Thanks, Barroom! The first three lines of both stanzas are tetrametric, as you say. The fourth lines of each are in trimeter;
their stresses can be represented thus: "NO/ JOYS/rePINE", "AN/DROM/eDA!".
How and why do I decide to write using certain formal devices, for a particular effect on the reader? Wow, that's a good question. I'll have to think about that.
Siberian women would sing together
composing as they grouped at the stream
washing their bedclothes;
and, singing aloud, finding wild harmonies,
they would shape a new tradition
in telling tales of their lives -
"Here we wash our bedclothes in the stream" -
their song a process of work on the subject of work,
to the rhythm of work.
If one woman added in the song
a witty comment about her husband
and his lack of prowess in the bedroom
or even a comment about her prowess
in somebody else's husband's bedroom,
they'd roar laughing and shape it all into the narrative,
always fluid, always keeping the poem going,
day to day,
Its elements interchangeable
with a collective life.
But in the cloisters of western thought
The individual poet-as-priest is lauded
and their works are hallowed as concrete texts,
Their vision treated as divine inspiration
Laid upon the mind's altar like a tablet of the Word.
Let all poetry be the song of laughing women,
Never ending in print,
Never fetishised as complete,
and alive for itself in the rhythm of collective work.
This is written in the Hebrew Talmud, the book where all of the sayings and preaching of Rabbis are conserved over time.
It says:
"Be very careful if you make a woman cry, because God counts her tears.
The woman came out of a man's rib.
Not from his feet to be walked on.
Not from his head to be superior, but from the side to be equal.
Under the arm to be protected, and next to the heart to be loved."
A friend of mine emailed this to me and well, just seemed fitting here so, I thought I'd send it on in.
I say, keep her next to your heart and start counting the ways you can make her smile!
Forget your perfect offering, there is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in. - Leonard Cohen
I´ve read this short passage some time ago
but I´ve always wondered, if a man would ever notice it
and look at it not from a male´s point of view...
thanks for reminding
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.
Clouds shape her mood, and the music
shapes in the blue sky timeless motion.
She has tears in her eyes
and whispers
My love, I'm dancing.
How the clouds form now to the way we feel together
in our pre dawn sunlight dancing
'..... 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
Clouds shape her mood, and the music
shapes in the blue sky timeless motion.
She has tears in her eyes
and whispers
My love, I'm dancing.
How the clouds form now to the way we feel together
in our pre dawn sunlight dancing
Clouds mirror their mirroring mood
Shaping a weave of gold in electric predawn blue.
He too weeps in joy
and whispers
Oh my love, I will dance with you.
Yes, the clouds form now to the way we feel together,
bathed by the red dawn sun, dancing into
noon glory.
How do crystals come?
A Pyrite cube? An octahedron? Diamond crystal?
How, such symmetries?
Our medium, they say is flatness,
Flatness stacks atoms to design:
"Arab mathematics knew this fact":
But here, see, closer:
flatness is a vista
Curving interminably.
Universes inside universes
Shine constellations of oeiliads and lovers' breaths
within each fractal gleam of a gem in a hand
passing waves to eye and ear and body.
And in the form of a Raphael,
Madonna and child are perfect grace:
line indissoluble, colour suggesting atoms of infinite shape,
Shaping space itself into order unbounded.
And in the celestial there is yearning
for rebirth in relocation, not fixing of absolutes:
the rebirth of stars and satellites,
the pulling of new gravities,
the changing of orbits.
The pull of love from flatness to curves:
Love as repatterning atoms.
The boots are in the back of the van
and the shovel and the drag
and the gloves
and the saw
now I'm ready
go down the bank back to front
edge in the water
mind the wasps
now start digging the cress out
on the fork
hear the water sploshing out of the forkful
now throw it up get a good swing
hup
fire it up ten feet
mind the path above
that's it, keep digging
The clues are in the back of the book
and the index and the sources
and my notes
now I'm ready
go through with a fine comb and a highlighter pen
mind to dot i's and cross t's
on the up
Feel the answers starting to come now
now write them down get a good momentum
yup
fire it out ten thousand words
reach the path above
that's it, keep studying
My love is in the crux of my heart
in each systole and dialstole
and in my breath
oh I'm ready
go through my schedule working out the practicalities
omitting no considerations
on the rise
Know my future's almost at hand now
Yes
Move five thousand little miles
To kiss the grail of love
This is real! I'm dancing!
