Day 19 — Poem AId + ReAlIty TV

A different kind of day today as I played with form/function/generation a little. There is something which links all 4 of these poems (almost everything on this page in fact). I’m wondering if anyone can work it out.

Sonnet 1
Of Orpheus’ lyre, the ancient bards did sing,
Whose melodies could charm the savage beast,
And make the rivers dance and trees take wing,
While all creation listened to his feast.

With golden chords he wove a magic spell,
And drew the shades of Hades to his side,
To rescue his beloved from the depths of hell,
And bring her back to earth, his blushing bride.

But fate was cruel, and jealous gods did frown,
For mortal love was not for them to bless,
And so they tore his love away, to drown,
In the eternal night of loneliness.

Yet still he played, his music pure and true,
And all who heard were moved, and loved anew.

Limerick 1
There once was a man named Orpheus
Whose music could calm any ruckus
   He played with such skill
   The trees would be still
And rivers would cease their loud gushes.

Limerick 2
Orpheus played the lyre with grace
His music could slow any chase
   He sang with such skill
   His voice could even still
The ferocity of a wildcat’s race.

Sestina 1
Orpheus, the bard with lyre in hand,
played music that made the gods weep.
His voice was like the sweetest bird,
and all around him would gather to hear
as he sang of love and tragedy,
of loss and hope, of life and death.

His love, Eurydice, met an early death,
and grief consumed Orpheus like a brand.
He journeyed to the underworld, full of tragedy,
to plead with Hades, and make him weep.
The god was moved by Orpheus’ voice, so dear,
and allowed him to bring back his beloved bird.

But Orpheus, in his haste, lost his bird,
and his love was returned to eternal death.
Heartbroken, he sang a mournful song, so dear,
and played his lyre with a trembling hand.
His music made the underworld weep,
as they listened to his tale of tragedy.

Orpheus’ life was marked by tragedy,
as he mourned his love and lost his bird.
His songs made even the gods weep,
and his voice was as mournful as death.
But he continued to play, with steady hand,
singing of the past, present, and what he held dear.

Orpheus’ lyre was his most dear,
as it spoke his heart’s deepest tragedy.
He played with a steady, sure hand,
telling the story of his lost bird.
His music echoed with the voice of death,
as he made even the underworld weep.

His voice, like the sweetest bird, made them weep,
as he sang of the things that he held dear,
of love and loss, of life and death.
Orpheus’ life was a tale of tragedy,
but his music, like his lost bird,
lives on, guided by his steady hand.

Day 19 – TIL about my relationship with Reality TV

True Man

Truman syndrome
is a mental condition
some people suffer
where they believe
they’re the star
of an imaginary
reality tv show.

You’ve got to feel
sorry for those people
living their sad fantasy worlds
given i long ago realised
that i was & am the centre
the focus of attention
of millions & millions
of adoring fans worldwide
— my family & everyone
i know merely actors in a charade
which makes me the rightful
focus of the world’s attention.*

That being said — you’d think
they’d have gotten better
actors to play some of the parts

*paraphrasing words actually said by someone who suffers from Truman syndrome

Day 28 – white magick cleansing

A more playful poem than some this month, because after all, I do still have my sense of humour.

*****

deep cleansing the past month

week 1: a necessary exorcise of Her

my friend Charlotte convinced
that to provide clarity & clear
the psychic air around me i must
exorcise Her negative energy
from my home head & heart

together we assemble two strands
of black hair & one of henna;
a handwritten letter; & the sole gift
i ever got (a clue in itself she whispers)
a copy of Her favourite book

i must burn them at midnight
of a new moon ie tonight
i’m tired i tell her & it’s cold out
she’s long gone when i sacrifice
Her meagre possessions to flame

— it makes no difference

.

week 2: Spell for Aura and Energy Flow

disappointed but not deterred
Charlotte has lent me her
White Spells for Modern Wiccans
with multiple pages marked

turning to the first post-it note
her neat handwriting declares: this spell
is perfect for purifying one’s aura
or the energy flow between two people

things i need

bundle dry sage
“loaded” white candle
a feather (purified)
photo of each of us

having none of these items
Charlotte swiftly visits
& watches as i perform
the spell under her steely gaze

i. put candle & sage
on a silver platter
with the two photos

ii. light candle
burn sage carefully
creating smokeless smoke

iii. with the feather
sweep smoke towards
the outside of the house

— it makes no difference

.

