The following was inspired by the concept of feelings that are so strong they are scary. There is a running grammatical metaphor too. I have worked in language teaching for several years and am of course interested in language. My poetic linguistic interest, as it were, is conceptual, so that a grammatical concept such as state and action, i.e. state and action verbs, stimulates me. The terms Subject and Object do too; they, like state and action, are layered with meaning. The rhythm is influenced by Gil Scott Heron's The Revolution Will Not Be Televised, specifically the way he echoes; will not be televised, will not be televised - do not take an object, do not take an object.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
INTRANSITIVE FEELINGS
Intransitive feelings
do not take an object,
direct or indirect; usually.
State, action, they are.
Sleeping dogs, they cannot
they will not, do not lie.
Awakened rudely, their
will, instinct, raison d'etre
is self-involved, The Subject.
Though unseen, unheard,
as neglected children,
they are a flight risk.
Defying life's syntax,
society's plot, theirs is
a different course, coursing.
Hung on a timeline of
verb-rich depths, framed
shaded, contradicting.
Assured of divine right,
as arrogant as the day born,
self-appointed, holding court.
Their silence is raging,
Regal, high high above,
whether present or absent.
Whether complementing
or absenting selves
their potency outnumbers.
Their seeming swells
no pronoun is needed
active or not, voiced always.
Past, present, tense,
defusing, re-wiring, foot
-noting, copulating, paring.
Minimising, over-arching,
striking fear and stark starched
clusters, filibusters.
Do not take an object
Not to be taken lightly
or sprinkled or dusted over.
Not to be underestimated nor
held up by amenders, laying,
in wait or in vain.
Molesters, abusers don't
make a difference, don't make
us laugh, don't move us.
We shall not be moved,
flapped, shall not fly,
Risk will tempt us though.
Til dying day, last
full breath, despite It All,
the petulant pronoun.
Friday, 29 January 2010
Thursday, 21 January 2010
Non Urbane
content="Word.Document">meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12">
I am interested in megacities. I inhabit one (Buenos Aires) and like most inhabitants of a metropolis, I switch between loving and loathing it. Simple poem, with a cinematic tone, by which I mean that I imagine a camera taking a swooping-down shot, as in a movie. I was born and raised in north London, and am thinking of places like Green Street in Seven Sisters, amongst many many others, where immigrant communities bring a taste of the developing world to the city. Looking at it now, strictly speaking, I should think of a word other than urbania, because it sounds like urbane, which is out of place... What is the synonym of urbane...?
The Third World
Image from above
Swooped down over the vastness
A cinematic bass drum
Heralding the shanties
The teeming South
There are big pockets of it
In
But in Mumbai and
It’s unencumbered, let loose
This is real urbania
This is what we have done.
A Carousing Tunnel is Forged
This started out as a different poem, one I have recently re-worked. The "original" is called Why We Need Verse and follows the more structured first one below. I'd have to look for the exact quote but it was Bukowski who said that those who have to ask what the creative process is for penning poetry shouldn't be allowed to write it, or something - I'm para/just plain wrong-phrasing. Well, typically OTT arrogant Bukowski, but I do agree in many ways. One of the reasons I like him, of course, is that his writing is so very simple and unfettered. so, my point with these poems forms part of a common one for me: Cutting through the mind-numbing, uber-irritating stuff of everyday life, which is often the reason I write. Similarly, my own everyday inarticulacy is countered when I write a poem, though of course it's a classic case of I know what I mean. But because the context is so different, the content is too? Something like that. Maybe I mean that because it's lah-de-dah poetry, people give you more of a pass on the unintelligibility.
I love the word carouse, and would like to extend a nod to my Uncle David, with whom I associate the verb if not the action. Tongue in cheek, as ever, he was visiting me in Prague for one of his endless international conferences, and referred to the carousing that had gone on the previous night amongst him and the other elderly academics. Er, yeah, OK.
Bukowski's point, I guess, was that a true poet's words just flow unstoppably, there is no need for
editing, perhaps? Well that's one interpretation. I often just sit and the words do trip out onto the page/ screen and sometimes I leave it at that, raw material. But polishing and scaffolding are good too - A bit of legwork never hurt anyone, right.
As long as I'm quoting "Beatnik" generation poets or "Beat Poets" or whatever (I'm afraid I think the inverted commas are necessary because I suspect neither poet I'm mentioning would warm to being labelled), let me reference another moment I like. Ginsberg (Yes, I'm predictable) in the Dylan DVD No Direction Home (Yes, again), in describing the creative process, blahs a bit about what one does then adds in an offhand way Then you call it poetry later. Amen, and I would like to think that could be applied in other creative situations in life, whatever they may be. Hm, perhaps I could be like Damien Hirst et al and make a huge mess then dress up in a pretentious way and call it art. Yes, I think I will. Who's with me.