Cassia just emailed me with her response to my Siberian women's poetry poem and, as anyone who knows her work will not be surprised to find, it's amazing!
She says:
"Siberian tigress where the shirttails soak,
bedazzled emeralds in a jungle of glad,
look not
leap not
but, for, tumbling forever in the daffodilly day....
one verse, two verse, three verse
four !
here's to love !! Fast and hearty forever more"
But in the cloisters of western thought
The individual poet-as-priest is lauded
and their works are hallowed as concrete texts,
Their vision treated as divine inspiration
Laid upon the mind's altar like a tablet of the Word.
Let all poetry be the song of laughing women,
Never ending in print,
Never fetishised as complete,
and alive for itself in the rhythm of collective work.
i agree totally...
"never ending in print"
let the play begin
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots Cassia just emailed me with her response to my Siberian women's poetry poem and, as anyone who knows her work will not be surprised to find, it's amazing!
She says:
"Siberian tigress where the shirttails soak,
bedazzled emeralds in a jungle of glad,
look not
leap not
but, for, tumbling forever in the daffodilly day....
one verse, two verse, three verse
four !
here's to love !! Fast and hearty forever more"
Dat's our cass.
Oh, how I love dat cass! Spins smiles up in my heart whenever I read her schtuff! A beautiful response to a beautiful poem and shoot, you're both beautiful people so, I guess that's to be expected!
Huggles for the Pygmalion & Galatea bump, BTW! So very kind of you! Probably one of the few poems of mine that I actually think I did a pretty good job on.
Forget your perfect offering, there is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in. - Leonard Cohen
An oil painting by Jean Leon Gerome, circa 1890. I'm moved every time I see it, it's just beautiful!
A painting hangs on his wall.
A shield is looking out for him.
Various works upon the shelf
And the faces lean side by side,
Empty sockets,
Wide, gaping maws,
'Cept for the times he dons one or the other.
Gives voice to their empty opinions.
Puts it on for all the others to see.
But for her,
For her
He is always himself.
He is always just him.
His masterpiece!
How he has given his life's blood!
Poured out his soul!
But for her,
For her.
She needs one final touch.
He embraces his passion,
Soaks in all her beauty,
Surely he could not have created her alone,
How could his hands have possibly?
How could his troubled mind perfect his dream?
A kiss.
He desires just one kiss.
Hot, firey flesh meets cold indifference,
But cupid's arrow is aimed
And blood is coming from stone today!
He lets his passion flow
And feels new life within his hands!
All his love returned!
His beauty is of the same now!
Picture perfect!
Perfectly picturesque!
His dream!
His vision!
His reality!
Forget your perfect offering, there is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in. - Leonard Cohen
When she joined the cult her pupils grew
and stayed fixed in her eyes, whatever light
was coming through our window. She'd this new
way of speaking, too: what could be bright
sounding vowels, she'd drone, and she'd intone
Some fellow's nonsense on The Last of Days,
proclaiming that this Man stood out alone
to guide his people from their soulless ways.
The Guru was recruiting ones like her,
wedding them with lustful talk of Doom
and how, with him, their paths would never err
But lead them into light. Dark filled the room
at mention of his name, but still her eyes
Blazed away with deathcult last goodbyes.
