April 11 – Day Eleven: out of nowhere

Today (as it was, Friday) was a challenging day. I had quite a few attempts at things, none seemed inspired or inspiring. I was more interested in reading rather than writing for most of the day. I had ideas, but they just weren’t flowing. Finally, I had to call an end to it & begin to get ready to catch up with friends & go see a (as it turned, rather strange, bland) production of Dracula.

In the shower, however, the first lines of this poem (“i hear voices in the water, singing in the shower stream”) made themselves known to me. Others came pretty rapidly as the wonderful pounding heat soothed my stress away. The fact that these lines were later bumped into verse 2 & tweaked a bit is of no consequence. The fact that I was almost late to the play because of the need to finish the poem, perhaps is …

company

at my old house. 3 sets of footsteps
would run away. when you approached
the front door. stop. as you unlocked.
then race to the back room. temperature’s
changed. for no reason. the back bedroom
was always colder. no matter the weather.

here, i hear voices. in the water.
people talking. in the shower stream.
singing. where the drain turns a corner
down deep there. below the bath
& it always feels. someone is near
not too near. perhaps. but close by.

not always, a good thing
for those. who live. alone.

*****

Image: films about ghosts by LNePrZ

~ interlude ~

This is a quick note to advise the “technical difficulties” have been resolved. These were all legitimate technical issues & not a creative black hole including: a hectic weekend, being away from my computer, forgetting word press password & dropbox not syncing to the most recent draft of a poem. I assure you, every day a poem was written. These will now be arriving over the next hour or so, as I upload & format each new page till I am current. Thank you for patience during this most trying of times (heehee). I hope the end result is worth the wait.

NB if at any time you read anything you like, please feel to share, like, comment … or even subscribe. All interaction with folks who read my poems, is both appreciated & inspiring. (Even if you disagree/dislike something, I’d love to know why!)

April 10 – Day Ten: something small

There’s nothing big about this one. A friend argued with her horse. I had surgery 2 weeks ago. We all have our bruises.

bruise

all the colours have faded now
vivid reds & princely purples
the violet of betrayal
the blue silver fishscale gleam
the dull golding around the edges
as crushed capillaries let go their anger

yes, this fruitcup bruise has faded
like those before, crushed but unbroken.
the frozen peas remain in the freezer
for use in mornays & hearty stews

wait for the fading to start
from areas didn’t think you could reach
deep vein blue & red ventricle heart
the addicted galah-coloured striatum
& the bluesilverglow in every cell
that talks to the universe

*****

A Black eye. Image: ehow.com

April 9 – Day Nine: a change of tack

While at the launch of a book of poetry tonight, the phrase “eco-anarchist” lit a fire under a few things I’ve been thinking for some time. What is the place of poetry? Can it change the world? Probably not, but if it can challenge it, that’s almost as good.

The Redistribution Manifesto & Hit List

1.
Redistribution

The dam wall is about to break
It’s been building for a while
This resentment towards the so-called 1%
Really it’s a much lower number
Too long we’ve allowed them their dominance
The corporate capitalistic oligarchy
has been tried & found wanting.
Their socio-comic irrationalism
is getting in the way of our fee market economy
If free-trade agreements were not actually misnomers
& if globalisation brought equal benefits globally
but …

The solution is simple.
They’ve had their chance.
Been given ample opportunity to change,
yet they cling, confidently cling,
knowing nothing’s altered in 200 years
Other than increasing the odds in their favour
so why now.

The solution, I said, is simple.
Take back what’s ours.
Or just — take equality.
(as we’ve probably never truly had it)
The irony is that the right is actually not
What’s left of the left, needs to step up,
& grow a pair.
Militant actions are necessary.
Gandhi spoke of non-violent resistance
But the conservatives’ poster boy,
turned over tables in the temple.

It’s time to turn some tables.

My solution is simple.
Kill the rich. Just the ultras, for a start.
For the price of a few bullets
maybe a carbomb
great injustices could be undone.
I myself am willing to train.
Willing to risk eternity in hell
to free the millions, the billions.
Yes indeed, I’ll cop that
to prevent this inexorable dystopia.
Let’s try another route.
& if it’s built on a few
dead billionaire’s bodies, so be it.
Is their death worth more
than the millions in sweat shops,
& slave labour camps,
let alone the billions in
daily grind employment
that are not sweat shops
– yet still don’t provide
financial security.
Who would not, knowing
what we know now
& given the chance, have drowned a certain young Austrian
artist as he stood at his easel by the Danube River in 1900

2.
The Manifesto

1. Publish the hit list.
2. Reward the Redistributor.
3. Wait a week. If nothing changes, move down the list.
4. Anyone who gives away 20% of their wealth in each 7 day period, is safe for the following week.
5. Every so often, mix up the order. Keep em on their toes.
6. Repeat till extreme affluence — or extreme poverty — no longer exists.

