One-Nil
FinsburyParkCarrots
Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
I started this about an hour ago and finished it about a minute ago. This is the first draft.
The evening went well, Jim thinks. They paid
him cash, always a bonus. Poetry
that pays. The reading flew. And not the staid
old tweedy lot you'd mainly get. To try
out all those newer pieces live was nice
road testing. And the girl sat at the front,
who mouthed out her number to him twice:
Should have spoken to her. Ah, you don't
Pass these chances up. That's what's at stake
in this: a lonesome gravestone. Pity the night
ended when it did, a little late to make
The Swimmers for last orders. Ah, the blight
of this old life: that words should be the curse
that keep one from good loving and the throng
of life out there. To write to make a purse
dries up the throat and falsifies the song.
He thanks the organisers, then shakes hands
and quits the 'net cafe. Coats and shoes
flap past him. Cold air breath streams past in bands
that smell of burger vans. Loud, banshee throes
of agonising wailing hit his ears:
Some lads, whose shouting out "One- nil, one- nil,
one-nil, one-nil" remind him of the good old years
when no-one read his work. "I'd party 'til
I couldn't stand, and talk, but never bore
and never talk of poetry. I'd swear,
love, curse, fall down, get up for more.
Then words came in the morning with my fear.
How dare these lovers mouth to me, how dare
these revellers of all nights come now to hound
me, left to walk alone these streets? O bare
face of life that mouths cruel, wordless sound!"
He slaps his forehead. "Thinking like an ass
again, old James?" Moonlight on his boots
makes a moment's poem. It will pass
when he looks before him and he roots
through faces passing for that prettiness
he saw tonight. And there she is, just by,
behind another cafe window, her dress
offpink, seamed with one red butterfly
sequined, a flash of memories
of Jean, his first wife. Pah. A young man sits,
just opposite. "Don't listen to his lies!"
He mutters on the glass. The kid takes hits
deep from his coffee cup and starts to mouth
something at length. The girl's eyes narrow now.
"Oh no. A would-be poet. Stupid youth!
Girl! Run from his sham, his flash, his show,
His verbless scrawl without a period,
His metaphors he mixes, his broad
fat brushstrokes that he hopes contains a god
inside his world view splodge. Run from that toad
and find a carpenter, a fisherman,
a coalman or a beggar, but don't fall
for someone with a notebook and a wan,
world-weary look and wish to offload all
his poetry on you. Get out of there,
live, start breathing, love, try not to care
about the Beat!" A pigeon raised its cere
to look up at him. "Tell me, does he scare
you, little birdy? Does your instinct say
That kid's a poet, summoning chill rain
over his lover's life? You'd run away,
dear bird! If only humans had your brain."
Jim heads through midnight crowds, and breathing in
he feels the river breeze upon his face
and reaches bridge still silence. There within
cool waters down below, there's the embrace
of lovers from high stars where no word
hinders kissings. Jim looks to the still
unrippling film of river. Night's word cord
to cling the eye to fear is cut. Until
the river ends, the heart of poetry
is nameless, moonknown, whiteblack; here
he knows in shadows where the song lies. "Try
not to make a sound", he thinks. "Not where
the light on water's all. I'll live from now
watching midnight water for the glow
of starlain lovers on the stream. And free
from words, I'll laugh, and dance, and learn to Be."
The evening went well, Jim thinks. They paid
him cash, always a bonus. Poetry
that pays. The reading flew. And not the staid
old tweedy lot you'd mainly get. To try
out all those newer pieces live was nice
road testing. And the girl sat at the front,
who mouthed out her number to him twice:
Should have spoken to her. Ah, you don't
Pass these chances up. That's what's at stake
in this: a lonesome gravestone. Pity the night
ended when it did, a little late to make
The Swimmers for last orders. Ah, the blight
of this old life: that words should be the curse
that keep one from good loving and the throng
of life out there. To write to make a purse
dries up the throat and falsifies the song.
He thanks the organisers, then shakes hands
and quits the 'net cafe. Coats and shoes
flap past him. Cold air breath streams past in bands
that smell of burger vans. Loud, banshee throes
of agonising wailing hit his ears:
Some lads, whose shouting out "One- nil, one- nil,
one-nil, one-nil" remind him of the good old years
when no-one read his work. "I'd party 'til
I couldn't stand, and talk, but never bore
and never talk of poetry. I'd swear,
love, curse, fall down, get up for more.
Then words came in the morning with my fear.
How dare these lovers mouth to me, how dare
these revellers of all nights come now to hound
me, left to walk alone these streets? O bare
face of life that mouths cruel, wordless sound!"
He slaps his forehead. "Thinking like an ass
again, old James?" Moonlight on his boots
makes a moment's poem. It will pass
when he looks before him and he roots
through faces passing for that prettiness
he saw tonight. And there she is, just by,
behind another cafe window, her dress
offpink, seamed with one red butterfly
sequined, a flash of memories
of Jean, his first wife. Pah. A young man sits,
just opposite. "Don't listen to his lies!"