week 3: Enchantment to ward negative energy from the home

on a waning moon day
peel & quarter an onion
form in a cross on a white plate
in front of a brown candle
light the candle, chanting

Creature of fire
Bringer of tears
Hear my desire
Banish my fears

Power of three
Set this home free
Cleanse it today
Long may it stay

travelling counterclockwise
walk through the house

saucer in left hand, candle in right
turn three times clockwise in every room

leave the onion & candle in the kitchen
until it’s completely burnt down

then throw the wax on your lawn
& bury the onion far from home

— it makes no difference

week 4: spell of my own devising

go into the garden
pluck five sprigs of fresh mint
return inside
heat some water
(from the tap is fine)

tear the leaves
from the stalks
& drop in a mug
pour hot water over
breathe in deeply

pop your patio chair
in a patch of warm
autumn sunshine
but take a rug too
cos there are clouds above

sigh loudly after sipping
open the given book
(course i didn’t burn it
i’m no monster)
lose yourself in reading

— it doesn’t fix everything
but it makes a small difference

Day 21 – not all poems have to be about my experience of love (or the lack thereof)

As the title says.

*****

perfect relationship

when my parents retire
dad wants to live in darwin
mum in cradle mountain
mum says they’ll meet
for a month in the middle
(in our country’s
so-called dead heart)
every five or so years
& it’ll be the perfect
relationship, lol

Day 20 – pity party (& binge bash)

This was actually begun as a poem for someone else … & took a wrong turn along the way, which improved it immeasurably.

*****

wallows

was happily wallowing, wallowing;
in my heart of broken glass pain;
my sad song that never ends;
my woe-is-me tale of eternal misery;
with my wounded soul lying in a cave;
like a hippo in mud;
like the proverbial pig;
like the …
when i got to wondering
what other creatures like a good wallow.
a quick interwebbing told me
elephants & elephant seals
warthogs & rhinoceroses
tapirs & bison all do; some deer too.

accidentally learning along the way,
it’s a comfort behaviour, free sunscreen,
insect repellent, wet brush to enhance
moulting & remove parasites; as well as
aids social cohesion & play in young animals.

by which, i’d forgotten my mopery
(though i was a good deal itchier)

BONUS POEM: April 20, 2018

After a scare with their prepaid Skip the Line tickets I finally saw my mother (Old Ma Jones) & my niece inside, when I thought, WTH I may as join the end of the queue & see how long it actually takes. Seemed a shame to be so close & not even try.

*****

shadowvale

I did not leave
myself all day
lost in the space
I’m always lost in
— from here
I glimpse
things stranger
than I have known
things I could
once have been
were it not
for the shadows
in the vale

Day 18 – dog praising (& flag waving)

Today’s pome is inspired by a poem I read part of yesterday & wanted to i) play around a bit, ii) try attempting a different form, iii) honouring a subject I rarely write about (haha).

The extract I’m referring to is taken from a very long poem Jubilate Agno (Latin: “Rejoice in the Lamb”) by Christopher Smart, written 1759-63, during Smart’s confinement for insanity, but first published only in 1939. Divided into four fragments A, B, C, & D the whole consists of over 1,200 lines: all the lines in some sections begin with Let; the other sections begin with For. The poem is chiefly remembered today for the 74-line extract wherein Smart extols the many virtues and habits of his cat, Jeoffry. It begins:

For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry.
……For he is the servant of the Living God duly and daily serving him.

& I will use the same/similar lines to begin my (considerably shorter paean).

*****

Jubilate Canis (shout out to my dog)

For I will consider my Dog Chester.
For he is the servant of the Infinite who is throughout the universe.