3.
The Hit List: a first draft (the top 5)

0. Gates [$76 billion] even though he’s #1
he gets a short reprieve for already offloading
a fair whack of cash. & encouraging others to do so too.

1. A Walton is first. Doesn’t matter which of the 4.
[each worth between $34 & $37 billion]
Whichever one goes might make the others think fast.
Thus, a few birds, one stone. Oh! & tidy up Walmart salaries. Today.
Actually, scratch that. Tidy your third world workers salaries today.
You can fix your employees up tomorrow.

2. A Koch brother is next. [$40 billion each]
Again it doesn’t matter which.
(supposedly pronounced “Coke”, we know the truth)
One less sociopath in the world, is always welcome.
We’re just deregulating a few pesky wealth hoarders.

3. Although ex-Aussie Murdoch [$13.5 billion] is a relative minnow,
eliminating him early on could have nice knock on effects.
Watch the rabid Fox Newsrabbit “journalists”
fear monger their way out of that one.
Make sure an American Redistributes old Rupe
(They do, after all, have the right to bear arms)

4. Putin is in some lists as having a secret $70 billion in assets.
Not sure if it’s true, but ditto for knock on effects.
Can anyone say Crimea?

5. Ingvar Kamprad [$53 billion] is next. Probably a nice guy,
but your top five position is for bringing us IKEA.

The rest of the list will be released, 1 week from today.
Brace yourselves.

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.

*****

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

*****

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

*****

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

*****

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

*****

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 7 – Day Seven: circle work

One of the nicest things about NaPoWriMo, apart from maintaining the discipline required to craft an entirely new poem every day (as opposed to just tinker about with old ones, as is sometimes a pleasant distraction) is the fact that slowly but surely, every day, I get a couple of new people subscribing to this site, or people from all over the world who I’ve never met, liking poems I’ve written.

Under the tab <Stats>, there is a wonderful map which shows the countries of the world where people live who have viewed these pages. (Admittedly it’s a fraction less than 200 views, but that’s 200 more than a week ago, so I’m pretty chuffed!) Thanks to the fact I have hits from Canada, the US & Australia I have been viewed from countries which together occupy around a third of the world’s land mass! If only I get Russia onboard, I’d be halfway to global domination. (Spain & Colombia help too!)

But I am digressing a little again (unusual). The plus side to people viewing my work, is I’m seeing wonderful work by other poets, writers, bloggers & artists. Today’s poem is inspired by the artwork of one of those folks who’s like several of my contributions.

M. Funk is an artist / photographer who works in France & Germany. I followed their link to discover a site full of gorgeous photographs. Of particular beauty & interest to me were 4 images on a page called Le Carrousel.

I immediately had an idea for a poem but didn’t start writing it till today, when I received permission to use the image as a launch pad for a poetic response. I’m curious to know whether my interpretation reflects their intention behind the photos. And any other readers thoughts/impressions as well…

vicious circle

warm lit with fairy lights, everywhere mirrored
gilt with gold
gaudy with glossy colour
the stuff of childhood dreams
wild magic circles
callously caging a fantastical menagerie
raging horses, zebras, unicorns,
griffins, dragons, giraffes,
cherubs, nymphs, mermaids, dolphins
& more …

yet look closer

every creature caught on edge
seconds before stampede breaks out
nostrils flared, heads raised
eternal rigor mortis
bit back, mouth grimacing
perpetual rictus on frozen faces
glass eyes of horror
knowing they’ll be forever
circling

… round & round & round …
… & round & round & round …
… & round & round & round …

*****

Image: M. Funk http://mfunkart.eu/?p=1225

FOOTNOTE: If you like what you’ve read, feel free to subscribe, comment below, or share this page with your friends. I have only had this blog running a few days (Day 1 of NaPoWriMo 2013 doesn’t really count), but it’s been lovely getting notified of folks liking, adding & visiting the site.

