Brim Black in Blue
FinsburyParkCarrots
Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
Brim black in blue, your eyes, storm shadow skies
of corncrake-whirling dusk. Your heavy gaze
cuts through soul window smoke conspiracies
ensnaring rooms of dust. You stare, you faze
bar locals with your eyes. Grim blue in grey.
Eyes, dead black rock ocean pools, slime shine
shimmering upon a flimsy fey
stranded face, sand grey in tide decline.
Brim black in red, your tongue, foam of earth
boiling from the lips of mountain man,
the years of plodding in the brimblack dearth
of mountain life toward these walls. Grim span
of muck brown thrown down life. Your words, your gaze
turn black beneath the window's dusking haze.
of corncrake-whirling dusk. Your heavy gaze
cuts through soul window smoke conspiracies
ensnaring rooms of dust. You stare, you faze
bar locals with your eyes. Grim blue in grey.
Eyes, dead black rock ocean pools, slime shine
shimmering upon a flimsy fey
stranded face, sand grey in tide decline.
Brim black in red, your tongue, foam of earth
boiling from the lips of mountain man,
the years of plodding in the brimblack dearth
of mountain life toward these walls. Grim span
of muck brown thrown down life. Your words, your gaze
turn black beneath the window's dusking haze.
Post edited by Unknown User on
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Comments
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Ballast rubble. Pebble sprawl. Grey clay.
Sand. Silver shine. Black shovel. Leather boot,
push the shovel down. Scratch, spray
silver shining sand, dig in, down, root
in, deep down through granule brown, black soil,
around red rounds of brickpipe, down and down
through layers of a dead man's thankless toil:
a man from Mayo in an English town,
a man who came to work and find a wife,
a man of lodging houses and of cold
lonely predawn risings to a life
of shovelling, burnt dinners and the old
weakness, staying out in Mooney's late.
Dig up a nothinglife, become its hate.0 -
Sunday night was the last night of the Folk Festival. Summery crowds massed in and out of the Guinness tent or sat down in big sweltering groups to hear the headline act on the main stage. Here where I was, it was the traditional yearly table jumping competition. It was in mid flow. A guy scaled a stack of tables eleven feet high and jumped from the top, landing on his feet to drunken whoops. One bloke with a red face and a Pogues top syarted swearing. He demanded another table be put on the top, shouting in a bizarre impersonation of Connaught brogue. He climbed it, wobbled uneasily looking strangely at everyone with watery eyes, shouting "Oooop the wesht and fugh the rest", and fell off, somehow landing on his feet in a dizzy stagger that made the ground pound under cheers of applause. The first jumper demanded the Pogue's jump be discounted as a lucky fall. The Pogue grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and growled, "Are yez troyin' te make a c--- out o' me? 'Cos oi'll make a c--- out o' YE!!!!"
Suddenly I realised the Pogue was my old classmate James. I called him over. He immediately forgot about his adversary and put his arm around my shoulder. "Richardeeeeen, oooooop the wesht and fugh the resht, ha?"
"James," I asked. "Why are you talking with your father's accent? Up the west, yes, but we were born in Cambridge, on Mill Road."
"Oi'm no Plastic Paddy. Oooop the wesht and fugh the resht. Have shome whiskey. The foinesht."
"James, your accent sounds more like Topol's in 'Fiddler on the Roof'."
"Was he from the weshttttt????????"0 -
That last one was about the way Irish diaspora such as I and my peers have tried to cope with being born in England and into two cultures.0
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"Digging" is amazing...full of bile and beauty. It seems truly felt, and harsh.
Going through a bit of an identity crisis, Fins?.........................................................................0 -
Nah. I'm researching diaspora and migration for postgrad research into post-colonial literatures, and I'm milking my findings and some old memories for poetry and prose. I'll admit it, writings about such topics are fashionable. If I get the knack of it, I might try and whore my work for a few ducets.0
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FinsburyParkCarrots wrote:Nah. I'm researching diaspora and migration for postgrad research into post-colonial literatures, and I'm milking my findings and some old memories for poetry and prose. I'll admit it, writings about such topics are fashionable. If I get the knack of it, I might try and whore my work for a few ducets.
