goldbrained cauliflower conferences
perky carrots tickling earthy squigglers
nine spud furrows, blasted of slug, and
fed with juicy leaves, ready to sprout red gooduns
yes
on my poetry allotment I am prospero(us)
my fork is my staff, a pen
let's dig here together and turn the earth
and get the greenest, ripest word garden
and we'll make this common ground
for ourselves, no levying baron here
and we'll grow fat sonnet marrows
and ophey-tomatoes ripening
Honestly. I was in the van between the two of them. They're both called Tom. It's true....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tom A: D'ye remember the Liary Carroll, from Ballaghadereen?
Tom B: I do, aye. Fughin' wicked liar to the world, altogether.
Tom A: He was great.
Tom B: Aye, he was.
Tom A: Them was great liars in them days.
Tom B: There was, there was. Sure. There was.
Tom A: Jayze, I remember a time goin' back thirty year ago or more ...
Tom B: Arra, it was more...
Tom A: Arra, it was not ...
Tom B: Arra... Well I come over to England, nineteen sixty-six, the year of the World Cup, it was ...
Tom A: And I come over in nineteen forty-five ...
Tom B: You're that long over, now?
Tom A: I am. So. The Liary Carroll. I'll tell ye, it was nineteen seventy-four. I was doing a job out in Trumpington, tarmacking. And the Liary Carroll was up above in the old Green Man, himself and Johnny Ned. You knew Johnny Ned?
Tom B: John Ned from Ballyhaunis?
Tom A: No, he was from 'round your way.
Tom B: Was he? I didn't know that. I know his brother was ... wait, I think ... yeah, maybe he was. Maybe I'm thinking of Billy Hughie.
Tom A: I'd say you are. Anyway.
Tom B: Sorry, I'm interrupting yez. Can I take a sandwich?
Tom A: You can have some cake too if you like. The wife wraps them up for me, but a shot of tea is enough for me nowadays. I dunno. I cannant eat like I used to. Once upon a time I'd be roaring to eat. I'd have two breakfasts in the morning. Once when I got up, once when I got to work in the morning. Frying sausages and bacon on the shovel.
Tom B: Ah, yes. A little water on the shovel, clean it off, and then the mighty breakfast.
Tom A: And the Liary Carroll, he was in the pub tellin' the story about him saving the drowning child and St Christopher Lord Have Mercy on Him appearing to him, and Johnny Ned saying about the time he was in the army in barracks at the Curragh...
Tom B: ... and someone had put live rounds in the shotguns they were practicing with, out near Glendalough ...
Tom A: And one shot him right in the arse and blew one cheek off ...
Tom B: And him with the biggest arse a camel had ever seen ...
Tom A: ... and the comrade with him carried him across the mud near the stream, and he saw St Joan of Arc herself in the trees ...
Tom B: That was Willie Pat.
Tom A: Arra, it was not.
Tom B: Sure it was. I was seeing his sister. He was from Gort. She was, too.
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
I'm going to a degree awards ceremony at Ely Cathedral tomorrow. I can send you an MA if you like. Only thing is, it'll have someone else's name on it. Soon fix that ... I'll send you some tip-ex and a calligraphy set!
(Nawww, not really, I wouldn't do anything like that.)
On the Ning Nang Nong
Where the Cows go Bong!
And the Monkeys all say Boo!
There's a Nong Nang Ning
Where the trees go Ping!
And the tea pots Jibber Jabber Joo.
On the Nong Ning Nang
All the mice go Clang!
And you just can't catch 'em when they do!
So it's Ning Nang Nong!
Cows go Bong!
Nong Nang Ning!
Trees go Ping!
Nong Ning Nang!
The mice go Clang!
What a noisy place to belong,
Is the Ning Nang Ning Nang Nong!!
Horatio McGonnagle
Wore a shiny monacle
And had a kilt, and sporran made of cheese.
Its style was indisputable
But mice would come and chew it all
So now he scotch-tapes haggis to his knees.
It ain't gonna rain no more no more
It ain't gonna rain no more
How in the heck
Can I wash my neck
If it ain't gonna rain no more!:)
I Love That Man Dearly!
'..... Ah! A perfect illustration of the poststructuralist paradox. Does the signifier "Merlot" correspond with the 'truth' of the bottle I polished off last night, or do we hold in our thoughts a different "signified" of bottle-of-Merlot-ness? Perhaps we're dreaming of the same bottle!" -FinsburyParkCarrots
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots I'm going to a degree awards ceremony at Ely Cathedral tomorrow. I can send you an MA if you like. Only thing is, it'll have someone else's name on it. Soon fix that ... I'll send you some tip-ex and a calligraphy set!
