Tag Archives: love

April 8 – Day Eight: The OFFICIAL entry: verbatim

So after the chopping & changing mentioned in the other April 8 entry, I finally got back to the main idea that had caught my attention during the day.

One of my HairyFooted One ring destroying Big Bellied Innocent Tiny people buddies (goes by the nick, RhubarbCrumbles) & I were chatting on Line about houses, where we grew up & whatnot (her & her husband, RL nickname Blokie, are soon to start building one of their own) when she mentioned she was on googlemaps. Actually on it. She even sent me a picture.

This intrigued me & I asked her for more info.  So she proceeded to tell me the story of her google mapping experience.  As she told me, (& by told, I mean typed in conversation with me, like an extended text message exchange) I begun to consider her story as a possible source for Found Poetry.

Now having friends who are playwrights, I was aware of the relatively recent theatre form, Verbatim Theatre (in which plays are constructed using the precise words spoken by people interviewed about a particular event/topic). I thought I could apply the same techniques to Poetry (I also hadn’t heard of it being done before in poetry. Naturally a later google search reveal it had; although the way I was proposing was closer in approach to Verbatim Theatre, than the more traditional Verbatim Poetry seemed to represent.)

So what follows is pretty much literally, word for word, Rhu’s story – presented in poetic form. The only minor tweaks I have made are: 1) taking out all my interjections (which, unusually, were relatively few); 2) even rarer, made slight adjustments to grammar, usually to better structure a reply to a question I asked & to make Rhu’s response flow fractionally better; 3) removed a few unrelated chunks where we talked about the game; & 4) twice moved a line to a different position within the poem.  Now if any/all of these break any cardinal VP rules, I care not. I was more interested in the final product than the process/technique by which I got there. That said I know I can confidently say, “These are at least 95% Rhu’s words, Rhu’s voice, if not higher”. The sculptors knife was only used very lightly.

As always, keen for any thoughts? responses? critiques? of this never-before-tried-by-me, poetic form.

google mapped
or the Alcester Rut

Amusingly I am immortalised in google maps
[Photo]
Taken the week I was leaving the UK (though I didn’t know it at the time)
I know it’s the week before I left because of the shirt I was wearing
I wore it once to paint the hallway
We sold it after my father died.

We left as we needed a change.
Alcester is a small town.
A very small village, technically a hamlet
Kind of like the Lou Reed song
Small Town
It might have been John Cale. Or one he recorded with him.
But the lyrics go something like
Growing up in a small town x3
You just wanna get out
We were stuck in a routine
And had always talked about moving abroad

US wouldn’t have been our first choice, but its where blokie had an opportunity
Yes. We have one brother each. No parents.
Friends are diversely spread across the globe and UK.
And those in Alcester were part of the rut.
We’d watch the footie in the boozer on a Sunday.
Blokie would play darts on a Tuesday.
And quiz league on Thursdays.
We’d still be doing that if we lived there.
So we moved.

It wasn’t a huge wrench.
I’m fairly pragmatic.
And it was exciting.
No tears.
Maybe a small lump in my throat for my bro.
And an odd drunken conv with one of my best mates who declared his love for me.
Like 1 day before u leave, what was I supposed to say to that! Other than awkward.
Probably better for him that I left I suspect.
I don’t want to be anyone’s unrequited love.
And no, no quickie.

US is pretty much as u expect it to be.
Inherently right of centre.
Money orientated
Family orientated.
More religious than I appreciated.
And a complete lack of understanding of anything outside their own shores.

How? Um.
Blokie loves google maps/earth.
If he sees a sports stadium or landmark on tv,
he likes to locate them and see whether its a good place to visit.
I guess he was just having a gander at Alcester, and there I was.

The first thing I bought with my inheritance
was a copy of the Times Atlas of the World for him.
That was a while ago though.
It props up the PS3 now.

 

*****

 

photo

Image: googleearth & RhubarbCrumbles

 

April 8 – Day Eight: 4 bonus poems

Today was a bit messy.  Every other day I’ve known what  I was going to do by about midday.  Today I had a few false starts, & nothing was really grabbing me.  So I worked on a play instead, read some articles online, read Bill Bryson’s awesome chapter on Pronunciation, read a really interesting chapter on how Russia’s political instability is founded on a lack of any clear geographic demarcations between its Western border & Europe … & the “vulnerability” of St Petersburg & Russia now that the Soviet “buffer zone” of satellite Ukraine, Belarus, Lithuania etc are now “independent” states.  Written a couple of years again, it shed interesting light on the current Crimea Crisis – but helped little in the poem creation caper.