No shame in that, methinks. Ducets must come from somewhere..........................................................................0 -
Brim black and blue is unusually rythmic for you fins, very much in the fashion of beat poetry. It's hard not to read it without snapping your fingers to a subconscious tune, and the images are off the scale. An excellent read0
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EvilToasterElf wrote:Brim black and blue is unusually rythmic for you fins, very much in the fashion of beat poetry. It's hard not to read it without snapping your fingers to a subconscious tune, and the images are off the scale. An excellent read
wow..you're right...hadn't taken note of the way that poem sounds out loud...snapping fingers and calling each other 'cool cat's...I'm a much bigger fan of the poem now for having thought of it that way............................................................................0 -
Aww shit, Beat poetry? I hate that stuff. But thanks!
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I only wrote these bits in the last few hours so I'm editing them. I wasn't happy with Brim Black in Blue really, so here's take two of it.
Brim black in blue, your eyes, storm shadow skies
of corncrake-whirling dusk. Your heavy gaze
cuts through soul window smoke conspiracies
ensnaring rooms of dust. You stare, you faze
red sun hope with your eyes. Grim blue in grey.
Eyes, dead black rock ocean pools, slime shine
shimmering upon a flimsy fey
stranded face, sand grey in tide decline.
Brim black in red, your tongue, foam of earth
boiling from the lips of mountain man,
the years of plodding in the brimblack dearth
of western life toward these walls. Grim span
of muck brown thrown down life. Your words, your gaze,
turn black beneath the window's dusking haze.0 -
FinsburyParkCarrots wrote:I only wrote these bits in the last few hours so I'm editing them. I wasn't happy with Brim Black in Blue really, so here's take two of it.
Brim black in blue, your eyes, storm shadow skies
of corncrake-whirling dusk. Your heavy gaze
cuts through soul window smoke conspiracies
ensnaring rooms of dust. You stare, you faze
red sun hope with your eyes. Grim blue in grey.
Eyes, dead black rock ocean pools, slime shine
shimmering upon a flimsy fey
stranded face, sand grey in tide decline.
Brim black in red, your tongue, foam of earth
boiling from the lips of mountain man,
the years of plodding in the brimblack dearth
of western life toward these walls. Grim span
of muck brown thrown down life. Your words, your gaze,
turn black beneath the window's dusking haze.
Fifth line of first stanza reads a lot easier now, methinks..........................................................................0 -
How about "Red sunfall"?0
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FinsburyParkCarrots wrote:How about "Red sunfall"?
might be even better with 'faze' at the end of line 4..........................................................................0 -
That's what I was f-f-f-f-finkin'. Cheers.
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If you're trying to "un-beatify" it then you've failed, but I'm glad you did, because I still like it.0
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Haha. I suppose I'll have to live with that then.
Hang on, I'll improvise a beat poem...
Dharma tomatoes
surf jive hipstah motorcycle lions
angels of jeep star visions
of electric night
and Venus
flicks cigarettes at an asteroid
to dazzles of Thelonius Monk
bebop a dang floy floy a boogie mon
and in my zuit suit and my flute
and my cute toot toot
on mah john the conquereror root
my Dharma feet
Pat a beachbum beat
down Venice beach with Corso
and Ferlinghetti even more so
uhhhh rooawwwrrrgghhh howl howl howl
shantih shantih shantih
Cheers, ETE 0 -
I think it's a "zoot suit", but I could be wrong. .........................................................................0
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Haha, it is. I got carried away in the flurry of bolloxologising.0
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FinsburyParkCarrots wrote:Haha, it is. I got carried away in the flurry of bolloxologising.
I understand. Beat poetry can make a man lose his mind.
I maintain a soft spot for the stuff because it was very in vogue during my formative teenage years (I'm not as old as that sounds...I'm talking about the early nineties); that's just what we were all reading and what was cool, so I still hold on to it as mine, in a way.
Most of it is crap, of course..........................................................................0 -
Don't tell anyone but I was a Beat fanatic as a teenager in the eighties. 0
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