(Nawww, not really, I wouldn't do anything like that.)
don´t tell me that my reward is the knowledge itself
:( :( :(
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Originally posted by exhale don´t tell me that my reward is the knowledge itself
:( :( :(
Today, today, I pick up a degree
In big Ely Cathedral, and my Mum
and Dad and sister all will see
me get that scroll. You might say I'm dumb,
But knowledge can be more a burden than
a great reward, sometimes. What's the great reward
today will be when my Dad, who's my fan,
and nearly eighty, gets to see me make the hard
graft of years add to a day out
for my dear Mum. They came over here
To England in the 'fifties. Round about
Those days, the working Irish toiled to find
a place when many people were unkind
to immigrants. Hard graft and digging down
and having to get on with things was life:
Securing a new house to call your own,
for self and family, were the peace in strife
For people who got up before the dawn
To shovel or to nurse. It's their reward
today when I put on that big long gown
and pick up my degree. It's their reward;
It's bigger than that, actually: It's
A quite symbolic moment, in a way,
a small way but a big way: It's
acknowledgement of how they took the day,
Those young diaspora in unkind lands,
And strove to pay their children dividends.
It's also my Mum and Dad's fiftieth wedding anniversary today.
Britney's marriage barely lasted fifty minutes!
From my heart, so deep, so honest, so true,
Even if never have met them before,
All my respect, best whishes, and thanks,
Their incredible love will live on in thee.
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
I dip down my big green fork
and curl up fatstraggling duckweed,
the multipigtailed mane of the mudcaked brook.
I pull it up now, my glutted fork:
I feel its weight on my wrists, my shoulders now,
And I fire the greeny sprawl off the prongs
with a neat, sharp thrust, high overhead,
seeing flashing liquid prisms
shower the heads of dropwort on the bank.
The thrappling slap of that ripping out of excess,
that choking dam, has the stream in ecstatic explosion:
Plumes of mushrooming water
billow, greybrowny in the ditch,
tumbling upstream, free
in a tapped gush, gleaming in sun,
and the watercourse's song's a happy folderol,
a flapdoodle ramble,
an undammed, reborn emotion,
a seaward sundancing pulse.
Bladderwort, honeyyellow,quivers in the glaze
of sunning June, my time for streammaking;
Voleeyes, shinyblack, dart happily, peeping
between belts of waterdock, and pinky fingers
part reeds in bold reconaissance
at the stream I cut for them:
I make
this babbling brooky pass for moorhens and young,
this highway pool for pike,
streakblistering past in a sunning riverflash:
I make text;
I make imagination.
there is a willow grows aslant....a brook
that shows its hoar leaves....out out....brief candle....
....they're asking me to prove why I should be allowed to stay with my baby in Australia, because I'm mentally ill......and they think I should leave......
....they're asking me to prove why I should be allowed to stay with my baby in Australia, because I'm mentally ill......and they think I should leave......
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots I dip down my big green fork
and curl up fatstraggling duckweed,
the multipigtailed mane of the mudcaked brook.
I pull it up now, my glutted fork:
I feel its weight on my wrists, my shoulders now,
And I fire the greeny sprawl off the prongs
with a neat, sharp thrust, high overhead,
seeing flashing liquid prisms
shower the heads of dropwort on the bank.
The thrappling slap of that ripping out of excess,
that choking dam, has the stream in ecstatic explosion:
Plumes of mushrooming water
billow, greybrowny in the ditch,
tumbling upstream, free
in a tapped gush, gleaming in sun,
and the watercourse's song's a happy folderol,
a flapdoodle ramble,
an undammed, reborn emotion,
a seaward sundancing pulse.
Bladderwort, honeyyellow,quivers in the glaze
of sunning June, my time for streammaking;
Voleeyes, shinyblack, dart happily, peeping
between belts of waterdock, and pinky fingers
part reeds in bold reconaissance
at the stream I cut for them:
I make
this babbling brooky pass for moorhens and young,
this highway pool for pike,
streakblistering past in a sunning riverflash:
I make text;
I make imagination.
...it´s so alive
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Everyone made a thread for Ruby (rarghrargh-brownstar) over on AET, and she's really a lifeforce that energises this ole virtuality, and marries that text and imagination with grace and kindness, always. I put this poem up over there, but I'll log it over here too.
For dat nice Ruby.
Ruby blue,
Diaphanously sparkling,
Makes a heart go rarghrargh
Farther
than all a universe's
goodlovegleaming
universestippling
stars.