April 6 – Day Six: SUNDAY SILLY (part i) [Nonsense poems – The Limerick]

I’ve decided that each Sunday I’m going to have a bit of fun (hence Sunday Sillies).

As a child I loved reading Edward Lear, Lewis Carroll (obviously), Ogden Nash’s children’s poems & nonsense poems general. My childhood copy of “A Choice of Comic & Curious Verse” edited by J.M. Cohen … literally fell apart, & I was thrilled some years ago to find a replacement copy with the same cover in a second hand book shop. I missed out on Edward Gorey – if not nonsense, then at least surreal next door neighbours – but discovered (& now adore) him as an adult.

Additionally, my grandfather (who was a much loved Primary School Headmaster) used to recite famous nonsense poems to my sister & I: like Christopher Isherwood “The common cormorant or shag/Lays his eggs inside a paper bag” … & “One fine day in the middle of the night/Two dead men got up to fight” (which so impressed me I had to learn it — or a version of it, I’ve since discovered mine differs from the possible original, but meh) … & “I eat my peas with honey;/I’ve done it all my life./It makes the peas taste funny,/But it keeps them on the knife” by that author of very many fine nonsense poems, Anonymous. Interestingly, Grandad can still recite many of these poems word-perfectly even though he’s in his 90’s & alzheimers is starting to take its toll on other areas of his memory.

The reason I’ve chosen this topic for my First Sunday Silly is part of me is interested in trying to write modern day nonsense poems for children. Not sure if I can, not sure if there’s a demand for them, but there is my nostalgia. I’ve been re-reading Lear’s first collection Book of Nonsense.

Now given nonsense poems appear very simple & artless, it’s clear they must take many hours of editing & tweaking (something which I gotta say, appeals to me greatly). Given also, that I wouldn’t have many hours to tweak & edit today, I went a simpler route, preferring to craft many off the cuff ones, rather than one perfect one. I had a blast, writing em at the computer, in the shower, on the ipad, driving, in a friend’s kitchen.

As you discovered in Day 2’s poem, The_Hunter’s Hearts, I play an online game involving good food loving, pipeweed smoking, little people who live in New Zealand … with a wonderful group of people (some of whom possibly know me better than some of my RL friends – despite us never having met!). We have character names, & online personalities which may be very different to our real ones (though I suspect most of us are surprisingly honest online – & play the game, just as we live our lives).

Often the first thing you ask is “where you from”, “what do you do?” (as in life). Hence I am known as Blad the Poet. Blad the Sexy, Blad the Witty, but most commonly as Blad the FatLazyArseBastardWhoWon’tFarm, but I digress. So all I know about some people is where they’re from & one or two quirks. Others I know in much more detail & depth. All of which leads to limericks.

The Pedia of Wik describes them thus: “short, humorous, often ribald or nonsense poem … with a strict rhyme scheme (AABBA), which is sometimes obscene with humorous intent. Gershon Legman (editor of a comprehensive Limerick anthology) held that the true limerick is always obscene; from a folkloric point of view, the form is essentially transgressive; violation of taboo is part of its function.”

So! My MMORPG colleagues from round the world are henceforth conscripted to be today’s subjects. Wherever possible, I use their actual home town, (sometimes their character name stands in for a place) & as many tidbits of information about them as I can squeeze into five lines. Some are borderline obscene, some are in the next state obscene, & hopefully there’s not too many which are clean, hence boring. However, some are blatant lies – no offence is intended to my lovely digital friends. {I’m particularly concerned by offending my Turkish friend, who’s nose is unquestionably cute in RL, but somewhat larger in my limerickising of her. I’m also worried about my Malaysian friend because she’s got no sense of humour (She does) [Not really, I’m just saying that to keep her happy.] No really, she does… – bwahahahaha. }

Unlike Lear, who usually has a variant of the first line ending as his last line, I’ve opted for some extra space to make a third rhyme.