I love you easily as effortlessly as some love a liquid glissando
from Yardbird's alto, blowing 52nd Street Theme
over the rafters at the Royal Roost
and I love you more
I love you easily as magically as some love a doubled up shuffle
from Ali's flashing white boots, carrying The Greatest around the Big Cat
under the spotlight at the Houston Astrodome
and I love you more
I love you easily as legendarily as some love that Eusebio goal
deep in the net from nowhere (that makes the crowds explode in awe
every time that bit of footage has been shown since 1970)
and I love you more
I love you as loudly as some love the wahwah univibe fuzz
from Jimi's Strat, that captured the sound of a nation imagining peace
one Monday morning in Max Yasgur's farm
She is Queen Titania, dreamweaving starlight gleams
Upon her softcloud firmament of summer moonbright beams;
She whispers honey lullabies where lovebees come to pass,
Into a floppy pair of ears. The Good Queen loves an ass!
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots I love you easily as effortlessly as some love a liquid glissando
from Yardbird's alto, blowing 52nd Street Theme
over the rafters at the Royal Roost
and I love you more
I love you easily as magically as some love a doubled up shuffle
from Ali's flashing white boots, carrying The Greatest around the Big Cat
under the spotlight at the Houston Astrodome
and I love you more
I love you easily as legendarily as some love that Eusebio goal
deep in the net from nowhere (that makes the crowds explode in awe
every time that bit of footage has been shown since 1970)
and I love you more
I love you as loudly as some love the wahwah univibe fuzz
from Jimi's Strat, that captured the sound of a nation imagining peace
one Monday morning in Max Yasgur's farm
and yes, I love you more
more, more, more
more than other people's 100 greatest moments
and more than that again
She Kisses Him
She kisses him in the breath of response....
This Life!
Overflowing in the abundance of you!
The wonderful shared events
you have single handedly
created in my life,
bring to me a wealth of experience
and unending joy.
I love you more than those greatest moments
and more than that again
'..... 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
Jack Straw, he moved into I. Rackie's Farm
Jack Straw, he moved into I. Rackie's Farm
the place kept this bad cat
and he wasn't pleased with that
Jack Straw, he moved into I. Rackie's Farm
He shoo'd the cat away, said "Don't come back"
He shoo'd the cat away, said "Don't come back,
I've brought my own cat here
So off you go, cat, disappear!"
He shoo'd the cat away, said "Don't come back."
Well, rats came out the haystacks and the barns
Rats came out the haystacks and the barns
Ate everything in sight
Except the crops that had the blight
Rats came out the haystacks and the barns
His cat just cowered in his kitchen door
His cat just cowered in his kitchen door
And when a rat came near
He screeched and hollered, crazed in fear
His cat just cowered in the kitchen door
Now Jack Straw, he wants the old cat back again
Jack Straw, he wants the old cat back again
He says, "Well, yes, I was hasty;
This farm needs a cat that's nasty":
Jack Straw, he'll get the old cat back again.
Bee Eee girl, you're gonna fly
on a honey glade green in the blue of July
With the buzz of a happy heart loving like new
And the gleams of the river a-sparkle for you
Hired bikes careen down King's Parade
in eights and nines; and parties block the path
to pose for photos. When I try to wade
through this, I walk ellipses. I hear Plath
and Marlowe mentioned by one group. I hear
a reference to Ventris. Tourist guides
and chauffeur punts approach and wave me near,
But I've grown up with Cambridge river rides.
I've grown up with Cambridge river rides,
that's true, but what I share with those who come
from elsewhere is how this old city glides
above our hearts, not touching, never home.
We walk along pretend peripheries,
Negotiating faceless histories.
A: There comes a time when breath feels like your own,
though once, you had to fight to take it down;
There comes a time to say that you have grown
full out of snarl of lip and brow in frown;
There comes a time when all your thought and mood
wants sound that's soft: a wind that sings in grass;
There comes a time, no more to stoop and brood.
There comes a time to let the bad years pass.
B: There is a neverending and a gasp
you hope's the last, but still you carry on
waiting for the rattle and the rasp
of death. I need the glare of desert sun
upon my broken flesh, where vicious flies
gorge. 'There comes a time?'. No, That's just lies.
