And indeed I did, and indeed they are if one listens to the current P.O.S.H accent; you know, the sort of people who read bucks.
Anywho...
I spent a good six hours yesterday working on the Triptych poem. Running each line through syllable counter, making corrections where needed to get 10 beats on a line, then moving things about to get a meter of two unstressed dithyrambs and two iambs, where possible. This editing was also useful for cutting the fat and strengthening the theme of the poem, which is now a three part work relating to John the Baptist.
Thus you get...
I/fol/low the/CROWD down/TO the/riv/er.
It/is/cold ev/EN for/ morn/ing it's/COLD.
The/Jor/dan shim/MERS through/the/reeds, green/SILK,
lick/ing/the foot/PRINTS at/THE wat/er's/edge
in/TO flat/NESS.
At which point the Bacchanal, breaks for description (in the Greek Style), and to emphasis the specifically Christian/Jesus Cult themes....
He/WAITS for/US, glow/ING,
on/THE far/BANK, hand IN wel/COME to/CROSS.
Then back tot he Bacchanal...
The/New sun/DAZZLES, some/stag/ger bright/blind/ed
in/TO the/wa/ter, the/SPLASH of//feet/dulls
etc
Which in my view is a rather decent stab at Greek oration poetry, to play into the themes of the early church contained within the narrative of the piece.The piece isn't finished, it still needs to be read aloud for one thing, and there are a few sections in which the rhythms could be tightened.
In case you are wondering, why the tone of self justification, and the reference to schooling - apparently this isn't metered poetry, it isn't blank verse - it's something called syllabic (which no doubt there is a cream for) and it's free verse because there is no meter... and the person making this judgement recommends I go and look at some link or other from the poetrysociety. Which is all very well, but I somehow doubt the poetrysociety is going to have information on writing in a declamatory style, as from what I seen of their output they are focused on keeping the word firmly on the page - and preferably the word relating to artscouncil funding.... back to tick boxes.
Oh the missus was right about me being Auden....
Still the whole process is very enjoyable, and a useful learning experience.
So now you know your dithyramb from your elbow, you can don an doleful mask, with amplified mouth piece, platform shoes and stage a performance of this semi-Mandean work - possibly with your neighbours and children acting as the chorus, complete with stylized dance moves, and supportive humming.
Triptych - The Lamb
Birth
I follow the crowd down to the river.
It is cold, even for morning it's cold.
The Jordan shimmers through the reeds, green silk,
licking the foot prints at the water's edge
into flatness. He waits for us, glowing,
on the far bank, hand in welcome to cross.
The new sun dazzles, some stagger bright blinded
into the water, the splash of feet dulls
as they reach midstream their clothes drag.
Waist deep, women toss their girdle aside,
rend their simlah, and bare breasted proceed
to receive favour. I sit on a dune
as others go. Some with clothes, folded,
held above their heads, slaves and masters, dogs
fathers, children, while maternal women
sail swaddled infants safe in fig baskets.
I do not move. Nor does the carpenter.
He takes new bread from his bag and breaks it,
gives me one half. I nod. A cheer goes up,
over the river, the blessing begins.
People dance, sing, hands clap, laughter pealing
as one by one these simple folk immerse
themselves, emerging ecstatic, absolved.
My tongue fishes unmilled grain from the bread.
Curiosity satisfied, we leave.
Business
The tax collector's beadling stare pins me,
his sharp hooked nose, holds me, sniffing for coins
leaning across the narrow slatted stall,
eyes twisting, as a bird, or a lizard
eager for more; fearing its prey will flit.
Three meagre coins lay between us. His hand
gathers them up as he slithers from me,
beard stinking of onions, and avarice,
he moves on. I swat a fly from an eye,
and engagingly smile at a soldier
who stops to examine the paltry wares
left unsold, The glassy glazed expression,
milking inward, speak of the rot begun.
An evening breeze carries the scent of bread.
I keep the best fish, throw the rest to dogs
in the innkeepers yard, pull eight farthings
from a chink in the wall, settle my pitch;
and prepare for home, when I see a crowd
gathering around the doctor's side door.
The carpenter is there, sitting aloof,
as the people jostle, and push, to see
through the narrow door into the courtyard.
In his hand, he holds a stave, that he smooths
with a piece of glass, turning constantly
the wood, back and forward, thumb and fingers;
running the glass steadily up and down:
the stave's heel hollows a bowl in the dust.
at his feet From the courtyard drifts a voice;
a clear voice, baritone, lemon scented.
I have heard it before. The carpenter
lays the stave aside, stretches his left leg.
rises from the wall. It is then I see
the tax collector perched like an eagle,
in the lower branches of a cedar
spying into the courtyard down below.
My mother's neck is speckled with flour dust
when I arrive home. She takes the Barbel,
guts it, lops the head, boils it with sweet herbs.
Betrayal
"Dog dong. You, Sardine, two. Talapia.
Hands off. Six, Six." Creaking wicker baskets
spill their guts, glistening bloodied, dark fin,
sliding, slipping, gills gasping, mouth agape.
Clattering coins smack down, elbows jab, "Six,
six, not five, six. Dog dong." Rigging rings tap.
I secure my basket, mindful to pad
the twig, which when laden, vexes my back.
"Dog dong, Dog dong, sardine two, pay up now."
Damp morning still hangs wet upon the air,
horizon haze lengthens earth's rim skyward,
pulling trees into ghosts. Sun washed houses
open shuttered to bleach them fresh of night,
sleepy caught, burnt morning bread odour fades
in the ferment and grind of women's work.
I stop to shift my burden at the spot
on the river, where yesterday crowds came.
Abandoned sandals, snaking girdles, shawls,
lie on the near shore. Whilst on the far bank
nothing remains, except a single wreath
of thistles, purple patch in the rushes.
Cresting the rise, I follow a crow straight
to the inauspicious tree on which hangs
a slave. The patient bird struts and listens,
to the four squat figures, impervious,
standing beneath the cross. Drawing closer
I hear the tax collector and doctor
engaged in heated wrangle for the nails.
The carpenter hands the soldier his stave.
As the wood splits her groin, she sags, exhales,
her white eyes gaze up to heaven, released;
unmoved, the taxing Samaritan claws
at a deal for the nails tearing again
at the woman's palms as the soldier turns
back to the carpenter, dropping the shaft.
Passing, I move my cloak to hide my load
from the tax collector's carrion gaze.
-------------------------------------------------------------
Cue wine, women and song to accompany the Facebooks...
The Blue Book, now with Greek fire. only £1.84
There is no longer an Iron Curtain in Geography, Maths is now unfathomable, History, is as ever, ever changing in it slants and bias, and seemingly there is a notion being taught in school that unless a poem is written in iambic pentameter then it is free form and not metered.
When I were a lad we learned about such things... yes the word of the day... dithyrambs.
I am aware regular readers will now be pointing at the screen and shouting, 'YOU ARE THE GUY WHO TRIED TO CLAIM CURIOSITY AND SATISFIED WERE THREE SYLLABLES AND THEREFORE FITTED A DITHYRAMBIC BEAT." And indeed I did, and indeed they are if one listens to the current P.O.S.H accent; you know, the sort of people who read bucks.
Anywho...
I spent a good six hours yesterday working on the Triptych poem. Running each line through syllable counter, making corrections where needed to get 10 beats on a line, then moving things about to get a meter of two unstressed dithyrambs and two iambs, where possible. This editing was also useful for cutting the fat and strengthening the theme of the poem, which is now a three part work relating to John the Baptist.
Thus you get...
I/fol/low the/CROWD down/TO the/riv/er.
It/is/cold ev/EN for/ morn/ing it's/COLD.
The/Jor/dan shim/MERS through/the/reeds, green/SILK,
lick/ing/the foot/PRINTS at/THE wat/er's/edge
in/TO flat/NESS.
At which point the Bacchanal, breaks for description (in the Greek Style), and to emphasis the specifically Christian/Jesus Cult themes....
He/WAITS for/US, glow/ING,
on/THE far/BANK, hand IN wel/COME to/CROSS.
Then back tot he Bacchanal...
The/New sun/DAZZLES, some/stag/ger bright/blind/ed
in/TO the/wa/ter, the/SPLASH of//feet/dulls
etc
Which in my view is a rather decent stab at Greek oration poetry, to play into the themes of the early church contained within the narrative of the piece.The piece isn't finished, it still needs to be read aloud for one thing, and there are a few sections in which the rhythms could be tightened.