Ruby blue,
a sea of love in an earth of brown,
spin, spin, spin your light
tonight.
if i could get my head around this little teaser..which i am at a disadvantage due to the heat....i would try and contest the incontestable does a dog bark though? its more 'arrrghrooor' but i like what you're saying *winks*
I don't live today.....Maybe tomorrow?-Jimi Hendrix
Originally posted by corduroy_vedder if i could get my head around this little teaser..which i am at a disadvantage due to the heat....i would try and contest the incontestable does a dog bark though? its more 'arrrghrooor' but i like what you're saying *winks*
Well, nephewmelad, it's all a bit Saussurean, really. According to this kind of theory, there's no inherent dogness in the word dog, and the word 'dog' only signifies the signified of that thing that barks or goes 'arrghroor' through its interrelationship with other words/textual units/signifiers in a system of signs, either constituitive of a closed sign system or structure, or in an infinitely expanding universe of signs in play. The relationship between dog and an extra-linguistic dogness is arbitrary ... post-structuralists might say impossible!
Comments
perky carrots tickling earthy squigglers
nine spud furrows, blasted of slug, and
fed with juicy leaves, ready to sprout red gooduns
yes
on my poetry allotment I am prospero(us)
my fork is my staff, a pen
let's dig here together and turn the earth
and get the greenest, ripest word garden
and we'll make this common ground
for ourselves, no levying baron here
and we'll grow fat sonnet marrows
and ophey-tomatoes ripening
{{{{{each seed a star for cassia}}}}}
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tom A: D'ye remember the Liary Carroll, from Ballaghadereen?
Tom B: I do, aye. Fughin' wicked liar to the world, altogether.
Tom A: He was great.
Tom B: Aye, he was.
Tom A: Them was great liars in them days.
Tom B: There was, there was. Sure. There was.
Tom A: Jayze, I remember a time goin' back thirty year ago or more ...
Tom B: Arra, it was more...
Tom A: Arra, it was not ...
Tom B: Arra... Well I come over to England, nineteen sixty-six, the year of the World Cup, it was ...
Tom A: And I come over in nineteen forty-five ...
Tom B: You're that long over, now?
Tom A: I am. So. The Liary Carroll. I'll tell ye, it was nineteen seventy-four. I was doing a job out in Trumpington, tarmacking. And the Liary Carroll was up above in the old Green Man, himself and Johnny Ned. You knew Johnny Ned?
Tom B: John Ned from Ballyhaunis?
Tom A: No, he was from 'round your way.
Tom B: Was he? I didn't know that. I know his brother was ... wait, I think ... yeah, maybe he was. Maybe I'm thinking of Billy Hughie.
Tom A: I'd say you are. Anyway.
Tom B: Sorry, I'm interrupting yez. Can I take a sandwich?
Tom A: You can have some cake too if you like. The wife wraps them up for me, but a shot of tea is enough for me nowadays. I dunno. I cannant eat like I used to. Once upon a time I'd be roaring to eat. I'd have two breakfasts in the morning. Once when I got up, once when I got to work in the morning. Frying sausages and bacon on the shovel.
Tom B: Ah, yes. A little water on the shovel, clean it off, and then the mighty breakfast.
Tom A: And the Liary Carroll, he was in the pub tellin' the story about him saving the drowning child and St Christopher Lord Have Mercy on Him appearing to him, and Johnny Ned saying about the time he was in the army in barracks at the Curragh...
Tom B: ... and someone had put live rounds in the shotguns they were practicing with, out near Glendalough ...
Tom A: And one shot him right in the arse and blew one cheek off ...
Tom B: And him with the biggest arse a camel had ever seen ...
Tom A: ... and the comrade with him carried him across the mud near the stream, and he saw St Joan of Arc herself in the trees ...
Tom B: That was Willie Pat.
Tom A: Arra, it was not.
Tom B: Sure it was. I was seeing his sister. He was from Gort. She was, too.
Tom A: Terrible wicked liar to the world.
Tom B: Aye. A great man.
Tom A: Aye, he was, that.
Name her and you get a trophy ....
have I won ?
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Heeheehee. Nope. He married twice.
I'll give you a clue. Her name rhymes with "trophy" ...
But, you know, exhale, you were right but you were wrong. Or, if you're an optimist, you could say you were wrong but you were right...
it´s got to be her,
but i won anyway
incomplete instructions prof. finsbury
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
exhale wins .. er .. something ....
at least...something
hahahaha
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
(Nawww, not really, I wouldn't do anything like that.)
"On the Ning Nang Nong"
by Spike Milligan
On the Ning Nang Nong
Where the Cows go Bong!
And the Monkeys all say Boo!
There's a Nong Nang Ning
Where the trees go Ping!
And the tea pots Jibber Jabber Joo.
On the Nong Ning Nang
All the mice go Clang!
And you just can't catch 'em when they do!
So it's Ning Nang Nong!
Cows go Bong!