This is a song lyric of mine from some years back. The narrator could be one of many people I've met in my lifetime:
Would you like to steal a self for yourself so you could feel real?
There's not enough daylight; I may as well sleep;
You can take what you like, I don't mind. Steal me.
Ninnygo nannygo nancing by: see me fly.
I could be that window; I'll be any light that you keep in your room.
I know I'm dead now; I may as well live;
Waterfall in the sun, there's no mind. Still me?
Ninnygo nannygo nancing by: see me fly.
Whose is this body? Nothing that made me can show who I am.
You've my brains in your body; I might as well copy
All that you say so I know it's my mind: Do you love me?
His thick white hair, an old king's, will be mine one day,
as will the long head,
the whiskers brushed with a comb,
or the cataracted eyes
that saw the important corners of others' stealth.
Grandad sat on his wooden chair
under the back window,
beside the open stove.
He had a 'thirties box wireless on top of the press
next to him,
and used his finger sense to work the dials
to find the News.
I saw him use a hanky on his face,
shaking his head to news of another Nothern bombing.
When he died his coffin was six foot six
and the Boys wanted to come down from Antrim
and fire shots over him, their hero.
They were turned away
at the dying wish of an old man
cataracted by decades of seeing too much.
Grandad told me, his Little Patriot
that the art of a true guerrilla
was to save the sight best
that will see around the corners
always
Originally posted by jboelhow Great Stuff,
I am slowly getting through all these poems, FinsburyParkCarrots. Your words create wonderful images in the mind and the heart....
I turned this morning to this thread,
To inhale the words, to walk few steps
Down the line of the magnificent expressions,
This is a hard day, I need some inspiration.
In an hour, maybe two,
They´ll invite me in and say: ´We don´t know you
yet. Please, introduce yourself.´
I am scared, and I need help...
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.
John, sitting in the lecture theatre with a shuffling, coughing class, thought it best to be patient. The lecturer was sidetracked near the end of the hour on The Waste Land, going on about the Osiris myth and Frazer's Golden Bough, at one point bringing in her own botanical observations and even recommending listening to Gardeners' Question Time on Radio Four. Well, in fairness to her, he mused, she had given some useful pointers to essays on the modern metropolis earlier. Yes, we must learn the diligence of monks in this academic world. John angled his open folder up, that had been covering his lap, towards him and saw handwriting, not his, on his page.
The pub after this?
He turned to his right and Nicola, sitting beside him and whose name he knew by the name tag on her breast, was looking deeply upon his lips, her bright blue eyes like globes of luscious sky. He noted the curl of her golden hair on her freckled cheek, the hint of a black silky brastrap on her sunbrowned shoulder under her top, and the soft deliberate stroke of her fingertips, along her khaki pants. Her light breath on his cheek sang low, Kiss these full quivering lips, now. His eyes focused on the lips, suddenly the centre of a delicious universe to be explored, enjoyed, tasted and indulged in protracted breathless headspinning starlight ecstacy. They mouthed, Kiss me, kiss me, and he was knowing he was moving, deeper, deeper, deeper into an exquisite dreampool honey dance of electric Nicola-ness, and he closed his eyes and, in that first pulsing shiver of lips seeking lips and desires plunging into oceans of response and touch and oneness of moment, a thunderclap roared upon the glass dome of the lecture hall, that desert of bookish knowledge, and discovering the sudden loveliness of love's surprise in the cloisters of learning, new and lively roots grew again in summer rain, without any help from Gardeners' Question Time.
Comments
their stresses can be represented thus: "NO/ JOYS/rePINE", "AN/DROM/eDA!".
How and why do I decide to write using certain formal devices, for a particular effect on the reader? Wow, that's a good question. I'll have to think about that.
composing as they grouped at the stream
washing their bedclothes;
and, singing aloud, finding wild harmonies,
they would shape a new tradition
in telling tales of their lives -
"Here we wash our bedclothes in the stream" -
their song a process of work on the subject of work,
to the rhythm of work.