In case you are wondering, why the tone of self justification, and the reference to schooling - apparently this isn't metered poetry, it isn't blank verse - it's something called syllabic (which no doubt there is a cream for) and it's free verse because there is no meter... and the person making this judgement recommends I go and look at some link or other from the poetrysociety. Which is all very well, but I somehow doubt the poetrysociety is going to have information on writing in a declamatory style, as from what I seen of their output they are focused on keeping the word firmly on the page - and preferably the word relating to artscouncil funding.... back to tick boxes.
Oh the missus was right about me being Auden....
Still the whole process is very enjoyable, and a useful learning experience.
So now you know your dithyramb from your elbow, you can don an doleful mask, with amplified mouth piece, platform shoes and stage a performance of this semi-Mandean work - possibly with your neighbours and children acting as the chorus, complete with stylized dance moves, and supportive humming.
Triptych - The Lamb
Birth
I follow the crowd down to the river.
It is cold, even for morning it's cold.
The Jordan shimmers through the reeds, green silk,
licking the foot prints at the water's edge
into flatness. He waits for us, glowing,
on the far bank, hand in welcome to cross.
The new sun dazzles, some stagger bright blinded
into the water, the splash of feet dulls
as they reach midstream their clothes drag.
Waist deep, women toss their girdle aside,
rend their simlah, and bare breasted proceed
to receive favour. I sit on a dune
as others go. Some with clothes, folded,
held above their heads, slaves and masters, dogs
fathers, children, while maternal women
sail swaddled infants safe in fig baskets.
I do not move. Nor does the carpenter.
He takes new bread from his bag and breaks it,
gives me one half. I nod. A cheer goes up,
over the river, the blessing begins.
People dance, sing, hands clap, laughter pealing
as one by one these simple folk immerse
themselves, emerging ecstatic, absolved.
My tongue fishes unmilled grain from the bread.
Curiosity satisfied, we leave.
Business
The tax collector's beadling stare pins me,
his sharp hooked nose, holds me, sniffing for coins
leaning across the narrow slatted stall,
eyes twisting, as a bird, or a lizard
eager for more; fearing its prey will flit.
Three meagre coins lay between us. His hand
gathers them up as he slithers from me,
beard stinking of onions, and avarice,
he moves on. I swat a fly from an eye,
and engagingly smile at a soldier
who stops to examine the paltry wares
left unsold, The glassy glazed expression,
milking inward, speak of the rot begun.
An evening breeze carries the scent of bread.
I keep the best fish, throw the rest to dogs
in the innkeepers yard, pull eight farthings
from a chink in the wall, settle my pitch;
and prepare for home, when I see a crowd
gathering around the doctor's side door.
The carpenter is there, sitting aloof,
as the people jostle, and push, to see
through the narrow door into the courtyard.
In his hand, he holds a stave, that he smooths
with a piece of glass, turning constantly
the wood, back and forward, thumb and fingers;
running the glass steadily up and down:
the stave's heel hollows a bowl in the dust.
at his feet From the courtyard drifts a voice;
a clear voice, baritone, lemon scented.
I have heard it before. The carpenter
lays the stave aside, stretches his left leg.
rises from the wall. It is then I see
the tax collector perched like an eagle,
in the lower branches of a cedar
spying into the courtyard down below.
My mother's neck is speckled with flour dust
when I arrive home. She takes the Barbel,
guts it, lops the head, boils it with sweet herbs.
Betrayal
"Dog dong. You, Sardine, two. Talapia.
Hands off. Six, Six." Creaking wicker baskets
spill their guts, glistening bloodied, dark fin,
sliding, slipping, gills gasping, mouth agape.
Clattering coins smack down, elbows jab, "Six,
six, not five, six. Dog dong." Rigging rings tap.
I secure my basket, mindful to pad
the twig, which when laden, vexes my back.
"Dog dong, Dog dong, sardine two, pay up now."
Damp morning still hangs wet upon the air,
horizon haze lengthens earth's rim skyward,
pulling trees into ghosts. Sun washed houses
open shuttered to bleach them fresh of night,
sleepy caught, burnt morning bread odour fades
in the ferment and grind of women's work.
I stop to shift my burden at the spot
on the river, where yesterday crowds came.
Abandoned sandals, snaking girdles, shawls,
lie on the near shore. Whilst on the far bank
nothing remains, except a single wreath
of thistles, purple patch in the rushes.
Cresting the rise, I follow a crow straight
to the inauspicious tree on which hangs
a slave. The patient bird struts and listens,
to the four squat figures, impervious,
standing beneath the cross. Drawing closer
I hear the tax collector and doctor
engaged in heated wrangle for the nails.
The carpenter hands the soldier his stave.
As the wood splits her groin, she sags, exhales,
her white eyes gaze up to heaven, released;
unmoved, the taxing Samaritan claws
at a deal for the nails tearing again
at the woman's palms as the soldier turns
back to the carpenter, dropping the shaft.
Passing, I move my cloak to hide my load
from the tax collector's carrion gaze.
-------------------------------------------------------------
Cue wine, women and song to accompany the Facebooks...
The Blue Book, now with Greek fire. only £1.84
26/03/2014
Beat
I have been working on the tryptich.
Trimming it, pruning it, pointing it, breathing air into it, opening it up, revealing the mysteries contained therein. Taking it from the page and into the realm of the voice spoken, where poetry should be.
As it stands at the moment the words are there, the sense is there, the emotions are beginning to emerge but it perhaps needs the drum. The structure is blank verse in pentameters, and in theory is iambic - as all things in theory are iambic. But I am thinking of bringing the dithyramb to the fore - 'curiosuity satisfied, we leave for town' - dithyramb, dithyramb, iamb, iamb.
This is the poem as it stands at present.
Triptych
First Meeting
I follow the crowd pulled by curiosity.
The day is cold, even for morning it's cold.
The Jordan shimmers through the reeds, green silk,
licking the foot prints at the water's edge
into flatness. He waits for us, glowing,
on the far bank, hand in welcome to cross.
The new sun dazzles, but some, bright blinded,
enter the water. The splashing of feet dulls
as they reach midstream, their clothes drag them back.
Waist deep, women toss their girdle aside,
rend their simlah, and bare breasted proceed
to receive his welcome. I sit on a dune
as others go across. Some with clothes folded,
held above their head, naked men, boys, women
sailing swaddled infants in fig baskets.
I do not go. Nor does the carpenter.
He takes new bread from his bag, breaks it,
gives me one half. I nod. A cheer goes up,
over the river, the blessing begins.
People dance, sing, hands clap, laughter peals
as one by one these simple folk immerse
themselves, emerging ecstatic and saved.
My tongue fishes an unmilled grain from the crust.
Curiosity satisfied, we leave for town.
In The Market
The tax collector's beadling stare pins me,
his sharp hook'd nose, holds me, sniffs for coins
leaning across the narrow slatted stall,
eyes twisting, as a bird, or a lizard
eager for more; fearing its prey will flit.
Three meagre coins lay between us. His hand
gathers them up as he slithers from me,
beard stinking of onions, and avarice,
he moves on. I swat a fly from a fish eye,
and engagingly smile at a soldier
who pauses to examine the paltry wares
left unsold, Their glass glazed expression,
milking inward, speak of the rot begun.
An evening breeze carries the scent of bread.
I keep the best fish, throw the rest to dogs
in the innkeepers yard, pull eight farthings
from a chink in the wall, settle my pitch;
and prepare for home, when I see a crowd
gathering around the doctor's side door.
The carpenter is there, sitting aloof,
as the people jostle, and push, to see
through the doorway, into the courtyard.
In his hand, he holds a stave, that he smooths
with a piece of glass, turning constantly
the wood, back and forward, thumb and fingers;
running the glass steadily up and down:
the stave's heel hollows a bowl in the dust.
at his feet From the courtyard drifts a voice;
a clear voice, baritone, lemon scented.
I have heard it before. The carpenter
lays the stave aside, stretches his left leg
and rises from the wall. It is then I see
the tax collector perched like an eagle
in the lower branches of a cedar;
spying into the courtyard down below.
My mother's neck is speckled with flour
when I arrive home. She takes the Barbel,
guts it, lops the head, boils it with sweet herbs.
Business
"Dog dong. You, Sardine, two. Talapia, six.