Nong Nang Ning!
Trees go Ping!
Nong Ning Nang!
The mice go Clang!
What a noisy place to belong,
Is the Ning Nang Ning Nang Nong!!
i s'posed they'd have to be six footers, yeah?
Wore a shiny monacle
And had a kilt, and sporran made of cheese.
Its style was indisputable
But mice would come and chew it all
So now he scotch-tapes haggis to his knees.
His heart was all a flutter
Down the tracks came a railroad train
Toot! Toot! Peanut Butter!
Oh...................................................
It ain't gonna rain no more no more
It ain't gonna rain no more
How in the heck
Can I wash my neck
If it ain't gonna rain no more!:)
I Love That Man Dearly!
don´t tell me that my reward is the knowledge itself
:( :( :(
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Today, today, I pick up a degree
In big Ely Cathedral, and my Mum
and Dad and sister all will see
me get that scroll. You might say I'm dumb,
But knowledge can be more a burden than
a great reward, sometimes. What's the great reward
today will be when my Dad, who's my fan,
and nearly eighty, gets to see me make the hard
graft of years add to a day out
for my dear Mum. They came over here
To England in the 'fifties. Round about
Those days, the working Irish toiled to find
a place when many people were unkind
to immigrants. Hard graft and digging down
and having to get on with things was life:
Securing a new house to call your own,
for self and family, were the peace in strife
For people who got up before the dawn
To shovel or to nurse. It's their reward
today when I put on that big long gown
and pick up my degree. It's their reward;
It's bigger than that, actually: It's
A quite symbolic moment, in a way,
a small way but a big way: It's
acknowledgement of how they took the day,
Those young diaspora in unkind lands,
And strove to pay their children dividends.
It's also my Mum and Dad's fiftieth wedding anniversary today.
Britney's marriage barely lasted fifty minutes!
Even if never have met them before,
All my respect, best whishes, and thanks,
Their incredible love will live on in thee.
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
and curl up fatstraggling duckweed,
the multipigtailed mane of the mudcaked brook.
I pull it up now, my glutted fork:
I feel its weight on my wrists, my shoulders now,
And I fire the greeny sprawl off the prongs
with a neat, sharp thrust, high overhead,
seeing flashing liquid prisms
shower the heads of dropwort on the bank.
The thrappling slap of that ripping out of excess,
that choking dam, has the stream in ecstatic explosion:
Plumes of mushrooming water
billow, greybrowny in the ditch,
tumbling upstream, free
in a tapped gush, gleaming in sun,
and the watercourse's song's a happy folderol,
a flapdoodle ramble,
an undammed, reborn emotion,
a seaward sundancing pulse.
Bladderwort, honeyyellow,quivers in the glaze
of sunning June, my time for streammaking;
Voleeyes, shinyblack, dart happily, peeping
between belts of waterdock, and pinky fingers
part reeds in bold reconaissance
at the stream I cut for them:
I make
this babbling brooky pass for moorhens and young,
this highway pool for pike,
streakblistering past in a sunning riverflash:
I make text;
I make imagination.
that shows its hoar leaves....out out....brief candle....
http://www.spiritonline.com/cards/goddesses/ophelia.gif
...it´s so alive
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
For dat nice Ruby.
Ruby blue,
Diaphanously sparkling,
Makes a heart go rarghrargh
Farther
than all a universe's
goodlovegleaming
universestippling
stars.
Ruby blue,
a sea of love in an earth of brown,
spin, spin, spin your light
tonight.
A chreeperrrebbledeellle feereeepooo,
a reeeedeeedeee!!!!
A reeedpleeyeeareeeple,
a neeneeneeenneee a REEBEEEDEEEE!!!!
a-REEEB errr rooobeeeeraaaheeeebabeee...
wheeeble reeebeeeebayyyy
deeeeddddeeeeedeeeeee!!!!! Klkllwheeee!!!!
eeeeee, it's lovely to hear it!
yeehah!
arriba!
ole!
gigglin'!
ideal!
realreal
lovin'!
*spins around herself*
~~its better to be hated for who you are than be loved for who you are not~~
F.ZAPPA
Then the word 'dog' doesn't bark,
And if 'dog''s just a word, like 'bark',
Then ergo: A dog doesn't bark.
Well, nephewmelad, it's all a bit Saussurean, really. According to this kind of theory, there's no inherent dogness in the word dog, and the word 'dog' only signifies the signified of that thing that barks or goes 'arrghroor' through its interrelationship with other words/textual units/signifiers in a system of signs, either constituitive of a closed sign system or structure, or in an infinitely expanding universe of signs in play. The relationship between dog and an extra-linguistic dogness is arbitrary ... post-structuralists might say impossible!