If one woman added in the song
a witty comment about her husband
and his lack of prowess in the bedroom
or even a comment about her prowess
in somebody else's husband's bedroom,
they'd roar laughing and shape it all into the narrative,
always fluid, always keeping the poem going,
day to day,
Its elements interchangeable
with a collective life.
But in the cloisters of western thought
The individual poet-as-priest is lauded
and their works are hallowed as concrete texts,
Their vision treated as divine inspiration
Laid upon the mind's altar like a tablet of the Word.
Let all poetry be the song of laughing women,
Never ending in print,
Never fetishised as complete,
and alive for itself in the rhythm of collective work.
This is written in the Hebrew Talmud, the book where all of the sayings and preaching of Rabbis are conserved over time.
It says:
"Be very careful if you make a woman cry, because God counts her tears.
The woman came out of a man's rib.
Not from his feet to be walked on.
Not from his head to be superior, but from the side to be equal.
Under the arm to be protected, and next to the heart to be loved."
A friend of mine emailed this to me and well, just seemed fitting here so, I thought I'd send it on in.
I say, keep her next to your heart and start counting the ways you can make her smile!
but I´ve always wondered, if a man would ever notice it
and look at it not from a male´s point of view...
thanks for reminding
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.
Clouds shape her mood, and the music
shapes in the blue sky timeless motion.
She has tears in her eyes
and whispers
My love, I'm dancing.
How the clouds form now to the way we feel together
in our pre dawn sunlight dancing
Clouds mirror their mirroring mood
Shaping a weave of gold in electric predawn blue.
He too weeps in joy
and whispers
Oh my love, I will dance with you.
Yes, the clouds form now to the way we feel together,
bathed by the red dawn sun, dancing into
noon glory.
A Pyrite cube? An octahedron? Diamond crystal?
How, such symmetries?
Our medium, they say is flatness,
Flatness stacks atoms to design:
"Arab mathematics knew this fact":
But here, see, closer:
flatness is a vista
Curving interminably.
Universes inside universes
Shine constellations of oeiliads and lovers' breaths
within each fractal gleam of a gem in a hand
passing waves to eye and ear and body.
And in the form of a Raphael,
Madonna and child are perfect grace:
line indissoluble, colour suggesting atoms of infinite shape,
Shaping space itself into order unbounded.
And in the celestial there is yearning
for rebirth in relocation, not fixing of absolutes:
the rebirth of stars and satellites,
the pulling of new gravities,
the changing of orbits.
The pull of love from flatness to curves:
Love as repatterning atoms.
and the shovel and the drag
and the gloves
and the saw
now I'm ready
go down the bank back to front
edge in the water
mind the wasps
now start digging the cress out
on the fork
hear the water sploshing out of the forkful
now throw it up get a good swing
hup
fire it up ten feet
mind the path above
that's it, keep digging
The clues are in the back of the book
and the index and the sources
and my notes
now I'm ready
go through with a fine comb and a highlighter pen
mind to dot i's and cross t's
on the up
Feel the answers starting to come now
now write them down get a good momentum
yup
fire it out ten thousand words
reach the path above
that's it, keep studying
My love is in the crux of my heart
in each systole and dialstole
and in my breath
oh I'm ready
go through my schedule working out the practicalities
omitting no considerations
on the rise
Know my future's almost at hand now
Yes
Move five thousand little miles
To kiss the grail of love
This is real! I'm dancing!
She says:
"Siberian tigress where the shirttails soak,
bedazzled emeralds in a jungle of glad,
look not
leap not
but, for, tumbling forever in the daffodilly day....
one verse, two verse, three verse
four !
here's to love !! Fast and hearty forever more"
Dat's our cass.
i agree totally...
"never ending in print"
let the play begin
Oh, how I love dat cass! Spins smiles up in my heart whenever I read her schtuff!
Huggles for the Pygmalion & Galatea bump, BTW! So very kind of you! Probably one of the few poems of mine that I actually think I did a pretty good job on.