Hands off. Six, Six." Creaking wicker baskets
spill their guts, glistening bloodied, dark fin,
sliding, slipping, gills gasping, mouth agape.
Clattering coins smack down, elbows jab, "Six,
six, not five, six. Dog dong." Rigging rings tap,
loose furled sails waft sunlight on buyer's backs;
light to dark, shout and trade, profit then eat.
I secure my basket, mindful to pad
the twig, which when laden, vexes my kidney.
"Dog dong, Dog dong, sardine two, pay up."
Damp morning still hangs wet upon the air,
horizon haze lengthens earth's rim skyward,
pulling trees into ghosts. Sun washed houses
open shutters to bleach them fresh of night,
sleepy caught, burnt, morning bread odour fades
in the ferment and grind of women's work.
I stop to shift my burden at the spot
on the river, where yesterday crowds came.
Abandoned shoes, snaking girdles, shawls,
lie on the near shore. Whilst on the far bank
nothing remains, except a single wreath
of thistles, purple splash among the reeds.
Cresting the rise, I follow a crow straight
to the inauspicious tree, on which hangs
a slave. The patient bird, struts and listens
to the four dark figures, impervious,
standing beneath its meal. As I draw near
I hear the tax collector and doctor
engaged in heated wrangle for the nails.
The carpenter hands the soldier his stave.
As the wood splits her groin, she sags, exhales,
her white eyes look up to heaven in joy;
unmoved, the taxing Samaritan claws
at a deal for the nails tearing again
at the woman's palms, as the soldier turns
back to the carpenter releasing the shaft.
I pass by, half turning to shield my load
from the tax collector's calculating eye.
The section titles also need reconsidering, as at present they imply a linear narrative. Which goes against the objective of this being three distinct scenes, intended to be viewed both separately and in diverse order.
Triptych
Business
"Dog dong. You, Sardine, two. Talapia, six.
Hands off. Six, Six." Creaking wicker baskets
spill their guts, glistening bloodied, dark fin,
sliding, slipping, gills gasping, mouth agape.
Clattering coins smack down, elbows jab, "Six,
six, not five, six. Dog dong." Rigging rings tap,
loose furled sails waft sunlight on buyer's backs;
light to dark, shout and trade, profit then eat.
I secure my basket, mindful to pad
the twig, which when laden, vexes my kidney.
"Dog dong, Dog dong, sardine two, pay up."
Damp morning still hangs wet upon the air,
horizon haze lengthens earth's rim skyward,
pulling trees into ghosts. Sun washed houses
open shutters to bleach them fresh of night,
sleepy caught, burnt, morning bread odour fades
in the ferment and grind of women's work.
I stop to shift my burden at the spot
on the river, where yesterday crowds came.
Abandoned shoes, snaking girdles, shawls,
lie on the near shore. Whilst on the far bank
nothing remains, except a single wreath
of thistles, purple splash among the reeds.
Cresting the rise, I follow a crow straight
to the inauspicious tree, on which hangs
a slave. The patient bird, struts and listens
to the four dark figures, impervious,
standing beneath its meal. As I draw near
I hear the tax collector and doctor
engaged in heated wrangle for the nails.
The carpenter hands the soldier his stave.
As the wood splits her groin, she sags, exhales,
her white eyes look up to heaven in joy;
unmoved, the taxing Samaritan claws
at a deal for the nails tearing again
at the woman's palms, as the soldier turns
back to the carpenter releasing the shaft.
I pass by, half turning to shield my load
from the tax collector's calculating eye.
First Meeting
I follow the crowd pulled by curiosity.
The day is cold, even for morning it's cold.
The Jordan shimmers through the reeds, green silk,
licking the foot prints at the water's edge
into flatness. He waits for us, glowing,
on the far bank, hand in welcome to cross.
The new sun dazzles, but some, bright blinded,
enter the water. The splashing of feet dulls
as they reach midstream, their clothes drag them back.
Waist deep, women toss their girdle aside,
rend their simlah, and bare breasted proceed
to receive his welcome. I sit on a dune
as others go across. Some with clothes folded,
held above their head, naked men, boys, women
sailing swaddled infants in fig baskets.
I do not go. Nor does the carpenter.
He takes new bread from his bag, breaks it,
gives me one half. I nod. A cheer goes up,
over the river, the blessing begins.
People dance, sing, hands clap, laughter peals
as one by one these simple folk immerse
themselves, emerging ecstatic and saved.
My tongue fishes an unmilled grain from the crust.
Curiosity satisfied, we leave for town.
In The Market
The tax collector's beadling stare pins me,
his sharp hook'd nose, holds me, sniffs for coins
leaning across the narrow slatted stall,
eyes twisting, as a bird, or a lizard
eager for more; fearing its prey will flit.
Three meagre coins lay between us. His hand
gathers them up as he slithers from me,
beard stinking of onions, and avarice,
he moves on. I swat a fly from a fish eye,
and engagingly smile at a soldier
who pauses to examine the paltry wares
left unsold, Their glass glazed expression,
milking inward, speak of the rot begun.
An evening breeze carries the scent of bread.
I keep the best fish, throw the rest to dogs
in the innkeepers yard, pull eight farthings
from a chink in the wall, settle my pitch;
and prepare for home, when I see a crowd
gathering around the doctor's side door.
The carpenter is there, sitting aloof,
as the people jostle, and push, to see
through the doorway, into the courtyard.
In his hand, he holds a stave, that he smooths
with a piece of glass, turning constantly
the wood, back and forward, thumb and fingers;
running the glass steadily up and down:
the stave's heel hollows a bowl in the dust.
at his feet From the courtyard drifts a voice;
a clear voice, baritone, lemon scented.
I have heard it before. The carpenter
lays the stave aside, stretches his left leg
and rises from the wall. It is then I see
the tax collector perched like an eagle
in the lower branches of a cedar;
spying into the courtyard down below.
My mother's neck is speckled with flour
when I arrive home. She takes the Barbel,
guts it, lops the head, boils it with sweet herbs.
for instance....
----------------------------------------------------------
Cue random picture to make the Facebooks awesome....
The Blue Book, this is the poetry you are looking for, only $2.99
Trimming it, pruning it, pointing it, breathing air into it, opening it up, revealing the mysteries contained therein. Taking it from the page and into the realm of the voice spoken, where poetry should be.
As it stands at the moment the words are there, the sense is there, the emotions are beginning to emerge but it perhaps needs the drum. The structure is blank verse in pentameters, and in theory is iambic - as all things in theory are iambic. But I am thinking of bringing the dithyramb to the fore - 'curiosuity satisfied, we leave for town' - dithyramb, dithyramb, iamb, iamb.
This is the poem as it stands at present.
Triptych
First Meeting
I follow the crowd pulled by curiosity.
The day is cold, even for morning it's cold.
The Jordan shimmers through the reeds, green silk,
licking the foot prints at the water's edge
into flatness. He waits for us, glowing,
on the far bank, hand in welcome to cross.
The new sun dazzles, but some, bright blinded,
enter the water. The splashing of feet dulls
as they reach midstream, their clothes drag them back.
Waist deep, women toss their girdle aside,
rend their simlah, and bare breasted proceed
to receive his welcome. I sit on a dune
as others go across. Some with clothes folded,
held above their head, naked men, boys, women
sailing swaddled infants in fig baskets.
I do not go. Nor does the carpenter.
He takes new bread from his bag, breaks it,
gives me one half. I nod. A cheer goes up,
over the river, the blessing begins.
People dance, sing, hands clap, laughter peals
as one by one these simple folk immerse
themselves, emerging ecstatic and saved.
My tongue fishes an unmilled grain from the crust.
Curiosity satisfied, we leave for town.
In The Market
The tax collector's beadling stare pins me,
his sharp hook'd nose, holds me, sniffs for coins
leaning across the narrow slatted stall,
eyes twisting, as a bird, or a lizard
eager for more; fearing its prey will flit.
Three meagre coins lay between us. His hand
gathers them up as he slithers from me,
beard stinking of onions, and avarice,
he moves on. I swat a fly from a fish eye,
and engagingly smile at a soldier
who pauses to examine the paltry wares
left unsold, Their glass glazed expression,
milking inward, speak of the rot begun.
An evening breeze carries the scent of bread.
I keep the best fish, throw the rest to dogs
in the innkeepers yard, pull eight farthings
from a chink in the wall, settle my pitch;
and prepare for home, when I see a crowd
gathering around the doctor's side door.