There is Nothing High About Art
In this hair-splitting world, arena
of back-pedalling splutter, rising
above is not the priority, over-under,
over-analysing paralysis must be
burrowed beneath, the mediocre
dallying detritus must be, for it is
foreground, over-ground, beneath
which a carousing tunnel is forged.
Seedy is always where it starts
slewing its sewery way to the crest
the volcanic peaks of beaconsville
furtive, subverting, versed in the ways
sped on by days of sucked-out life,
fomenting, strung-out, laid-out
slabbed, hung on a hook, fleshed
many a half-baked truth to the dozen
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I love the word carouse, and would like to extend a nod to my Uncle David, with whom I associate the verb if not the action. Tongue in cheek, as ever, he was visiting me in Prague for one of his endless international conferences, and referred to the carousing that had gone on the previous night amongst him and the other elderly academics. Er, yeah, OK.
Bukowski's point, I guess, was that a true poet's words just flow unstoppably, there is no need for
editing, perhaps? Well that's one interpretation. I often just sit and the words do trip out onto the page/ screen and sometimes I leave it at that, raw material. But polishing and scaffolding are good too - A bit of legwork never hurt anyone, right.
As long as I'm quoting "Beatnik" generation poets or "Beat Poets" or whatever (I'm afraid I think the inverted commas are necessary because I suspect neither poet I'm mentioning would warm to being labelled), let me reference another moment I like. Ginsberg (Yes, I'm predictable) in the Dylan DVD No Direction Home (Yes, again), in describing the creative process, blahs a bit about what one does then adds in an offhand way Then you call it poetry later. Amen, and I would like to think that could be applied in other creative situations in life, whatever they may be. Hm, perhaps I could be like Damien Hirst et al and make a huge mess then dress up in a pretentious way and call it art. Yes, I think I will. Who's with me.
There is Nothing High About Art
In this hair-splitting world, arena
of back-pedalling splutter, rising
above is not the priority, over-under,
over-analysing paralysis must be
burrowed beneath, the mediocre
dallying detritus must be, for it is
foreground, over-ground, beneath
which a carousing tunnel is forged.
Seedy is always where it starts
slewing its sewery way to the crest
the volcanic peaks of beaconsville
furtive, subverting, versed in the ways
sped on by days of sucked-out life,
fomenting, strung-out, laid-out
slabbed, hung on a hook, fleshed
many a half-baked truth to the dozen
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Why we need verse
Sucking the life out of everything
Take the fun out
Over analyser
Splitter of hairs
I like you a lot
I love you a bit
I’m not in love with you
Splutter, back-pedal, spit, stutter
See because it’s not this it’s that- Well,
It is a bit of that, just – What I mean is-
People;
People think we need verse because it’s art,
High art even, it rises above
Prefer to think of it as under, not over:
Burrowing beneath, furtively and subversively
Rebellion, fomenting in the sewers, seedy is always where it starts,
Strung out, laid out, too much wine and song,
Carousing its way to the volcanic peaks of beaconsville
So, you see poetry
Is just quicker, that’s all.
Sunday, 17 January 2010
True Smile
This one came about after I'd been travelling on the Subte, the Buenos Aires underground. I practically live on the Subte midweek and there is a constant stream of beggars, hawkers, buskers, blind beggars, blind buskers, lottery ticket sellers, etc, making their way through the carriages, many of whom are children. One gets to "know" as in recognise most of them. The ones asking for money all speak and many have rather an elaborate spiel. It's hard not to feel irritated by them. I am generally a very intolerant, impatient person and the ones I feel most irked by are the ones with the sob story that goes on and on. It's undoubtedly part of the strategy: If I go on and on and on, they're bound to give me some spare change just to have me shut up and move on. So with all this in mind, I felt quite moved when a woman with AIDS got on and did her thing. She was very genuine and people responded to her realness, giving her change where they hadn't been up until then (Even I gave something). She had a true smile; I'd never seen her before and haven't since.
Death Warmed Me Up
I was on an underground train and Death got on;
the weather had, up to that moment, been indifferent.
It changed when Death got on the train. When Death
got on the train, Death spoke and the chatter, the chug-chug,
the tunnel whistling by, all stopped because Death got on.
What we the chatterers think we know, what we think is
fated, it grabbed us with its power, it located our wounds
when we thought its wounds were greater, it located them
and sucked them out so fast we could hardly catch breath
and the sucking out was warm and the poison was expelled.
Choking up the indifference we were left with something
raw, something real and be it Life or Death or simply dust
is neither here nor there for feel it we could, as one of us.
She was here before us, a face, words in themselves nothing,
heard a thousand times before and in that same context:
In themselves just words and in ourselves we know not what.
She, with her heart and soul and cast-outness was all-seeing
and more genuine than a child and she sucked out the poison,
the wounds in us the same as the wounds in her, may God bless,
may God bless you Sir, Ma'am, they came forth as never before,
rattling change into her box and kind words into her eyes, see:
They heard Death's voice loud and clear, imploring, commanding.