So to a walk on the beach.  Which produced:

the blue seaglass sky

rain has kept all but the dedicated away
& we’re both a little stir crazy

thankfully this strip of salty dreams
is virtually deserted, even by the gulls

henley beach a zen meditation
the beach as onomatopoeia

water becomes sand, sand becomes sky
sky becomes water … & we drift between

lost on the wind, one lost in the wind
whispers of wings that cannot be seen

waves wash water over wet sand
the sucking sounds – sausages sizzling

in the seashell cemetery, exoskeletons sing
coral cartwheeling, a dead reef xylophone

& every piece of fairy seaglass i find
is washed out blue, just like the sky

*****

1. beach & chezz 1.seaglass

Images: moi

Which, while “nice”, felt like a pretty bog standard grj poem.  It will hopefully improve once April is over & I have a chance to tweak it.  (I particularly like “the beach as onomatopoeia” & will possibly explore that in more detail, sometime.)

So, home after a wonderful wet walk, & a quick stop to shop for essentials, generated this gem:

one of the disadvantages of tardiness

get home after wet beach walk, soggy
towel dry the dog, feed the dog
think about feeding myself, consider coffee
catch from an eye corner, the clock
WTH – where did the time go, calculate
we left here at 4, clock says 6.59
the reading starts in an hour
check the oven: starts in an hour there too
we couldn’t have walked for that long
would’ve said 90 minutes at most
& i only bought a few groceries
dammit! no time for food
put the frozen stuff away. & the milk.
scramble into shower, scrape face
wriggle into jeans, search for shoes
check phone.  wait.  what?  wait!
here the reading starts in 1hr47min
i really should turn those damn
kitchen clocks back — daylight savings
has been over half a week

 *****

clock_by_GruEliSm

Image: Clock by gruelism

This was followed by attendance at said poetry reading which had previously caused such panic in my efforts to get there on time.  [We shan’t mention, the act of sitting at the computer to craft said poem, almost caused me to run late (again, so to speak) for the reading. Sometimes, it seems time is destiny.]

A quick conversation post-reading & this was spewed forth upon my return home. (I had 2 hours to meet the midnight deadline.)

operational policy

my friend works for the government
in the bureaucracy … doing something
to do with housing – or something

every time he talks about it i wittily
pretend to fall asleep. people understand if i say
‘i sit at a computer’  he jokes … before going silent

till one day i overhear him spieling to a stranger
i work for the government in operational policy
we implement what the strategic policy department

decides is a good idea … we make sure it works
i see the woman’s eyes glaze over too
i sit at a computer. aaah, the joke still works

yes, but what do you actually do, she persists
um, my work means the most vulnerable
get what they need in order to live

i haven’t pretended to fall asleep since

*****

 

3. wooden_house_by_kleemass-d3jc2v7

Image: Wooden House by Kleemass

But this still didn’t feel like it.  So I returned to an abandoned effort from earlier in the day.

beyond pain
(Peaches Geldoff dies at age 25)

the deaths of celebrities are strange events
causing outpourings of grief from a deluded
General Population who believe they are somehow
“connected” just because they saw them lots on tv.
the deaths of not-really celebrities are even stranger.

while i sincerely feel the pain her father expresses
in his statement to the media, including the phrase
which titles this poem & others equally heartbreaking
Writing ‘was’ destroys me afresh &
our family, fractured so often, but never broken
the pathos is profound – his clan has done it tough.

what i do not comprehend is how the media
thinks poorly worded tweets from other
second rate celebs some of whom may even
have known the deceased are news — but FFS
Miley & Jamie — sad face emoticons are not
appropriate ways to express your condolences
when someone’s daughter, someone’s mother dies

*****

4. peaches only 3 in WA copy

Screencap moi:  “What’s up WA? – Why is it only 3 on your Reader’s Most Viewed????

But I still wasn’t happy … which leads to today’s Official Post (see new page)

April 4 – Day Four: ruminations on passion (& an “easter egg”)

Today I saw a friend perform in a musical version of Christ’s Passion.  It was an amateur production, with all the accompanying issues.  (As an actor he makes a great poet: I only hope he’s not upset by today’s offering…)  It was the second time I’ve seen it.  He is my friend & I want to support him, even if I don’t share his convictions.  But the darkness of the theatre, & the ample moments of downtime, allowed for many chances to reflect, to think, to meditate, to nap.)  