The carpenter is there, sitting aloof,
as the people jostle, and push, to see
through the doorway, into the courtyard.
In his hand, he holds a stave, that he smooths
with a piece of glass, turning constantly
the wood, back and forward, thumb and fingers;
running the glass steadily up and down:
the stave's heel hollows a bowl in the dust.
at his feet From the courtyard drifts a voice;
a clear voice, baritone, lemon scented.
I have heard it before. The carpenter
lays the stave aside, stretches his left leg
and rises from the wall. It is then I see
the tax collector perched like an eagle
in the lower branches of a cedar;
spying into the courtyard down below.
My mother's neck is speckled with flour
when I arrive home. She takes the Barbel,
guts it, lops the head, boils it with sweet herbs.
Business
"Dog dong. You, Sardine, two. Talapia, six.
Hands off. Six, Six." Creaking wicker baskets
spill their guts, glistening bloodied, dark fin,
sliding, slipping, gills gasping, mouth agape.
Clattering coins smack down, elbows jab, "Six,
six, not five, six. Dog dong." Rigging rings tap,
loose furled sails waft sunlight on buyer's backs;
light to dark, shout and trade, profit then eat.
I secure my basket, mindful to pad
the twig, which when laden, vexes my kidney.
"Dog dong, Dog dong, sardine two, pay up."
Damp morning still hangs wet upon the air,
horizon haze lengthens earth's rim skyward,
pulling trees into ghosts. Sun washed houses
open shutters to bleach them fresh of night,
sleepy caught, burnt, morning bread odour fades
in the ferment and grind of women's work.
I stop to shift my burden at the spot
on the river, where yesterday crowds came.
Abandoned shoes, snaking girdles, shawls,
lie on the near shore. Whilst on the far bank
nothing remains, except a single wreath
of thistles, purple splash among the reeds.
Cresting the rise, I follow a crow straight
to the inauspicious tree, on which hangs
a slave. The patient bird, struts and listens
to the four dark figures, impervious,
standing beneath its meal. As I draw near
I hear the tax collector and doctor
engaged in heated wrangle for the nails.
The carpenter hands the soldier his stave.
As the wood splits her groin, she sags, exhales,
her white eyes look up to heaven in joy;
unmoved, the taxing Samaritan claws
at a deal for the nails tearing again
at the woman's palms, as the soldier turns
back to the carpenter releasing the shaft.
I pass by, half turning to shield my load
from the tax collector's calculating eye.
The section titles also need reconsidering, as at present they imply a linear narrative. Which goes against the objective of this being three distinct scenes, intended to be viewed both separately and in diverse order.
Triptych
Business
"Dog dong. You, Sardine, two. Talapia, six.
Hands off. Six, Six." Creaking wicker baskets
spill their guts, glistening bloodied, dark fin,
sliding, slipping, gills gasping, mouth agape.
Clattering coins smack down, elbows jab, "Six,
six, not five, six. Dog dong." Rigging rings tap,
loose furled sails waft sunlight on buyer's backs;
light to dark, shout and trade, profit then eat.
I secure my basket, mindful to pad
the twig, which when laden, vexes my kidney.
"Dog dong, Dog dong, sardine two, pay up."
Damp morning still hangs wet upon the air,
horizon haze lengthens earth's rim skyward,
pulling trees into ghosts. Sun washed houses
open shutters to bleach them fresh of night,
sleepy caught, burnt, morning bread odour fades
in the ferment and grind of women's work.
I stop to shift my burden at the spot
on the river, where yesterday crowds came.
Abandoned shoes, snaking girdles, shawls,
lie on the near shore. Whilst on the far bank
nothing remains, except a single wreath
of thistles, purple splash among the reeds.
Cresting the rise, I follow a crow straight
to the inauspicious tree, on which hangs
a slave. The patient bird, struts and listens
to the four dark figures, impervious,
standing beneath its meal. As I draw near
I hear the tax collector and doctor
engaged in heated wrangle for the nails.
The carpenter hands the soldier his stave.
As the wood splits her groin, she sags, exhales,
her white eyes look up to heaven in joy;
unmoved, the taxing Samaritan claws
at a deal for the nails tearing again
at the woman's palms, as the soldier turns
back to the carpenter releasing the shaft.
I pass by, half turning to shield my load
from the tax collector's calculating eye.
First Meeting
I follow the crowd pulled by curiosity.
The day is cold, even for morning it's cold.
The Jordan shimmers through the reeds, green silk,
licking the foot prints at the water's edge
into flatness. He waits for us, glowing,
on the far bank, hand in welcome to cross.
The new sun dazzles, but some, bright blinded,
enter the water. The splashing of feet dulls
as they reach midstream, their clothes drag them back.
Waist deep, women toss their girdle aside,
rend their simlah, and bare breasted proceed
to receive his welcome. I sit on a dune
as others go across. Some with clothes folded,
held above their head, naked men, boys, women
sailing swaddled infants in fig baskets.
I do not go. Nor does the carpenter.
He takes new bread from his bag, breaks it,
gives me one half. I nod. A cheer goes up,
over the river, the blessing begins.
People dance, sing, hands clap, laughter peals
as one by one these simple folk immerse
themselves, emerging ecstatic and saved.
My tongue fishes an unmilled grain from the crust.
Curiosity satisfied, we leave for town.
In The Market
The tax collector's beadling stare pins me,
his sharp hook'd nose, holds me, sniffs for coins
leaning across the narrow slatted stall,
eyes twisting, as a bird, or a lizard
eager for more; fearing its prey will flit.
Three meagre coins lay between us. His hand
gathers them up as he slithers from me,
beard stinking of onions, and avarice,
he moves on. I swat a fly from a fish eye,
and engagingly smile at a soldier
who pauses to examine the paltry wares
left unsold, Their glass glazed expression,
milking inward, speak of the rot begun.
An evening breeze carries the scent of bread.
I keep the best fish, throw the rest to dogs
in the innkeepers yard, pull eight farthings
from a chink in the wall, settle my pitch;
and prepare for home, when I see a crowd
gathering around the doctor's side door.
The carpenter is there, sitting aloof,
as the people jostle, and push, to see
through the doorway, into the courtyard.
In his hand, he holds a stave, that he smooths
with a piece of glass, turning constantly
the wood, back and forward, thumb and fingers;
running the glass steadily up and down:
the stave's heel hollows a bowl in the dust.
at his feet From the courtyard drifts a voice;
a clear voice, baritone, lemon scented.
I have heard it before. The carpenter
lays the stave aside, stretches his left leg
and rises from the wall. It is then I see
the tax collector perched like an eagle
in the lower branches of a cedar;
spying into the courtyard down below.
My mother's neck is speckled with flour
when I arrive home. She takes the Barbel,
guts it, lops the head, boils it with sweet herbs.
for instance....
----------------------------------------------------------
Cue random picture to make the Facebooks awesome....
The Blue Book, this is the poetry you are looking for, only $2.99
25/03/2014
Three
I went to the Beehive Poets again.
They can't keep me away.
Four pints of Gold Cup, and a Jameson later, I came away with that warm cleansing of the soul that one gets from gaslight, an open fire and an intellectual exchange of ideas - and a bit of a skin full.
It was workshop night, which is rather a groan. True, the poems do get rather more analysis than on a read round night - well the early ones anyway - but equally the conversation surrounding the poem tends to be rather less free flowing and open, more stilted.
There was rather good work on show. Ed had an interesting piece on Samuel Taylor Coleridge and his interest in early 19th century Greek romanticism. David's Dr Seuss-like flow of consciousness sexual outpouring was entertaining and funny. But the highlight for me was a poem by Christine, which in the built up threatened to be an emotional mess but in the telling was a delightfully satirical piece along the lines of Voltaire or Gogol. It was/is a work of genius. Conveying on many levels messages about the role women, and the dangers of allowing oneself to be labeled.
As for work, I completed the third part of religious thing - I say thing because... well... it is religious and it is not; deliberately.
I think it probably is a triptych, as opposed to three stand alone pieces - the first part probably could stand alone, and maybe the third. The middle section is the weakest, with far to much 'he said' 'she said' and not enough moving of the camera and action. I'll but it out to workshop and see reaction it gets. And in the meantime I'll let it lie, stew, and and see how I feel about it in a few weeks time.