Death Warmed Me Up
I was on an underground train and Death got on;
the weather had, up to that moment, been indifferent.
It changed when Death got on the train. When Death
got on the train, Death spoke and the chatter, the chug-chug,
the tunnel whistling by, all stopped because Death got on.
What we the chatterers think we know, what we think is
fated, it grabbed us with its power, it located our wounds
when we thought its wounds were greater, it located them
and sucked them out so fast we could hardly catch breath
and the sucking out was warm and the poison was expelled.
Choking up the indifference we were left with something
raw, something real and be it Life or Death or simply dust
is neither here nor there for feel it we could, as one of us.
She was here before us, a face, words in themselves nothing,
heard a thousand times before and in that same context:
In themselves just words and in ourselves we know not what.
She, with her heart and soul and cast-outness was all-seeing
and more genuine than a child and she sucked out the poison,
the wounds in us the same as the wounds in her, may God bless,
may God bless you Sir, Ma'am, they came forth as never before,
rattling change into her box and kind words into her eyes, see:
They heard Death's voice loud and clear, imploring, commanding.
The Melodramatic Now
Inspirations: A couple of ex girlfriends who shall remain nameless and, believe it or not, Johnny Ramone. Agog indeed -Fagpakit. Who me, melodramatic?
This is no Game to Me
Life demands confrontation and
The Grand Gesture; If not we are no-where
If not we just flounder, just flounder.
The grand statements we make bely our intention
I really mean this = I don't mean this at all
I don't know what I want = I don't want this.
And all the while, nevertheless, we await a saviour
A dear old friend from The Past, The Future;
To untangle the twine, unhook the nets,
cast us adrift and free from the prison of Now.
This is no Game to Me
Life demands confrontation and
The Grand Gesture; If not we are no-where
If not we just flounder, just flounder.
The grand statements we make bely our intention
I really mean this = I don't mean this at all
I don't know what I want = I don't want this.
And all the while, nevertheless, we await a saviour
A dear old friend from The Past, The Future;
To untangle the twine, unhook the nets,
cast us adrift and free from the prison of Now.
Sinisterly Good
I live in Argentina. It is very noisy.
Don't Forget Silence
Much like darkness
This silk-like substance
envelopes its victim,
python-like, not just from
behind and underneath but
curling over around and
most of all within,
sinisterly good, rich
in milky substance
base vitamin, soil
nourishing for the roots
tasty, a hybrid
of nature's own making.
Don't Forget Silence
Much like darkness
This silk-like substance
envelopes its victim,
python-like, not just from
behind and underneath but
curling over around and
most of all within,
sinisterly good, rich
in milky substance
base vitamin, soil
nourishing for the roots
tasty, a hybrid
of nature's own making.
I skipped the part about Love/ It seemed so silly...
Prepare to be depressed, though I am pervesely proud of the ending. Endings can be tricky you see, in fact often instead of being the going-out-with-a-bang thing one is conditioned to think they should be, they are mere trailings-off. Though Hegley has validated the abrupt/ trailing off thing. He is Maharajah of The Mundane and as such must be revered. If you dont know who he is set forth and discover him forthwith. On your knees.
dull
like thuds and unchanging drudge
misery drags one down, the quag
the syrupy mire where inner realms
of age old cranked down sageless
wisdomless detritus-filled mono
globular collected grime reside.
Of guilt and yes shame and
old pick up truck small minded
gloom I speak, it reeks of
unevolved low calibre lo-tech,
ridden by every slight disease
not a pestilence just a pest.
And in this sheer cave there is
a canvas upon which is projected
second guessed, reinvented
the spruce of modern analysis
adornment of spin doctoring;
modernity, parasitic and false.
for underneath the onion
below the becauses and the ah buts
lies a festering hearth, a busy hive,
an unreconstructed, gladstonian
never trove of deeds, blunt with
amoral fibreless slack bone.
deeds plain grey, plain stupid
un-dress-up-able, mutton
laced with lamb and thus the
product lurches out, grotesque
as a newborn sin, ugly in an everyday
way, head to foot in excuses.
dull
like thuds and unchanging drudge
misery drags one down, the quag
the syrupy mire where inner realms
of age old cranked down sageless
wisdomless detritus-filled mono
globular collected grime reside.
Of guilt and yes shame and
old pick up truck small minded
gloom I speak, it reeks of
unevolved low calibre lo-tech,
ridden by every slight disease
not a pestilence just a pest.
And in this sheer cave there is
a canvas upon which is projected
second guessed, reinvented
the spruce of modern analysis
adornment of spin doctoring;
modernity, parasitic and false.
for underneath the onion
below the becauses and the ah buts
lies a festering hearth, a busy hive,
an unreconstructed, gladstonian
never trove of deeds, blunt with
amoral fibreless slack bone.
deeds plain grey, plain stupid
un-dress-up-able, mutton
laced with lamb and thus the
product lurches out, grotesque
as a newborn sin, ugly in an everyday
way, head to foot in excuses.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)