For this he performs in ten degrees.
For first he wisely sniffs every piece of food offered to him
For secondly he quickly, softly, licks my toes should a leg drop over the bed’s edge
For thirdly he rests neatly, his forepaws politely crossed
For fourthly he sleeps wildly, upon his back, legs sprawled in 9 directions, completely at peace
For fifthly he always stretches his back properly upon awaking
For sixthly at dawn he wishes to smell all that his new in his yard & let others know of his return to dominance
For seventhly, beneath the desk even as I type, he reaches out a paw to ensure there is contact with my foot
For eighthly believes when he has the ball, all others want the ball, & it is his sworn duty to protect & retain the ball
For ninthly he does not consider himself too big to climb onto my lap & cradled like a babe
For tenthly he still whines excitedly (& only a little pathetically) at the gate, when I have been away a long time, as if he did not believe I was ever returning to him
For food
for walk
…………………………..for pat
for drive all delight in equal measure
For he is optimism beyond all reason for hope
For he finds joy in the simplest of things.

For while I claim he performs divine duty in ten degrees
For sure I could easily list ten times ten times ten more.

BONUS POEM: April 18, 2018

You don’t see as much of this in Australia, though it is getting worse…

*****

flags

proudly flapping
every where you go
patriotism overload
overwhelming, cloying
we have hung
them everywhere
outside our homes
along the roads
on tree branches
twigs, bushes, brambles
caught on wire
strung from fences
in towns, cities
& isolated country
hideaways
places you wouldn’t
places they shouldn’t
shreds of flag
shards of flag
a sliver, a scrap, a slip
the smallest fragment
enough to remind us
you can’t escape
the jingoistic fervour

despite the propaganda
it’s hard to take pride
in any of our billion
billion plastic pennants

Day 27 – poem about bad hair

Some days a poem just writes itself. This was one such. From a few notes jotted while I was visiting my gran in her “retirement home”, the tone quickly established itself & made me laugh out loud as the various descriptions presented themselves.

knot me

in the quiet blue of my gran’s tiny
room a photo of a long-haired kiss-
curled cow-licked feminine-faced lout;
smug in a purple-striped shirt under
neath an all-white knitted jumper
(as was, I hope, vaguely fashionable
in the Miami Vice trashed late 80’s);
set off with a heart-shaped silver bolo-
tie for fuck’s sake
although i recognise
his confident cock-eyed grin, his too-
smooth clean-cut chin, & once-pride&joy
full-but-already-thinning head of fine
wavy hair, my stomach double knots
in grief & pity — for he does not yet
know all he has, nor all he will lose

Star Wars Day — May the Fourth Be With You

A quick little birthday present poem for a young man I tutor/am mates with.

*****

May the Fourth Be With You

i have a friend
proud to be
born today

while the light
might be nice
i always say

better to be
more like me
& born tomorrow

— then you can
celebrate the Revenge
of the Fifth

*****

Day 1 – New look blog, new NaPoWriMo season … same old chaos

Having successfully completed last year’s NaPoWriMo I was all set to come into this year, with a plan, well-organised & a task list of things I wanted to achieve. (I have a folder of articles I think might be great starting points for poems; I have ideas for poems which when written will go in yet into yet-to-be-completed collections; I have snippets of lines I want to expand into a poem; I have titles without poems beneath them.)

Naturally that was all knocked out the window within the first 24 hours …

To be fair, I have submitted 11 poems to 5 separate competitions in the past 3 days (including one which was only sent off at 11.51pm to make a midnight deadline — thanks Sarah R for late night editing advice, we didn’t fix everything but fixed a lot more than I would have by myself.)