Here's the whole thing....
Triptych
First Meeting
I follow the crowd pulled by curiosity.
The day is hot, even for morning it's hot.
The Jordon shimmers through the reeds, cold green,
licking the foot prints at the water's edge
into flatness. He waits for us, glowing,
on the far bank, hand in welcome to cross.
The new sun dazzles, but some, bright blinded,
enter the water. The splashing of feet dulls
as they reach midstream, their clothes drag them back.
Waist deep, women toss their girdle aside,
rend their simlah, and bare breasted proceed
to receive his welcome. I sit on a dune
as others go across. Some with clothes, folded,
held above their head, naked men, boys, women
sailing infants over in fig baskets.
I do not go. Nor does the carpenter.
He takes stale bread from his bag, breaks it,
gives it to me. I nod. A cheer goes up
over the river as blessings begin.
People dance, sing, hands clap, laughter rings
as one by one these simple folk immerse
themselves, to emerge joyful and saved.
My tongue fishes an unmilled grain from the crust.
Curiosity satisfied, we leave.
In The Market
The tax collector's beadling stare pins me,
holds me. His sharp, hooked nose sniffs for coins.
He leans across the narrow slatted stall,
eyes twisting, as a bird, or a lizard
eager for more; fearing the prey will fly.
Six meager coins lay before him, his hand
gathers them up as he slides back from me.
His beard stinks of onions, and avarice.
He moves on. I swat a fly from a fish eye,
and smile engagingly at a soldier
who pauses to examine the paltry fish
left unsold, Their glass glazed expression,
milking inward, speaks of the rot begun.
The breeze carries the scent of evening bread.
I keep the best fish, throw the rest to dogs
in the innkeepers yard, pull eight bronze coins
from the chink in the wall, pay for the stall,
and prepare for home when I see a crowd
stood around the door of the doctor's.
The carpenter is there, sitting aloof,
as the people jostle, and push, to see
through the doorway, into the courtyard.
In his hand, he holds a stave, that he smooths
with a piece of glass, turning constantly
the wood, back and forward, thumb and fingers;
running the glass steadily up and down.
At his feet the stave's foot hollows a bowl
in the dust. From the courtyard drifts a voice.
A clear voice, baritone, lemon scented.
I have heard it before. The carpenter
lays the stave aside, stretches his left leg
and rises from the wall. It is then I see
the tax collector perched like an eagle
in the lower branches of a cedar;
spying into the courtyard down below.
My mother's neck is speckled with flour
as she takes the fish, lops the head, fries it.
Business
"Dog dong. You, Sardine, two. Talapia, six.
Hands off. Six, Six." Creaking wicker baskets
spill their guts, glistening bloodied, dark fin,
sliding, slipping, gills gasping, mouth agape.
Clattering coins smack down, elbows jab, "Six,
six, not five, six. Dog dong." Rigging rings tap,
loose furled sails waft sunlight on buyer's backs;
light to dark, shout and trade, profit then eat.
I secure my basket, careful to cloth mask
that one twig that hates me, seeks my kidney.
"Dog dong, Dog dong, sardine two, pay up."
Damp morning still hangs wet upon the air.
Horizon haze lengthens earth's rim skyward,
pulling trees into ghosts. Sun washed houses
open shutters to bleach them fresh of night.
Sleepy caught morning bread burnt odour fades
in the ferment and grind of women's work.
I stop to shift my burden at the spot
on the river, where yesterday crowds came.
Abandoned shoes, snaking girdles, belts,
lie on the near shore. Whilst on the far bank
nothing remains, except a single wreath
of thistles, purple bright among the reeds.
Cresting the brow, I see a crow fly straight
to the inauspicious tree, on which hangs
a slave. The patient crow lands, struts, listens
to the four dark figures, impervious,
standing beneath its meal. As I draw near
I hear the tax collector and doctor
engaged in heated wrangle for the nail.
The carpenter hands the soldier his stave.
As the wood splits her groin, she sags, exhales,
her white eyes look up to heaven in joy,
as the candle of her arms gutters, dims
the burning blood trapped within her head.
Unmoved, the taxing Samaritan claws
at the deal, for the nail tearing again
at the young girl's flesh as the soldier turns
back to the carpenter releasing the shaft.
I pass by, half turning to shield my load
from the tax collector's calculating eye.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Cue random photo to tart up the Facebooks...
The Blue Book, now with run resistant ladders, £1.84
They can't keep me away.
Four pints of Gold Cup, and a Jameson later, I came away with that warm cleansing of the soul that one gets from gaslight, an open fire and an intellectual exchange of ideas - and a bit of a skin full.
It was workshop night, which is rather a groan. True, the poems do get rather more analysis than on a read round night - well the early ones anyway - but equally the conversation surrounding the poem tends to be rather less free flowing and open, more stilted.
There was rather good work on show. Ed had an interesting piece on Samuel Taylor Coleridge and his interest in early 19th century Greek romanticism. David's Dr Seuss-like flow of consciousness sexual outpouring was entertaining and funny. But the highlight for me was a poem by Christine, which in the built up threatened to be an emotional mess but in the telling was a delightfully satirical piece along the lines of Voltaire or Gogol. It was/is a work of genius. Conveying on many levels messages about the role women, and the dangers of allowing oneself to be labeled.
As for work, I completed the third part of religious thing - I say thing because... well... it is religious and it is not; deliberately.
I think it probably is a triptych, as opposed to three stand alone pieces - the first part probably could stand alone, and maybe the third. The middle section is the weakest, with far to much 'he said' 'she said' and not enough moving of the camera and action. I'll but it out to workshop and see reaction it gets. And in the meantime I'll let it lie, stew, and and see how I feel about it in a few weeks time.
Here's the whole thing....
Triptych
First Meeting
I follow the crowd pulled by curiosity.
The day is hot, even for morning it's hot.
The Jordon shimmers through the reeds, cold green,
licking the foot prints at the water's edge
into flatness. He waits for us, glowing,
on the far bank, hand in welcome to cross.
The new sun dazzles, but some, bright blinded,
enter the water. The splashing of feet dulls
as they reach midstream, their clothes drag them back.
Waist deep, women toss their girdle aside,
rend their simlah, and bare breasted proceed
to receive his welcome. I sit on a dune
as others go across. Some with clothes, folded,
held above their head, naked men, boys, women
sailing infants over in fig baskets.
I do not go. Nor does the carpenter.
He takes stale bread from his bag, breaks it,
gives it to me. I nod. A cheer goes up
over the river as blessings begin.
People dance, sing, hands clap, laughter rings
as one by one these simple folk immerse
themselves, to emerge joyful and saved.
My tongue fishes an unmilled grain from the crust.
Curiosity satisfied, we leave.
In The Market
The tax collector's beadling stare pins me,
holds me. His sharp, hooked nose sniffs for coins.
He leans across the narrow slatted stall,
eyes twisting, as a bird, or a lizard
eager for more; fearing the prey will fly.
Six meager coins lay before him, his hand
gathers them up as he slides back from me.
His beard stinks of onions, and avarice.
He moves on. I swat a fly from a fish eye,
and smile engagingly at a soldier
who pauses to examine the paltry fish
left unsold, Their glass glazed expression,
milking inward, speaks of the rot begun.
The breeze carries the scent of evening bread.
I keep the best fish, throw the rest to dogs
in the innkeepers yard, pull eight bronze coins
from the chink in the wall, pay for the stall,
and prepare for home when I see a crowd
stood around the door of the doctor's.
The carpenter is there, sitting aloof,
as the people jostle, and push, to see
through the doorway, into the courtyard.
In his hand, he holds a stave, that he smooths
with a piece of glass, turning constantly
the wood, back and forward, thumb and fingers;
running the glass steadily up and down.
At his feet the stave's foot hollows a bowl
in the dust. From the courtyard drifts a voice.
A clear voice, baritone, lemon scented.
I have heard it before. The carpenter
lays the stave aside, stretches his left leg
and rises from the wall. It is then I see
the tax collector perched like an eagle
in the lower branches of a cedar;
spying into the courtyard down below.
My mother's neck is speckled with flour
as she takes the fish, lops the head, fries it.
Business
"Dog dong. You, Sardine, two. Talapia, six.
Hands off. Six, Six." Creaking wicker baskets
spill their guts, glistening bloodied, dark fin,
sliding, slipping, gills gasping, mouth agape.