Lurky Merc Limericks

There was a young woman from Charlotte
Who thought herself quite a pretty starlet
But if the truth be told
She was actually quite old
Whose favourite colour was certainly scarlet

There was a young lady from Lindsay
Whose prom dress was really quite flimsy
When off it flew
She cried what can you do
& pranced round in her birthday whimsy

There was a young boy from Hunter
Whose manner couldn’t be any blunter
Some railed he’s rude
Others called him crude
But I find him a funny wee grunter (*this wasn’t the rhyme I wanted to use)

There was an old man from Vanly
Who was as old as a man can be
He claimed forty-four
But was really much more
Looking closer to one hundred an’ three

There was a man who lived in Paris
Pronounced how the French do, oui
To give himself cheer
He drank lots of beer
So he constantly wanted to wee

There was a young lawyer from Kuala Lumpur
Whose sense of humour was sadly quite poor
Despite lots of jokes
No laughter she broke
For her no ROFL-ROFLing on the floor

There was a young girl from Istanbul
To whom nature was really quite cruel
Pretty as a rose
But an oversized nose
& a propensity to continually drool

There was a lonely man from near Perth
One of best practitioners on earth
All day he would spank
The rest he would wank
Pleasuring himself for all he was worth

There was a young couple from Kay
On the phone they always did play
They once went away
For a tropic holiday
& sadly all day had nothing to say

There was a wild man from Moscow
Who out on the oil rigs would go
4 weeks & no game
Would drive us insane
How he does it none of us know

There was a pushy man from Argie
A Canadian particularly bargie
You’d think him polite
But that wouldn’t be right
Like a rhino he always would chargie

There was a crazy young man from New York
My god the gibberish he’d talk
As mad as can Bee
His mind set free
Take a gawk at my porkcork brought by the stork

The was a hungry man from Louisiana
Who had absolutely no manners
All the candy he’d nick
So you’d have to be quick
Before he seized all the manna

There was a young man from Penistone
Whose, um, ah stuff it I’m going home
Why do you ask
Don’t take me to task
There ain’t nothing funny about Penistone

There was a young man from Sake
Who drank every day till he ached
From passing the beer
He drank every year
He wore out his poor trouser snake

There was a young girl from Bander
To stoopid boys she would not pander
She’d cut off their balls
Then make them crawls
Making flocks of geese from ganders

There was a young man from Blad
All the ladies thought he was rad
Unbearably cute
& sexy to boot
(& if you believe that clearly you’re mad)

Image: moi

IF ANYONE KNOWS HOW TO MAKE LINES 3&4 INDENT, PLEASE ADVISE. I TRIED   & <pre> & GOT LOST TRYING TO EDIT css. Clearly I’m not html writer! But I’ve spent 3 hours on it now, & am tired.

she doesn’t heehee

April 5 – Day Five: modern day celebrations

Although it’s posted a few hours late, this poem was definitely written yesterday. (As Deb Dawson can attest — I was writing it while watched Tom Cruise play, well, um, Tom Cruise, in “Minority Report”.)

A full day, a bunch of drugs (painkiller & hayfever, I’m not that hardcore), a late night & a wishywashy internet connection when I got home prevented an on time posting. Soz.

Once again, the eventual outcome was not the intended topic. It seems so far every day I’ve had an experience which goads me into poetry-attemping mode. “Today” (Yesterday) was attending one of the few modern day equivalents of ritual, myth, celebration, collective communion we still have as a culture. I won’t say much more than that. See if you can work out what I’m doing before the end. Locals are going to be at an advantage to international readers… (so apologies to those three people — hahaha!)

Coliseum of the Crow

like Orpheus we began
by descending
into the bowels of hell
our coin to pay Charon
given us by a bank
to compensate
friends who lost
everything in a fire
cross the Styx
find ourselves
in a deserted
concrete mausoleum
half a dozen cars
where a 1000 should be
elevated into the arena
inside the new stadium
before the gates open
strange to be surrounded
by such vast emptiness
where crowds are
meant to congregate
we laugh out loud
at the surreality

then a siren sounds
startling us from
our spacestaring
the rush is on
we are washed away
by damned souls
for surely we are all
damned … believing
in the cult of the Crow

The Coliseum & Hades: images: moi

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

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

*****

Image: Copy_of_el_beso_de_Judas

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

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

gareth roi poet boi

gareth roi's playful poetry place

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Tag Archives: NAPOWRIMO

April 11 – Day Eleven: out of nowhere

~ interlude ~

April 10 – Day Ten: something small

April 9 – Day Nine: a change of tack

April 8 – Day Eight: The OFFICIAL entry: verbatim

April 8 – Day Eight: 4 bonus poems

April 7 – Day Seven: circle work

April 6 – Day Six: SUNDAY SILLY (part i) [Nonsense poems – The Limerick]

April 5 – Day Five: modern day celebrations

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

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