& so to today…

On Wednesday that self-same Sarah, challenged me to write a poem (actually three) for her. The prompts were:

Jazz (she knows my fondness for the form)
“I have been called …”
Resurrection

I have been efficient (or lazy, depending on your perspective) & combined them into one glorious evocation which cogently & (moderately) briefly articulates my views of the genre (including some of my favourite quotes)

((heehee, chuckling already just thinking of some of them))

(((nothing like making enemies on day 1 of NaPoWriMo)))

I think of it as a Comic Narrative Collage Poem (for those writing essays on it)

NB: I openly concede I have occasionally appropriated &/or transmutated the words of others without attribution, but as the wise ones say: stealing from one author is plagiarism, stealing from many is research

& so:

*****

litany: a fair & comprehensive critique of Jazz

in the beginning
i have been called many names
few of them kind
simply for expressing
not my distaste, but rather
my total lack of interest
in jazz

musical interlude I
just so i’m being fair (ho ho ho)
i’ve dug out a few old mp3’s
(sorry purists & your obsession
with lossless files the size
of our larger country towns)
& they’re in the background now
helping give me context
Sonny Rollins & Dave Brubeck’s foursome
& Miles Davies who’s feeling Kind of Blue
(no kidding if you’re listening to what you’re playing)

research: google proving
jazz sucks — 1.39 million googles
i hate jazz — 23 million googles
why jazz is bad — 122 million googles

quotes by better minds than i
sure it might be cheap & easy shots
to repeat some zingers from better minds than i
about why jazz is not the wonderful art form
its many beret wearers contend
so with that commendation
i gleefully will

the cons
like toddlers let loose in a music room

music invented for the torture of imbeciles

it has a bad name because some of it’s crap & it’s boring

choppy noise pretending to make music out of traffic jams

live jazz — two words which find my hands instinctively shooting up to protect my ears

there are two types of people in this world, people who like jazz & people who would rather perforate their ear drums with rusty knitting needles than listen to it

like the kind of a man you wouldn’t want your daughter associating with
(though some take this as a compliment)

& as el Barto famously claims
ahhh… cartoons America’s only native art form — i don’t count jazz because it sucks

musical interlude II
hmmm, old boy’s club isn’t doing it for me
so have downloaded tracks from Ambrose Akinmusire’s album
“The Imagined Savior is Far Easier to Paint” (wtf?)
(apparently he’s a hip hot young thing on the jazz scene)
so how’s that for open minded
what a fair & balanced old fox am i
to boldly go where i have long avoided going

testimonials from actual people
i love jazz! i listen to it in bed — it helps me fall asleep
i put Theolonius Monk on for brunch when my in-laws come over
it’s so soothing — i play it when i’m studying or reading
i always play it after sex — helps the ladies out of my bed & into their taxi quicker

claims against its greatness
it’s elitist, pretentious
bastion of testosterone
did i mention catch all for pretension
or at least many pretentious folk flock to it

two words: smooth jazz
two more words: jazz fusion

it’s mostly dreck

musical interlude III
that wasn’t working either so gone back to basics:
“Let’s Get Acquainted with Jazz — For People Who Hate Jazz”
[a mono vinyl rip] — & suddenly i’m transported
to the mid 50’s & the little lady is bringing out
whores derves for our happening dinner party

the pros
if you’re expecting a resurrection
where i claim after listening to it
i am now a convert, sorry to disappoint
however in the interest of fairness

jazz isn’t: methodical, but isn’t messy either
(oh, that makes sense now, thank you)

jazz is: smooth & cool … rage … flows like water … never seems to begin or end (well it never seems to end, i’ll give you that, sorry sorry)

((i know i probably should refrain from commenting
on all of these positive ones — but it’s just too much fun))

(((where was i?)))

it’s a conversation … a give & take … a connection & communication between musicians
(perhaps, but don’t you think you should consider your audience a bit too)

washes away the dust of everyday life
(that one’s actually quite lovely, but i find water does just as well
& doesn’t make my ears bleed)

musical interlude IV ends abruptly
/my god, my god — do you never stop
this one track has been playing
in the back ground stomping on my brain
noodling along for what feels like days
never ending noodling
noodle noodle noodle
high hat high hat
da-da-da dah toot
da-da-da dah toot
da-da-da dah toot
da-da-da dah toot
da-da-da dah toot
da-da-da dah toot
back to “Shake it Off” for me

arguments against “my not getting it”
if your taste was better cultivated, you’d be able to appreciate it
implication:
like mine is, like i do
(sorry but if jazz were better i would like it
whether or not i could evaluate it on an intermellectual level)

