Ophelia's Nun

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  • FinsburyParkCarrots
    FinsburyParkCarrots Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
    East Londoners are the greatest vernacular poets in the world. Have a look at the rhyming slang they use in their everyday parlance!:

    http://www.phespirit.info/cockney/

    Some of the phrases are hilarious, many are bawdy and others are deeply unpleasant (as a lot of common speech can be), but I think this site gives a representative and sociologically pertinent insight into a whole poetic culture as used in 'real life', in the South East of England.
  • Yellow
    Yellow Posts: 699
    this is how they "chat"?
    It's all yellow.


  • FinsburyParkCarrots
    FinsburyParkCarrots Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
    Originally posted by Yellow
    this is how they "chat"?

    Yep! The language is even more obscurantist than the dictionary site suggests: someone will say their plates are aching (plates of meat = feet) or that they need a new whistle for a wedding next week (whistle and flute = suit). And new phrases are coming out all the time, almost hour to hour, and people are collecting the culture now and immortalising it on the Internet.

    :)
  • Yellow
    Yellow Posts: 699
    how funny...

    gawd...

    are they having to explain themselves all the time?
    It's all yellow.


  • FinsburyParkCarrots
    FinsburyParkCarrots Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
    Nope! Everyone seems almost telepathically to understand the cod. Er, cod and batter. Er. Chatter.

    :D:D:D
  • Yellow
    Yellow Posts: 699
    battered cod
    deep fried
    and served up steamy

    :)
    It's all yellow.


  • FinsburyParkCarrots
    FinsburyParkCarrots Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
    Imagine you're in a bar, reading a book quietly on your own and the pub philosopher comes up to you and says:

    "(A), a smalltown loner in a small state and would-be PI, witnesses a murder carried out in his neighbourhood by a local small-time gangster and rumoured occasional informer; the status and police-relations of the killer are well known to (A) in a close-knit area characterised by organised crime. However, the local police decides to construct what (A) sees as a tissue of lies, when it claims the suspicion that the murder might be solved via investigations into the actions of an underworld community of "illegal immigrants", living in the nearest metropolis but also stretching its influence to (A's) area and duplicating its underworld existence elsewhere in this locale. (A) suspects that the authorities' claims are based ultimately on a wish to protect themselves. (A) has material evidence culled through painstaking research (all detailed in this story) to show corruption at the head of power and complicity with particular local and dangerous hoodlums.
    But, here's the question for producing a really satisfactory and interesting story: does he compile a case at risk of his life against the authorities and become the hero of the piece who shows the complicity of these luminaries in the dark side of society? Does he construct some public satire, like Hamlet's "Mousetrap", publicly satirising and exposing them? Or does he quietly create such persistent public interest in the case that such cleverly ambiguous questions are asked of the local force until they are tricked into admitting their folly? (The mechanics of this programme of quasi-Socratic dialectic, and the nature of the questions would have to be thought through, to work engagingly in any narrative situation.)"

    How might you respond as someone who's read a few books and knows the logic of narrative possibilities quite well?

    Just a thought for storytellers.
  • FinsburyParkCarrots
    FinsburyParkCarrots Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
    Do you ever get up in December
    at blacktangled five o'clock
    when winds howl a gallowside timbre,
    bansheeing you to your work?
    Do you ever line up with the others,
    For graft on the new motorway,
    Cursing God under cigarette smothers
    As you queue for the van and the day?

    Do you queue for the motorway daywork
    and hope you'll be picked for the job?
    Do you flinch till you're sick to your stomach?
    Do you twist at your ulcer's next stab?
    Do you climb in the van when you're prodded
    And sit in the back with the rest
    Not caring till dawn where you're headed
    But dreaming of dreams that you've lost?

    Does the dawn light up grey? Does the frost keep?
    Is the foreman longcoated and flushed?
    Are his eyes set to trip up your footstep
    As he rankles you (redfaced and rushed,
    and shovelling clumsily, shaking
    as shudders of blood in your head
    feed into your dreaming-in-waking
    the nightmare of working while dead)?

    Does the barrow wheel give when you're loaded
    and balancing ballast and sand?
    Do you laugh when you're Paddied and goaded
    For letting the grips slip your hand?
    Do you bend and backfill ducted trenches
    to show you're as good as each man?
    Do you carry huge sacks, on your haunches,
    just to prove than an immigrant can?