Pygmalion And Galatea
An oil painting by Jean Leon Gerome, circa 1890. I'm moved every time I see it, it's just beautiful!
A painting hangs on his wall.
A shield is looking out for him.
Various works upon the shelf
And the faces lean side by side,
Empty sockets,
Wide, gaping maws,
'Cept for the times he dons one or the other.
Gives voice to their empty opinions.
Puts it on for all the others to see.
But for her,
For her
He is always himself.
He is always just him.
His masterpiece!
How he has given his life's blood!
Poured out his soul!
But for her,
For her.
She needs one final touch.
He embraces his passion,
Soaks in all her beauty,
Surely he could not have created her alone,
How could his hands have possibly?
How could his troubled mind perfect his dream?
A kiss.
He desires just one kiss.
Hot, firey flesh meets cold indifference,
But cupid's arrow is aimed
And blood is coming from stone today!
He lets his passion flow
And feels new life within his hands!
All his love returned!
His beauty is of the same now!
Picture perfect!
Perfectly picturesque!
His dream!
His vision!
His reality!
and stayed fixed in her eyes, whatever light
was coming through our window. She'd this new
way of speaking, too: what could be bright
sounding vowels, she'd drone, and she'd intone
Some fellow's nonsense on The Last of Days,
proclaiming that this Man stood out alone
to guide his people from their soulless ways.
The Guru was recruiting ones like her,
wedding them with lustful talk of Doom
and how, with him, their paths would never err
But lead them into light. Dark filled the room
at mention of his name, but still her eyes
Blazed away with deathcult last goodbyes.
from Yardbird's alto, blowing 52nd Street Theme
over the rafters at the Royal Roost
and I love you more
I love you easily as magically as some love a doubled up shuffle
from Ali's flashing white boots, carrying The Greatest around the Big Cat
under the spotlight at the Houston Astrodome
and I love you more
I love you easily as legendarily as some love that Eusebio goal
deep in the net from nowhere (that makes the crowds explode in awe
every time that bit of footage has been shown since 1970)
and I love you more
I love you as loudly as some love the wahwah univibe fuzz
from Jimi's Strat, that captured the sound of a nation imagining peace
one Monday morning in Max Yasgur's farm
and yes, I love you more
more, more, more
more than other people's 100 greatest moments
and more than that again
Upon her softcloud firmament of summer moonbright beams;
She whispers honey lullabies where lovebees come to pass,
Into a floppy pair of ears. The Good Queen loves an ass!
She Kisses Him
She kisses him in the breath of response....
This Life!
Overflowing in the abundance of you!
The wonderful shared events
you have single handedly
created in my life,
bring to me a wealth of experience
and unending joy.
I love you more than those greatest moments
and more than that again
Jack Straw, he moved into I. Rackie's Farm
Jack Straw, he moved into I. Rackie's Farm
the place kept this bad cat
and he wasn't pleased with that
Jack Straw, he moved into I. Rackie's Farm
He shoo'd the cat away, said "Don't come back"
He shoo'd the cat away, said "Don't come back,
I've brought my own cat here
So off you go, cat, disappear!"
He shoo'd the cat away, said "Don't come back."
Well, rats came out the haystacks and the barns
Rats came out the haystacks and the barns
Ate everything in sight
Except the crops that had the blight
Rats came out the haystacks and the barns
His cat just cowered in his kitchen door
His cat just cowered in his kitchen door
And when a rat came near
He screeched and hollered, crazed in fear
His cat just cowered in the kitchen door
Now Jack Straw, he wants the old cat back again
Jack Straw, he wants the old cat back again
He says, "Well, yes, I was hasty;
This farm needs a cat that's nasty":
Jack Straw, he'll get the old cat back again.
*sigh*
I'd say have a fabulous day but I'm sure you already are!
on a honey glade green in the blue of July
With the buzz of a happy heart loving like new
And the gleams of the river a-sparkle for you
Bee Eee girl
You're our girl
Bee Eee girl
You're our girl
in eights and nines; and parties block the path
to pose for photos. When I try to wade
through this, I walk ellipses. I hear Plath
and Marlowe mentioned by one group. I hear
a reference to Ventris. Tourist guides
and chauffeur punts approach and wave me near,
But I've grown up with Cambridge river rides.