& I chose to think about perhaps my favourite disciple — after Thomas, who I rightly slag off in today’s poem — the one I believe has been most maligned, misunderstood, & misportrayed.  That is of course, the Kissing Disciple, Judas.  

Sadly I feel this is my least successful effort of the month to date.  But the idea of NaPoWriMo is to challenge oneself & create work one might not normally attempt.  Maybe it’ll look better in a week or two, with some distance behind it.

Your “easter egg” is not one you have to search too hard for – it’s just at the bottom of this post … as a second bonus poem.  (Does this give me a credit for tomorrow?)

 

Two Versions of The Cross

 

1.

The Disciple Whom Jesus Loved

“It were better for him never to have been born”

the thing most Christians miss is Judas had the hardest job
they lavish love on that snivelling denier, Peter so-called Rock
or poor Thomas & his doubts (understandable, but inexcusable)
leaving the red-haired BFF to swing forever weighted by silver.

it’s easy to paint Jesus White & Judas Black, crudely simplifying
perhaps the most complex decision ever made by man: betray
or believe in the impossible — in return from death. who among
us can act correctly not knowing the consequences of choice?

the argument: Peter didn’t know the plan, but what if Judas
did — if the motivation was to accomplish Christ’s mission
then Judas is the catalyst for the event which (allegedly) saves
humanity — by sacrificing the man that clothed eternal life.

the truth then, or at least this one possible version of it
is your, my, our salvation (real, wishful or delusional)
is built upon one man’s not actually a betrayal. a man
who may, have been the truest bravest disciple of all

 

*****

 

Copy_of_el_beso_de_Judas

Image:  Copy_of_el_beso_de_Judas

 

2.

A Review in Free Verse of a Musical Version of Christ’s Passion

From a practitioner’s perspective, it was hard to appreciate:

The multiple missed lighting spots.
Stilted movements. Stilted frozen tableaus
Strange forced perspective flats of the room
where the last (Escher-esque) supper was held.
Repeated use of downstage hands to mask faces
wildly gesticulating arms & finger pointing
as the only way to communicate emotion.
Stepping forward to deliver a line,
then returning with a snap to their ranks.
The pristinely clean costume shop clothes
(Pilate’s crushed velvet robes were a cack).
The perfectly timed too quick sound cues
(the impatient cock had already crowed
before Peter had denied three times).
Corny dialogue, poorly delivered.
Corny lyrics, not poorly delivered
surprisingly sang with a strange naive beauty
by far the most emotive element of the show.
Over-produced synthesiser-rich faux-pop score
Although lines like: He’s no messiah. He’s a lunatic, a liar &
Jesus remember me when you come (come) ((come)) into your kingdom
are memorable for the wrong reasons.
Thankfully though Mary Mag was a hottie
(as she should be), although some colour blind
casting might have helped. Poor Asian Judas
& Asian Pilate opposite a dull whitebread Aryan Jesus
who he seemed to spend almost as long
up on the cross as he did 2000 years ago.

One can’t fault the cast’s earnestness,
nor their conviction, nor even their faith
none of which I share. All seemed pleased
& the audience full of school children bussed in
from religious schools, all seemed impressed.

However,
the thing that sticks with me the most:
is the primary school boy who said in a whisper
to his mate: his heart’s still beating

 

Tableau

 

Wrestling in Front of Escher’s Supper Room.   image: moi

April 3 – Day Three: third day, three omens

Once again NaPoWriMo throws unexpected things in front of me.  I have a folder of articles / images / ideas I’d like to craft a poem from / on / around.  I thought I might get to the poem I first envisaged writing on Day 1 as an introduction to the month.  But life intervened … so I went with the flow.

The use of 3 line stanzas (although now appearing in two out of three poems this month) is unusual for me, but I’m sure understandable when you read the narrative of the poem.  The colons are a homage to my friend Thom Sullivan : who is playing with : creating poetic forms : using this device. I discovered in draft one that I had an abundance of them (around 5) so instead of deleting them as I normally would, I went the other direction to see what happened.  I like the effect … it feels airy …

Finally, the system of drafting in the morning, crafting in the evening is working well.  It allows for the grunt work to get done early, then the fun of shaping comes later. Enjoy.