Clattering coins smack down, elbows jab, "Six,
six, not five, six. Dog dong." Rigging rings tap,
loose furled sails waft sunlight on buyer's backs;
light to dark, shout and trade, profit then eat.
I secure my basket, careful to cloth mask
that one twig that hates me, seeks my kidney.
"Dog dong, Dog dong, sardine two, pay up."
Damp morning still hangs wet upon the air.
Horizon haze lengthens earth's rim skyward,
pulling trees into ghosts. Sun washed houses
open shutters to bleach them fresh of night.
Sleepy caught morning bread burnt odour fades
in the ferment and grind of women's work.
I stop to shift my burden at the spot
on the river, where yesterday crowds came.
Abandoned shoes, snaking girdles, belts,
lie on the near shore. Whilst on the far bank
nothing remains, except a single wreath
of thistles, purple bright among the reeds.
Cresting the brow, I see a crow fly straight
to the inauspicious tree, on which hangs
a slave. The patient crow lands, struts, listens
to the four dark figures, impervious,
standing beneath its meal. As I draw near
I hear the tax collector and doctor
engaged in heated wrangle for the nail.
The carpenter hands the soldier his stave.
As the wood splits her groin, she sags, exhales,
her white eyes look up to heaven in joy,
as the candle of her arms gutters, dims
the burning blood trapped within her head.
Unmoved, the taxing Samaritan claws
at the deal, for the nail tearing again
at the young girl's flesh as the soldier turns
back to the carpenter releasing the shaft.
I pass by, half turning to shield my load
from the tax collector's calculating eye.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Cue random photo to tart up the Facebooks...
The Blue Book, now with run resistant ladders, £1.84
24/03/2014
Fish
I spent the day puzzling over the poem First Meeting.
The piece started out with the intention of portraying the Jesus of the Johanite heresies, the betrayer, the Judas of John, the usurper and the villain. But as the piece was written, and the women became bare breasted, I began to wonder if the figure on the far bank might be Simon Magus, or a figure from Greek or Roman Paganism. And, if it is John the Baptist, the hysteria of those crossing the river becomes a statement in Christian terms, especially when connected to the deliberate Christian references, the repetition of the word 'cross', the fish and bread, the unmilled grain etc.
But equally all of this is obvious alienation.
No one is named, no time is given for when these events occur, and it is laced with the art of the ordinary.
So I decided to explore further....
In The Market
The tax collector's beadling stare pins me,
holds me. His sharp, hooked nose sniffs for coins.
He leans across the narrow slatted stall,
eyes twisting, as a bird, or a lizard
eager for more; fearing the prey will fly.
Six meager coins lay before him, his hand
gathers them up as he slides back from me.
His beard stinks of onions, and avarice.
He moves on. I swat a fly from a fish eye,
and smile engagingly at a soldier
who pauses to examine the paltry fish
left unsold, Their glass glazed expression,
milking inward, speaks of the rot begun.
The breeze carries the scent of evening bread.
I keep the best fish, throw the rest to dogs
in the innkeepers yard, pull eight bronze coins
from the chink in the wall, pay for the stall,
and prepare for home when I see a crowd
stood around the door of the doctor's.
The carpenter is there, sitting aloof,
as the people jostle, and push, to see
through the doorway, into the courtyard.
In his hand, he holds a stave, that he smooths
with a piece of glass, turning constantly
the wood, back and forward, thumb and fingers;
running the glass steadily up and down.
At his feet the stave's foot hollows a bowl
in the dust. From the courtyard drifts a voice.
A clear voice, baritone, lemon scented.
I have heard it before. The carpenter
lays the stave aside, stretches his left leg
and rises from the wall. It is then I see
the tax collector perched like an eagle
in the lower branches of a cedar;
spying into the courtyard down below.
My mother's neck is speckled with flour
as she takes the fish, lops the head, fries it.
It needs tidying up a bit... far to many 'he saids', 'I dids'
------------------------------------------------------------------
Cue random picture to give feature to the facebooks decolletage....
The Blue Book, now GM Free, only $2.99
The piece started out with the intention of portraying the Jesus of the Johanite heresies, the betrayer, the Judas of John, the usurper and the villain. But as the piece was written, and the women became bare breasted, I began to wonder if the figure on the far bank might be Simon Magus, or a figure from Greek or Roman Paganism. And, if it is John the Baptist, the hysteria of those crossing the river becomes a statement in Christian terms, especially when connected to the deliberate Christian references, the repetition of the word 'cross', the fish and bread, the unmilled grain etc.
But equally all of this is obvious alienation.
No one is named, no time is given for when these events occur, and it is laced with the art of the ordinary.
So I decided to explore further....
In The Market
The tax collector's beadling stare pins me,
holds me. His sharp, hooked nose sniffs for coins.
He leans across the narrow slatted stall,
eyes twisting, as a bird, or a lizard
eager for more; fearing the prey will fly.
Six meager coins lay before him, his hand
gathers them up as he slides back from me.
His beard stinks of onions, and avarice.
He moves on. I swat a fly from a fish eye,
and smile engagingly at a soldier
who pauses to examine the paltry fish
left unsold, Their glass glazed expression,
milking inward, speaks of the rot begun.
The breeze carries the scent of evening bread.
I keep the best fish, throw the rest to dogs
in the innkeepers yard, pull eight bronze coins
from the chink in the wall, pay for the stall,
and prepare for home when I see a crowd
stood around the door of the doctor's.
The carpenter is there, sitting aloof,
as the people jostle, and push, to see
through the doorway, into the courtyard.
In his hand, he holds a stave, that he smooths
with a piece of glass, turning constantly
the wood, back and forward, thumb and fingers;
running the glass steadily up and down.
At his feet the stave's foot hollows a bowl
in the dust. From the courtyard drifts a voice.
A clear voice, baritone, lemon scented.
I have heard it before. The carpenter
lays the stave aside, stretches his left leg
and rises from the wall. It is then I see
the tax collector perched like an eagle
in the lower branches of a cedar;
spying into the courtyard down below.
My mother's neck is speckled with flour
as she takes the fish, lops the head, fries it.
It needs tidying up a bit... far to many 'he saids', 'I dids'
------------------------------------------------------------------
Cue random picture to give feature to the facebooks decolletage....
The Blue Book, now GM Free, only $2.99
23/03/2014
God
Among #poetry types the sonnet is a useful practice ground.
It is useful for a number of reasons. The form is relatively long, allowing themes and ideas to develop, whilst being rather restrictive, forcing hard choices to be made.
The Rose
She went toward the village green dancing
the jigs of May. When she espied laid on
the verge, basking bright in a fairy ring,
the silver pin, the one she gave to John
in troth. 'How come you there?' the maiden asked.
Bending down to pick it up, her finger
caught the point so sharp; her blood unmasked
magic. The wise girl chose not linger
dropped the pin upon the grass. Full speed
she ran along the lane, a blur of skirt
and bobbing curls. The drop of blood now freed,
grew into a little seed. From that petty hurt
finger, pricked, in summer flowers a rose
warm as May, bright as June, red as fire glows.
It is less a poem. than an series of iambs, Though there are some pleasing twists in pace, rhythm, and a trap for the unwary in the second stanza.
I am intrigued by the possibilities this form offers for creating other styles, by treating the text as fridge magnets and re arranging them.
Over the past year or so, I have become increasingly interested in Christianity. This included a few months of regular church attendance. There is something rather wonderful about watching a burly, bluff, policeman type leading the singing of Have Thine Own Way, Lord, well it appeals to the adolescent in me anyway. My preference is rather more Hymns Ancient and Modern and King James, than the more modern whigish tambourine waving. But, there are worse ways to spend a few hours on a Sunday.
There is a marvelous book by Robin Lane Fox called, Pagans and Christians: In the Mediterranean World from the Second Century AD to the Conversion of Constantine
, that comprehensively, and amusingly, offers insight to the context of, and growth of, the early church. And, for instance, explains why when the vicar stood up and launched into his nonsensical homily on marriage, using statistics from an article in the Daily Express, he might have thought he was bolstering his flock; but instead he was chiding them for having carnal relations, and not living a good gnostic life. Interestingly, (and this has nothing to do with the early church) adultery, is not simply 'playing away', in medieval times you could be hauled before the church court, charged with adultery, if you did not have sex with your spouse, or had sex too often. Off hand, I believe the faithful were required to play the two backed beast (or variations upon a theme) twice a week.