He mutters on the glass. The kid takes hits
deep from his coffee cup and starts to mouth
something at length. The girl's eyes narrow now.
"Oh no. A would-be poet. Stupid youth!
Girl! Run from his sham, his flash, his show,
His verbless scrawl without a period,
His metaphors he mixes, his broad
fat brushstrokes that he hopes contains a god
inside his world view splodge. Run from that toad
and find a carpenter, a fisherman,
a coalman or a beggar, but don't fall
for someone with a notebook and a wan,
world-weary look and wish to offload all
his poetry on you. Get out of there,
live, start breathing, love, try not to care
about the Beat!" A pigeon raised its cere
to look up at him. "Tell me, does he scare
you, little birdy? Does your instinct say
That kid's a poet, summoning chill rain
over his lover's life? You'd run away,
dear bird! If only humans had your brain."
Jim heads through midnight crowds, and breathing in
he feels the river breeze upon his face
and reaches bridge still silence. There within
cool waters down below, there's the embrace
of lovers from high stars where no word
hinders kissings. Jim looks to the still
unrippling film of river. Night's word cord
to cling the eye to fear is cut. Until
the river ends, the heart of poetry
is nameless, moonknown, whiteblack; here
he knows in shadows where the song lies. "Try
not to make a sound", he thinks. "Not where
the light on water's all. I'll live from now
watching midnight water for the glow
of starlain lovers on the stream. And free
from words, I'll laugh, and dance, and learn to Be."
Post edited by Unknown User on
0
Comments
An epoch. I loved it. Thank you just doesn’t seem enough, yet it’s the only words I have.
Thank you Finsbury
:cool:
The evening went well, Jim thinks. They paid
him cash, always a bonus. Poetry
that pays. The reading flew. And not the staid
old tweedy lot you'd mainly get. To try
out all those newer pieces live was nice
road testing. And the girl sat at the front,
who mouthed out her number to him twice:
Should have spoken to her. Ah, you don't
Pass these chances up. That's what's at stake
in this: a lonesome gravestone. Shame the night
ended when it did, a little late to make
The Swimmers for last orders. Ah, the blight
of this old life: that words should be the curse
to keep one from good loving and the throng
of life out there. To write to make a purse
dries up the throat and falsifies the song.
He thanks the organisers, then shakes hands
and quits the 'net cafe. Coats and shoes
flap past him. Cold air breath streams past in bands
that smell of burger vans. Loud, banshee throes
of agonising wailing hit his ears:
Some lads, whose shouting out "One- nil, one- nil,
one-nil, one-nil" remind him of the good old years
when no-one read his work. "I'd party 'til
I couldn't stand, and talk, but never bore
and never talk of poetry. I'd swear,
love, curse, fall down, get up for more.
Then words came in the morning with my fear.
How dare these lovers mouth to me, how dare
these revellers of night come now to hound
me, left to walk alone these streets? O bare
face of life that mouths cruel, wordless sound!"
He slaps his forehead. "Thinking like an ass
again, old James?" Moonlight on his boots
makes a moment's poem. It will pass
when he looks before him and he roots
through faces passing for that prettiness
he saw tonight. And there she is, just by,
behind another cafe window, her dress
offpink, seamed with one red butterfly
sequined, a flash of memories
of Jean, his first wife. Pah. A young man sits,
just opposite. "Don't listen to his lies!"
He mutters on the glass. The kid takes hits
deep from his coffee cup and starts to mouth
something at length. The girl's eyes narrow now.
"Oh no. A would-be poet. Stupid youth!
Girl! Run from his sham, his flash, his show,
His verbless scrawl without a period,
His metaphors he mixes, his broad
fat brushstrokes that he hopes contain a god
inside his world view splodge. Run from that toad
and find a carpenter, a fisherman,
a coalman or a beggar, but don't fall
for someone with a notebook and a wan,
world-weary look and wish to offload all
his poetry on you. Get out of there,
live, start breathing, love, try not to care
about the Beat!" A pigeon raised its cere
to look up at him. "Tell me, does he scare
you, little birdy? Does your instinct say
That kid's a poet, summoning chill rain
over his lover's life? You'd run away,
dear bird! If only humans had your brain."
Jim heads through midnight crowds, and breathing in
he feels the river breeze upon his face
and reaches bridge still silence. There within
cool waters down below, there's the embrace
of lovers from high stars where no word
hinders kissings. Jim looks to the still
unrippling film of river. Night's word cord
to cling the eye to fear is cut. Until
the river ends, the heart of poetry
is nameless, moonknown, whiteblack; here
he knows in shadows where the song lies. "Try
not to make a sound", he thinks. "Not where
the light on water's all. I'll live from now
watching midnight water for the glow
of starlain lovers on the stream. And free
from words, I'll laugh, and dance, and learn to Be."