omens : doves in the house

i.
a flurry : as we’re startled by a flutter of wings : aching for air
two doves in the kitchen : the dog sees this as a sign : saving
him chasing : he’s quickly closed on the door’s other side

for the moment they sit : still on the sill : where glass windows
corner : the wild inside : panic temporarily jack-in-the-boxed
aware of what’s beyond : yet cannot reach : they know not why

slowly walk to them : slowly slide my hand : upwards
between the air humming : with their beating hearts : tender
one panics : flies high : the other stays still : trusting : terrified?

flick the latch : swing glass open to sudden sunlight : air
flighty bashes her way out : calm needs a fingertip nudge
soft feathers : heat : i’m shivered by this soft communion

continue my initial task : providing canine sustenance
unexpectedly discover : a third bird in the bathroom!
this one requires actual contact : a simple capture : calm

holding this speckled creature : tremulously : pillowsoft
frightened : tiny heart staccato tapping the skin
of my palms : warm : is this how god feels : overlording us

i sometimes feel overwhelmingly protective : when patting
Chester : late at night : his devoted heart drumming away
under the pianokey bones of his ribs : just us in the world
ii.
a friend catches birds : with bare hands : stalking
gulls : pigeons : semi-domesticated scavengers
why? : because she can : to hold life : perhaps

once : she was startled : after a snared seagull bit
back : she released it straight away : as i laughed
what should it have done : i joked : what would you

one book tells : seagulls are : souls of dead sailors
another : doves inside : blessed with luck : a third
that freeing a bird is both : a good act : a good omen

old wives : folk tales : suggests : deaths are imminent
i live alone : am i to die three times : the punishment
seems excessive : for simply leaving a door open
iii.
no : i will read it differently : make my own signs
weave my own supernatural : no one else’s omen
no one else’s sorcery : shall dictate : my feelings

in my mythology : the three deaths occurred more than
twenty years ago : lived with daily : my heart doesn’t doubt
this is a blessing : a gentle : otherworldly message

this is : my version of a visit : from beyond
a reminder : the brush of a loved one’s : wings
is never far away

 

*****

 

Bird Three

 

The Third Dove: image: moi

 

April 2 – Day Two: merging worlds

MMORPG. It begins simply. You download, log in, choose a game name for yourself, pick a race, learn the rules.  Grow your city, your army, build might. Be attacked, lose troops, learn. Consider giving up. Be invited into an alliance.  Meet others. Talk laugh learn about people from all over the world. Grow … as a person.  Have fun.  Perhaps even escape the pain of the real world for a little while.

This wasn’t the poem I was planning to write today, but what happened in my “game” life affected my “real” life so deeply, I had to try expressing it…

 

The_Hunter’s Hearts

with love, for Odinson

 

like millions of others, i escape (insert own idiosyncratic ailment here)

that the heaviness the universe has lain across my lonely heart

by assuming an imagined identity & logging into a fictional world

 

there with thousands of other digital dwarves, pixeled pixies &

hairy footed short people (whose name can’t be used for legal reasons)

to play a harmless hobby that helps maintain sanity on the sadder days

 

yet somewhere in this electronic utopia  someone sadder than i, sadder

than most, sadder, & sadly, madder too.  for seemingly this man’s sole

delight is tormenting a grieving 11 year old boy about the recent death

 

of his mother.  what heartlessness, what emptiness of soul makes

a grown man believe such behaviour is acceptable in any reality

virtual, or flesh & blood. but i won’t dwell on him. he’s not worth it.

 

rather i’ll acknowledge the spontaneous beauty which took place in GC

(Global Chat to the uninitiated) as frenemies from dozens of alliances

rose up with one voice to silence Dubz, drive him into submission, away

 

his annoying pest like behaviour finally crossed a line, when he created

an alt (a character not his usual) of unrepeatable cruelty.  at that moment

although we’re spread across continents, in every timezone, babel’s babble

 

we all were hunter’s hearts, as one choir, protecting him from the ramblings

of a deranged & damaged mind. till his sister burst in roaring, a beautiful wild

lioness protecting her cub: a true ball buster; a twister carrying him home from oz.

 

if it’s possible, odinson, odiwan kenobi, my young sensai, my regular rap across

my knuckles because i don’t  farm or fight enough (any) battles; because my TK

count is not OK, & i just like to hug my might, hug, hug it throughout the night

 

if it’s possible, forget that sad pathetic broken heart who seeks to hurt you

think only of the 100’s of hearts around you; around the world, who love, care for

& want to you to grow up to be the very best Hunter we know you will be

 

*****

 

Elven_Archer_by_Pickyme

 

Elven Archer by Pickyme

Image from: http://pickyme.deviantart.com/art/Elven-Archer-146263547