I've grown up with Cambridge river rides,
that's true, but what I share with those who come
from elsewhere is how this old city glides
above our hearts, not touching, never home.
We walk along pretend peripheries,
Negotiating faceless histories.
though once, you had to fight to take it down;
There comes a time to say that you have grown
full out of snarl of lip and brow in frown;
There comes a time when all your thought and mood
wants sound that's soft: a wind that sings in grass;
There comes a time, no more to stoop and brood.
There comes a time to let the bad years pass.
B: There is a neverending and a gasp
you hope's the last, but still you carry on
waiting for the rattle and the rasp
of death. I need the glare of desert sun
upon my broken flesh, where vicious flies
gorge. 'There comes a time?'. No, That's just lies.
Would you like to steal a self for yourself so you could feel real?
There's not enough daylight; I may as well sleep;
You can take what you like, I don't mind. Steal me.
Ninnygo nannygo nancing by: see me fly.
I could be that window; I'll be any light that you keep in your room.
I know I'm dead now; I may as well live;
Waterfall in the sun, there's no mind. Still me?
Ninnygo nannygo nancing by: see me fly.
Whose is this body? Nothing that made me can show who I am.
You've my brains in your body; I might as well copy
All that you say so I know it's my mind: Do you love me?
Ninnygo nannygo nancing by,
Ninnygo nannygo nancing by,
Ninnygo nannygo nancing by,
Ninnygo nannygo nancing by.
as will the long head,
the whiskers brushed with a comb,
or the cataracted eyes
that saw the important corners of others' stealth.
Grandad sat on his wooden chair
under the back window,
beside the open stove.
He had a 'thirties box wireless on top of the press
next to him,
and used his finger sense to work the dials
to find the News.
I saw him use a hanky on his face,
shaking his head to news of another Nothern bombing.
When he died his coffin was six foot six
and the Boys wanted to come down from Antrim
and fire shots over him, their hero.
They were turned away
at the dying wish of an old man
cataracted by decades of seeing too much.
Grandad told me, his Little Patriot
that the art of a true guerrilla
was to save the sight best
that will see around the corners
always
maybe into a peace.
I am slowly getting through all these poems, FinsburyParkCarrots. Your words create wonderful images in the mind and the heart....
"Cause I can't wait to figure out what's wrong with me
So I can say this is the way I use to be" -- John Mayer
Thank you very much.
To inhale the words, to walk few steps
Down the line of the magnificent expressions,
This is a hard day, I need some inspiration.
In an hour, maybe two,
They´ll invite me in and say: ´We don´t know you
yet. Please, introduce yourself.´
I am scared, and I need help...
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.
The pub after this?
He turned to his right and Nicola, sitting beside him and whose name he knew by the name tag on her breast, was looking deeply upon his lips, her bright blue eyes like globes of luscious sky. He noted the curl of her golden hair on her freckled cheek, the hint of a black silky brastrap on her sunbrowned shoulder under her top, and the soft deliberate stroke of her fingertips, along her khaki pants. Her light breath on his cheek sang low, Kiss these full quivering lips, now. His eyes focused on the lips, suddenly the centre of a delicious universe to be explored, enjoyed, tasted and indulged in protracted breathless headspinning starlight ecstacy. They mouthed, Kiss me, kiss me, and he was knowing he was moving, deeper, deeper, deeper into an exquisite dreampool honey dance of electric Nicola-ness, and he closed his eyes and, in that first pulsing shiver of lips seeking lips and desires plunging into oceans of response and touch and oneness of moment, a thunderclap roared upon the glass dome of the lecture hall, that desert of bookish knowledge, and discovering the sudden loveliness of love's surprise in the cloisters of learning, new and lively roots grew again in summer rain, without any help from Gardeners' Question Time.