improvisation is EXTREMELY hard
aka:
you don’t like jazz because you can’t play it
(i can’t play any musical instrument in any sort of pleasing way
but that doesn’t stop me liking whole swags of musical styles)

you can’t criticise jazz without understanding it
(um, if it looks like shit & smells like shit
i don’t need to taste it to find out it is shit)

perhaps it’s not jazz music that’s the problem
it’s jazz musicians

or more alarmingly — jazz aficionados

in summation
it’s annoying noise
it’s annoising

repetitive without being groovy
improvisational without being original

if a musician hits the wrong note
they keep playing & try not to hit it again
jazz players hit it again … & again … & again

to be serious for just a moment though
any system where Nina Simone & Ella Fitzgerald
are described by the same word which
includes the warblings of Kenny G & Michael Bublé
is seriously flawed

so there, you’ve caught me out
some early jazz vocalists i don’t not not hate

my idea of hell is being trapped
between the 88th & 89th floor
of a burning skyscraper
& not fearing i’ll fall, but worrying
the smooth jazz soundtrack
piping through the tinny sound system
will last longer than the cable

the best thing about jazz is there’s no chance
of getting a melody stuck in your head
which is great because who wants
jazz stuck in your head anyway

but the final damning nail in the jazz coffin has to be:
that Star Trek: The Next Generation’s
Commander William T. Riker loves it
& he’s the biggest douche out beyond the final frontier

critique complete.

*****

what comes when you have other deadlines

A friend & I are currently doing a trial run for a project we’d like to deliver early next year. This means we are each writing a poem a day (supposedly for all of September, but we’ll see how dry the well gets). It’s similar to a NaPoWrMo — but a theme has been selected & each poem is an exploration of that theme. We intend to invite other poets, set tasks, & look to publish the best of, etc etc. But I digress.

Six days in, it’s exciting but definitely a very challenging task.

Naturally, given that I have a daily deadline & a set topic — I’m finding all sorts of reasons to write those other poems — NOT AT ALL RELATED TO THE POSSIBLE FUTURE PROJECT TEST RUN!!!! — which have been inside for a few months … or are discovered as I research topics only tangentially related to the topic (if at all).

This is good for those BONUS poems (I must be producing 3 for every 1 project poem each day, & fragments / sketches of others). So it’s nice to have a lot of new first drafts under my belt. [Seriously the application of a curfew makes the fun you have after it has expired soooo much more wonderful!] But I hope the designated topic starts turning up some gems soon.

This is one of those offcuts. I don’t actually need to say much more about it, as the poem is a little too self-explanatory (hey it’s only a draft) & will tell its story walkin’. The title, sadly, I think is my favourite part 🙂 But it is, at the very least, a quirky piece of information – definitely worth the share. Thoughts/comments always appreciated.

Johannes Goropius Becanus’s Brabantic Obsession

was it:

hubris, naiveté or desperation to be near
a god that patiently does not exist, or at the last
doesn’t actually care enough to intervene

which led 16th century Dutch amateur linguist
Johannes Goropius Becanus to prove
Brabantic was the language spoken in Paradise?

his key theory:

the world’s original language must be its simplest
& given innocent Brabantic has more short words than
Latin, Greek, & Hebrew — viz. it’s older than all three!

corollary theories:

all languages have bitten from the Brabantic tree
Egyptian hieroglyphics represent Brabantic
Eden was located (you guessed it) in the Brabant

oh — did I mention Brabantic was the language
spoken between the Scheldt & Meuse Rivers
in Holland, the region right where Goropius lived?

IKR, coincidence or what!

*****

Tree of Knowledge by The-Fairywitch

gareth roi poet boi

gareth roi's playful poetry place

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Tag Archives: humour

Day 19 — Poem AId + ReAlIty TV

Day 28 – white magick cleansing

Day 21 – not all poems have to be about my experience of love (or the lack thereof)

Day 20 – pity party (& binge bash)

Day 18 – dog praising (& flag waving)

Day 27 – poem about bad hair

Star Wars Day — May the Fourth Be With You

Day 1 – New look blog, new NaPoWriMo season … same old chaos

what comes when you have other deadlines

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