December 11th 2004
An eminent philosopher, she said,
taught to her a pier glass parable:
the ego is a candle flame, its light
radiates bright circles in its pass
across thin scratches in its sphere. She laid
down in prose, clear, inexorable,
how the random scratches under bright
candlelight seem shaped in the glass
concentrically to the candle's keep.
But prose might miss the magic of this sight,
as science without soul will often do.
The candlelight is Love, glass patterns deep
soul glimmerings. The energy of light
draws all within its simple orbit, so.
II River Prayer
Let the river beam my lover's eyes
December sunned, where in morning come
gulls making circles on the verging air
above these reeds from which I sit and peer
out upon the fenlands, black. Here, yes,
here I'll summon magic, calling home
five thousand miles of whispers from one, fair
voice upon brook motion from a sheer
silent field, southwestern. Let me behold
my lover's eyes five thousand times in wide
Washward rolls of northward riverflow:
Let morning hang its tenderness like gold
hair lain on my breast, her hair: Inside
the river, beam my love's bejewelled glow.
December 11th 2004
who love and hate, the ones who make a scene
sky broad. Arra. Give me earth. Mud. Dirt.
Brown mud dirt. I'll put my boot deep down.
There, ain't that like something that's real? God,
that I once thought corpuscles in my eyes
were ciphers, mysteries that love and hate
might read. Blah, dreams, those idiotic specks
of Truth that are deficiencies of sight.
Imagery:)
A whisper and a chill
adv2005
"Why do I bother?"
The 11th Commandment.
"Whatever"
PETITION TO STOP THE BAN OF SMOKING IN BARS IN THE UNITED STATES....Anyone?
indict them in some lie though they were far
away from here, go on, sully their name.
If they were lost they would not do the same.
get me out of here, I swear it, it,
get me out of here, get me, get, get,
out! Get out! Out! It out! Get! Out!
okay Finsburry, I'll lay it down to ya. Most of the time I don't like reading you, cause youre - well - a bit too much for me, a bit too artsy, a bit too academical even. But this one is just a-m-a-z-i-n-g. You should do this more often, you know
Cheers, pearlwax.
maybe it's political events,
maybe it's a curse: I've ceased
to care for niceties. There's dents
in me I made myself to cut the fist
that pounds away on me. I'll bleed
it, I'm so sharp. Please don't resist
the wish to strike me. See? It's just my need.
A whisper and a chill
adv2005
"Why do I bother?"
The 11th Commandment.
"Whatever"
PETITION TO STOP THE BAN OF SMOKING IN BARS IN THE UNITED STATES....Anyone?
Some truths are too poignant to ever reach fruition for the masses, some phrases too naked to ever reach the bedside table, some thoughts too swollen with their own greatness and constricted by the indecency of pointing out limitations in others. Sometimes you floor me Fins. Even if it doesn't seem appreciated, your words blow through the dusty streets of the mind long after they hit the eyes.
Sometimes it's a curse.
on the corner of a ring road
where cars get stuck in traffic jams
and seagulls swoop, lost
because they're seventy miles inland
but below sea level
and I can see four switched off floodlights
overlooking a stadium of a team that never wins
and the building work across the road that has stalled
and the dust that is making the windows filthy
and they've got four more years of Bush in America
and we've got a mouthful of Blair's teeth
and in December you'd think the sky was a big grey lid on cold stew
and agh, shit, I might be getting a cold
but my little budgie here doesn't mind being in his cage
he is singing
you should hear him threeble
you should see him hop
he's fluffy white with a sky blue breast
like a sun cloud
and with this little consolation
trebly over dull fog
tucked away in a corner with a song
perhaps I don't mind being old after all
at her, from grey potato water. Frank
would not be back in time for dinner. Gout
could never keep him in. No, more, he drank.
The clock's reflection: ripples in the mad
sink dirt. Face of years, a bowl of stink
and grey and promises, hot breath and sad
honey words when fists are thrown in drink
and sorries follow. Joan's potato knife
peels to bareness nothingness, a life.
I think the punctuation is key to this poem's greatness...
a pile of poo.. HA!
my writing skills are technical. you're way out of my league, my friend. i will do nothing more than enjoy your work. after all, this forum is free.
**kisses ass**
honest to god, trooth!
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
What? Poo? Poo? :( Nah, more like truffles
I liked "Winter Journal". I like poetry that takes you down and then, shows you that the simplest of pleasures can brighten your day, if you allow it.
Hee Hee! olderman....Fins is talking poo and then you say **kisses ass**!!!!!
HA!! hilarious BE!!
**olderman searches for the edit button and then remembers that it was taken away due to abuse.. olderman then celebrates memory**
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
and you are being too hard on yourself, face it, you're good.