However, the story that interests me most is that of James and Paul/Saul.
You know the one. James gets beaten up in the temple, broken bones are involved, and he and his supporters flee to Damascus. Paul, and his gang, go after them and on the way Paul sees a burning bush, is converted to the true faith and begins writing letters.
The story sparks my interest, for a number of reasons. The historical similarities to events surrounding the foundation of Islam, specifically the split between Shia and Sunni - the followers of James claiming the hereditary principle. But it is also the context of the story. In a discussion of the Jordan Lead Codices on Coast to Coast (Oh I know, conspiracy theorist) it was observed that rather than this showdown on the Damascus road being a confrontation between two men, and maybe a few hangers on, there were hundreds, perhaps thousands of people involved. Suddenly, when seen in this light, it becomes clear why the Jesus Cult was such a problem for the authorities.Not least because the Jesus Cult was not one thing. Especially when one throws into the mix the various loosely related sects, cults and societies, within Judea, Palestine, and the wider region.
In this age of television, it's simple for the powerful to control the message - 98% of scientists agree on global warming right? There's no need to beat up dissenters in the temple, you just don't give them airtime.
In the time of the Christ, whoever you define that to be, or not, controlling the message is not so easy. Especially when there are lots of roaming preachers, and holy men (and women). spreading their message. And, all they have to do is set up shop across the Jordan, or go into the mountains of Samaria, or to Damascus. The 'authorities' are pretty powerless to do much but keep an eye on them, maybe kill them, or just cross their fingers in the hope that out of sight does mean out of mind.
First Meeting
I follow the crowd pulled by curiosity.
The day is hot, even for morning it's hot.
The Jordon shimmers through the reeds, cold green,
licking the foot prints at the water's edge
into flatness. He waits for us, glowing,
on the far bank, hand in welcome to cross.
The new sun dazzles, but some, bright blinded,
enter the water. The splashing of feet dulls
as they reach midstream, their clothes drag them back.
Waist deep, women toss their girdle aside,
rend their simlah, and bare breasted proceed
to receive his welcome. I sit on a dune
as others go across. Some with clothes, folded,
held above their head, naked men, boys, women
sailing infants over in fig baskets.
I do not go. Nor does the carpenter.
He takes stale bread from his bag, breaks it,
gives it to me. I nod. A cheer goes up
over the river as blessings begin.
People dance, sing, hands clap, laughter rings
as one by one these simple folk immerse
themselves, to emerge joyful and saved.
My tongue fishes an unmilled grain from the crust.
Curiosity satisfied, we leave.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Cue random picture to sprinkle the facebooks with jasmine petals
The Blue Book, the kiss with bite, only £1.84
It is useful for a number of reasons. The form is relatively long, allowing themes and ideas to develop, whilst being rather restrictive, forcing hard choices to be made.
The Rose
She went toward the village green dancing
the jigs of May. When she espied laid on
the verge, basking bright in a fairy ring,
the silver pin, the one she gave to John
in troth. 'How come you there?' the maiden asked.
Bending down to pick it up, her finger
caught the point so sharp; her blood unmasked
magic. The wise girl chose not linger
dropped the pin upon the grass. Full speed
she ran along the lane, a blur of skirt
and bobbing curls. The drop of blood now freed,
grew into a little seed. From that petty hurt
finger, pricked, in summer flowers a rose
warm as May, bright as June, red as fire glows.
It is less a poem. than an series of iambs, Though there are some pleasing twists in pace, rhythm, and a trap for the unwary in the second stanza.
I am intrigued by the possibilities this form offers for creating other styles, by treating the text as fridge magnets and re arranging them.
Over the past year or so, I have become increasingly interested in Christianity. This included a few months of regular church attendance. There is something rather wonderful about watching a burly, bluff, policeman type leading the singing of Have Thine Own Way, Lord, well it appeals to the adolescent in me anyway. My preference is rather more Hymns Ancient and Modern and King James, than the more modern whigish tambourine waving. But, there are worse ways to spend a few hours on a Sunday.
There is a marvelous book by Robin Lane Fox called, Pagans and Christians: In the Mediterranean World from the Second Century AD to the Conversion of Constantine
, that comprehensively, and amusingly, offers insight to the context of, and growth of, the early church. And, for instance, explains why when the vicar stood up and launched into his nonsensical homily on marriage, using statistics from an article in the Daily Express, he might have thought he was bolstering his flock; but instead he was chiding them for having carnal relations, and not living a good gnostic life. Interestingly, (and this has nothing to do with the early church) adultery, is not simply 'playing away', in medieval times you could be hauled before the church court, charged with adultery, if you did not have sex with your spouse, or had sex too often. Off hand, I believe the faithful were required to play the two backed beast (or variations upon a theme) twice a week.However, the story that interests me most is that of James and Paul/Saul.
You know the one. James gets beaten up in the temple, broken bones are involved, and he and his supporters flee to Damascus. Paul, and his gang, go after them and on the way Paul sees a burning bush, is converted to the true faith and begins writing letters.
The story sparks my interest, for a number of reasons. The historical similarities to events surrounding the foundation of Islam, specifically the split between Shia and Sunni - the followers of James claiming the hereditary principle. But it is also the context of the story. In a discussion of the Jordan Lead Codices on Coast to Coast (Oh I know, conspiracy theorist) it was observed that rather than this showdown on the Damascus road being a confrontation between two men, and maybe a few hangers on, there were hundreds, perhaps thousands of people involved. Suddenly, when seen in this light, it becomes clear why the Jesus Cult was such a problem for the authorities.Not least because the Jesus Cult was not one thing. Especially when one throws into the mix the various loosely related sects, cults and societies, within Judea, Palestine, and the wider region.
In this age of television, it's simple for the powerful to control the message - 98% of scientists agree on global warming right? There's no need to beat up dissenters in the temple, you just don't give them airtime.
In the time of the Christ, whoever you define that to be, or not, controlling the message is not so easy. Especially when there are lots of roaming preachers, and holy men (and women). spreading their message. And, all they have to do is set up shop across the Jordan, or go into the mountains of Samaria, or to Damascus. The 'authorities' are pretty powerless to do much but keep an eye on them, maybe kill them, or just cross their fingers in the hope that out of sight does mean out of mind.
First Meeting
I follow the crowd pulled by curiosity.
The day is hot, even for morning it's hot.
The Jordon shimmers through the reeds, cold green,
licking the foot prints at the water's edge
into flatness. He waits for us, glowing,
on the far bank, hand in welcome to cross.
The new sun dazzles, but some, bright blinded,
enter the water. The splashing of feet dulls
as they reach midstream, their clothes drag them back.
Waist deep, women toss their girdle aside,
rend their simlah, and bare breasted proceed
to receive his welcome. I sit on a dune
as others go across. Some with clothes, folded,
held above their head, naked men, boys, women
sailing infants over in fig baskets.
I do not go. Nor does the carpenter.
He takes stale bread from his bag, breaks it,
gives it to me. I nod. A cheer goes up
over the river as blessings begin.
People dance, sing, hands clap, laughter rings
as one by one these simple folk immerse
themselves, to emerge joyful and saved.
My tongue fishes an unmilled grain from the crust.
Curiosity satisfied, we leave.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Cue random picture to sprinkle the facebooks with jasmine petals
The Blue Book, the kiss with bite, only £1.84
22/03/2014
Laps
I am still experimenting with formal #poetry.
Counting our the meter, referencing the form, etc.
Anywho...
Following on from yesterday's political poem affair, I got up in the morning, sipped my coffee and knocked off a political poem....
#Ukraine
A passing cloud, black, distracts the sheep at grass;
in unison, forty seven brown marble eyes watch it pass,
weigh the darkness, sniff the rain, keep at the task
of lambing.
The one eyed farmer stands astride the stile, dry stone wall,
he notes, in need of repair. Counting the string of moles
turning coins in his pocket, his dog he calls
by whistling.
The sheep know the dog has teeth, on cue they bleat.
Tracing the path of the pipeline, the farmer leads
his dog, moles on a string, to the next field
for lambing.
Its more of exercise, than a piece. Practicing the triplet and refrain form. With some scales regarding repetition, internal rhyme, enjambment, and pacing thrown in. Alright, it's a bit of showing off really, but, that is strangely appropriate given the activities of Nudelman and friends.
Which left the rest of the day to fill.