    One day, for sure, we'll be the pioneers.
    The ghettoed days look out to fenced off years.
  • exhale
    exhale Posts: 185
    No, but I walk through the crowds
    too full with biased opinions.
    Pleading with silence,
    defending whatever has left of my flesh.
    Observing the marionettes´ preposterous dance,
    while cautiously hiding the last drop
    of my blood.
    It is my last word before I´m being used again…
    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.
  • FinsburyParkCarrots
    FinsburyParkCarrots Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
    To be diasporic,
    displaced between two states,
    and to maintain a taught sense of self
    (the colony's mirror of the coloniser,
    allegedly the fracturer, the third space,
    for sure the crazifier, says Fanon)
    is not to preserve the last drop of blood
    walking the unreal city:
    this self cannot code-switch.
  • exhale
    exhale Posts: 185
    Some have learned, some never will…
    Some have said words, some never will…
    Some have performed actions, some never will…
    Some have bent their heads, some never will…
    Some have always been here, some will never get there…

    Standing in the middle of nothing, bottomless…
    Singing what they´ve sung before, why?

    It´s just me,
    It´s just me
    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.
  • FinsburyParkCarrots
    FinsburyParkCarrots Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
    And between the mind's binary of retrospect of individuation antagonised, and dreams of a future self, is nothing but the sound of the pulse of blood, just blood, which is, in feeling, the being of the flow of nothing and nothing that is abstract, and not a concept to be deconstructed inside the temples of flesh as word, but to be riverrised like a bold neologism remaining always the lost-chord nonword. Flesh made word, not otherwise, is beyond the words we use to name the blood, and into the knowledge of heart-wisdom from the black vale of words with little use, we will return. Blood. In this rush, this viscerality roaring as silence against my very words, is the understanding of nowness to explore in pushing language from within to the heart of expression. Our prerogative?: An inexorable, wordless, shapeless, selfless pumped harbinger of release from poisoned self-assertion; a hallowed no-oneness achieved between wastrel thoughts, sometimes, in the pulse of physical labouring, in spite of everything. Blood when listened to as blood destroys the rhetoric of self assertion, the thought of otherness, the clamour for blame, the clamour for revenge. The reading of the text of the sound of blood inside is the text of jouissance.

    :)
  • exhale
    exhale Posts: 185
    And between the binaries of future-memories and
    lies about the others,
    is sarcasm inside the temples,
    the inexorable,
    wordless,
    shapeless,
    selfless pumped self of no-oneness
    in the pulse of
    physical bestial satisfaction.

    No-one ever said anything
    before this razor cut into my veins
    an arsenal of coloured tears
    to fight the handshake of him when passing by,
    in the little world of worn out platitudes:
    This toil is the state,
    The word made flesh,
    and the rack that now became the present.
    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.
  • FinsburyParkCarrots
    FinsburyParkCarrots Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
    And?
  • exhale
    exhale Posts: 185
    was just a thought...
    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.
  • FinsburyParkCarrots
    FinsburyParkCarrots Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
    Whose?
  • exhale
    exhale Posts: 185
    that´s what I was trying to say...

    all ´the others´ weren´t afraid of sharing their thoughts...
    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.
  • exhale
    exhale Posts: 185
    thought you like word plays
    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.
  • exhale
    exhale Posts: 185
    Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots
    And between the mind's binary of retrospect of individuation antagonised, and dreams of a future self, is nothing but the sound of the pulse of blood, just blood, which is, in feeling, the being of the flow of nothing and nothing that is abstract, and not a concept to be deconstructed inside the temples of flesh as word, but to be riverrised like a bold neologism remaining always the lost-chord nonword. Flesh made word, not otherwise, is beyond the words we use to name the blood, and into the knowledge of heart-wisdom from the black vale of words with little use, we will return. Blood. In this rush, this viscerality roaring as silence against my very words, is the understanding of nowness to explore in pushing language from within to the heart of expression. Our prerogative?: An inexorable, wordless, shapeless, selfless pumped harbinger of release from poisoned self-assertion; a hallowed no-oneness achieved between wastrel thoughts, sometimes, in the pulse of physical labouring, in spite of everything. Blood when listened to as blood destroys the rhetoric of self assertion, the thought of otherness, the clamour for blame, the clamour for revenge. The reading of the text of the sound of blood inside is the text of jouissance.

    :)

    I know
    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.
  • FinsburyParkCarrots
    FinsburyParkCarrots Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
    I like wordplay as play, as a celebratory endeavour toward some realisation, fleeting or no, of achieving in sound the visceral pulse of extra-linguistic reality. I even like satire, good or bad; it has a morally instructive intention to deflate the language of pomposity. But there needs to be a deliberately indicated fracture of consonance, and a narratorial distance between the voice of the satirist and the voice of the object of the satire, for the impersonation to work as an act of aberrant, parodic decoding of a chosen text. Otherwise it reads unavoidably as a quasi-plagiarism and misreading of the original piece, which prompts the first author to rewrite their original entry and nullify the impact of the "plagiarist's" work.

    :)

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