My notebook offered no inspiration. I considered doing something about the current Scramble for Africa. Along the lines of the 'the Gatling's jammed and the colonel is dead' with a touch of 'there's a quiet hush in the close tonight', and drawing parallels between Gordon and the present game of hunt the Mahdi in Mali. What rhymes with MINUSMA?
Instead, I decided to go back to the brain cleansing sorbet of writing nonsense. The difference this time being that instead of using sounds, I would use actual words, count the meter, and see what comes out. An accept and build improvisation, if you will.
A Moment of Tension
Amidst the bracken, ferns, the spreading birch,
we find a red brick, half buried. Not much
of a find. Digging it with your toe perched
on point, I trace a faded denim stitch
of your knee length skirt, to a dead nettle.
This morning, spreading toast with marmalade
we talked of little, preferring kettle's
song to accompany the rustling crack
of nylon jackets, rucksacks, boot tying.
The brick tumbles out, half split, with a ring
of grey loam about its middle. Turning,
with that smile, you half skip along the track.
This is the finished version. In the original, 'faded denim stitich' was 'faded denim track', with the rhyme structure being rhyme, half rhyme, rhyme, refrain - assuming you will allow marmalade to be a half rhyme of nettle and kettle (which you probably won't),
There are two things going on here. The first is the art of the ordinary, and the second is that I deliberately made choices in which nothing happens. Thus 'we' whoever they are, find a brick. As she, one presumes by the skirt, digs the brick out with her toe, the other person's (their sex is not specified) hand/eye is drawn by the line is the skirt to a dead nettle. This was rather a big choice, as three or four times, I found myself wanting to write about the scent of the perfume, the sunlight through her hair, something highly personal; and defining of what is happening, and who these people are. I was trying to make something happen. To take it out of the ordinary.
And to stop the soap opera writer in me having the people kiss, or do something meaningful, I pulled out of the scene back to breakfast. This going back in time reigned in the image I had of these two people, in the future, on top of a hill drinking coffee, from a thermos - which is ordinary, but because the time is moving forward, it is a narrative, it is making things happen - it is me, the writer, making things happen.
The brick tumbles out, she smiles and walks off.
End of meter practice, pens down.
All of which makes the process seem effortless. I suppose it took about four hours, plus a couple of hours thinking through the suggested rewrites received in feedback. There was much tapping of the forehead looking for the correct rhyme. Much culling in of words as they broke through to the next line for fear of wasting any of those ten precious beats. A fair bit of tea drinking, and pacing around.
In truth I was a little surprised by the reaction the piece received, a little tearful even. To have a piece described as 'brilliance!' is somewhat shocking. The poem made the short list for editors choice on the Poetry Forum.
So for the final practice of the day I decided to see if I could turn these notes....
the years expand through candled cakes, park swings, broken arms, weekend trips;
through puckered lips, we exchange goodbyes, calling, cajoling, in the grip
of the school run. And, sometimes filtered in moonlight we say hello, slipping
out of character and into role.
.... into a sonnet.
t'missus
The years expand by candled cakes, park swings,
kissed scrapes, weekend trips. The rota of meals
negotiated, shouts, hard bargaining
tears over peas, sausage, chocolate deals
broken, The chair takes on our silhouette
pressed down by monster cuddles and stories.
Pecked tokens of goodbye, without regret,
outweigh moonlit greeting; when closed eyes
remind us, that tea and kindness, are not
all we share. No ring was ever stronger
than your embrace. Ten hands entwined, knotted,
around the single vision to conquer
those sunny uplands, seen in a baby's thumb,
which showed what was not, and what was to come.
T'missus likes it.
I'm more pleased to have got through the test of form.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Cue random picture for the facebooks window...
The Blue Book, now with cheese pixels, only £1.84
Counting our the meter, referencing the form, etc.
Anywho...
Following on from yesterday's political poem affair, I got up in the morning, sipped my coffee and knocked off a political poem....
#Ukraine
A passing cloud, black, distracts the sheep at grass;
in unison, forty seven brown marble eyes watch it pass,
weigh the darkness, sniff the rain, keep at the task
of lambing.
The one eyed farmer stands astride the stile, dry stone wall,
he notes, in need of repair. Counting the string of moles
turning coins in his pocket, his dog he calls
by whistling.
The sheep know the dog has teeth, on cue they bleat.
Tracing the path of the pipeline, the farmer leads
his dog, moles on a string, to the next field
for lambing.
Its more of exercise, than a piece. Practicing the triplet and refrain form. With some scales regarding repetition, internal rhyme, enjambment, and pacing thrown in. Alright, it's a bit of showing off really, but, that is strangely appropriate given the activities of Nudelman and friends.
Which left the rest of the day to fill.
My notebook offered no inspiration. I considered doing something about the current Scramble for Africa. Along the lines of the 'the Gatling's jammed and the colonel is dead' with a touch of 'there's a quiet hush in the close tonight', and drawing parallels between Gordon and the present game of hunt the Mahdi in Mali. What rhymes with MINUSMA?
Instead, I decided to go back to the brain cleansing sorbet of writing nonsense. The difference this time being that instead of using sounds, I would use actual words, count the meter, and see what comes out. An accept and build improvisation, if you will.
A Moment of Tension
Amidst the bracken, ferns, the spreading birch,
we find a red brick, half buried. Not much
of a find. Digging it with your toe perched
on point, I trace a faded denim stitch
of your knee length skirt, to a dead nettle.
This morning, spreading toast with marmalade
we talked of little, preferring kettle's
song to accompany the rustling crack
of nylon jackets, rucksacks, boot tying.
The brick tumbles out, half split, with a ring
of grey loam about its middle. Turning,
with that smile, you half skip along the track.
This is the finished version. In the original, 'faded denim stitich' was 'faded denim track', with the rhyme structure being rhyme, half rhyme, rhyme, refrain - assuming you will allow marmalade to be a half rhyme of nettle and kettle (which you probably won't),
There are two things going on here. The first is the art of the ordinary, and the second is that I deliberately made choices in which nothing happens. Thus 'we' whoever they are, find a brick. As she, one presumes by the skirt, digs the brick out with her toe, the other person's (their sex is not specified) hand/eye is drawn by the line is the skirt to a dead nettle. This was rather a big choice, as three or four times, I found myself wanting to write about the scent of the perfume, the sunlight through her hair, something highly personal; and defining of what is happening, and who these people are. I was trying to make something happen. To take it out of the ordinary.
And to stop the soap opera writer in me having the people kiss, or do something meaningful, I pulled out of the scene back to breakfast. This going back in time reigned in the image I had of these two people, in the future, on top of a hill drinking coffee, from a thermos - which is ordinary, but because the time is moving forward, it is a narrative, it is making things happen - it is me, the writer, making things happen.
The brick tumbles out, she smiles and walks off.
End of meter practice, pens down.
All of which makes the process seem effortless. I suppose it took about four hours, plus a couple of hours thinking through the suggested rewrites received in feedback. There was much tapping of the forehead looking for the correct rhyme. Much culling in of words as they broke through to the next line for fear of wasting any of those ten precious beats. A fair bit of tea drinking, and pacing around.
In truth I was a little surprised by the reaction the piece received, a little tearful even. To have a piece described as 'brilliance!' is somewhat shocking. The poem made the short list for editors choice on the Poetry Forum.
So for the final practice of the day I decided to see if I could turn these notes....
the years expand through candled cakes, park swings, broken arms, weekend trips;
through puckered lips, we exchange goodbyes, calling, cajoling, in the grip
of the school run. And, sometimes filtered in moonlight we say hello, slipping
out of character and into role.
.... into a sonnet.
t'missus
The years expand by candled cakes, park swings,
kissed scrapes, weekend trips. The rota of meals
negotiated, shouts, hard bargaining
tears over peas, sausage, chocolate deals
broken, The chair takes on our silhouette
pressed down by monster cuddles and stories.
Pecked tokens of goodbye, without regret,
outweigh moonlit greeting; when closed eyes
remind us, that tea and kindness, are not
all we share. No ring was ever stronger
than your embrace. Ten hands entwined, knotted,
around the single vision to conquer
those sunny uplands, seen in a baby's thumb,
which showed what was not, and what was to come.
T'missus likes it.
I'm more pleased to have got through the test of form.
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Cue random picture for the facebooks window...
The Blue Book, now with cheese pixels, only £1.84
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