Everywhere you go, always take the weather with you

Hello. I am posting two poems now, poeming two postings. They are both borne, originally, of an obsession with the sensation of feeling off balance, physically I mean. Following my obsession with eyes, I started thinking about ears, particularly the way the inner ear affects/ helps control our balance. In preparation for a poem, I Wiki'd and purloined lots of interesting terminology and facts about how the whole thing works. Then, the other day I was going down in the lift in my building and sort of over anticipated the point which it was going to hit the ground, i.e. stop at the ground floor, so I sort of semi consciously braced myself, because it's an old lift and hits ground quite abruptly. Having braced too early, I was struck by the sensation my brain sent through me as it were: Almost as though I could really feel the thud of the earth beneath me, but not quite - Odd. So then I thought that might be a good connection for my ear poem. There are also echoes of my earlier poem "Uniting Bullet", particularly the Russian doll analogy, that is chambers within chambers. In Uniting Bullet, the tiniest chamber was the part of the gun where the bullets are housed and in Breaking Too Early, the smallest chamber is the lift, then the bigger one is the lift shaft. In both poems, the bigger chamber is I suppose the space outside, which technically must be the atmosphere, is that right? I mean the air around us, which stops at some point above us, becoming something other, rarified. Beyond that is the stratosphere I think and beyond that Outer Space? I find the concept of outer space a bit scary; infinity is hard for my brain to handle. I like Paul Simon's lyric: "Spinning in Infinity" - I think I've used it somewhere.
The thing about the "bigger chamber", the thing about the atmosphere, is that it is prone to weather. Weather is getting to be bigger and scarier, as we all know: Tsunamis, earthquakes, hurricanes, etc etc. All quite apocalyptic and more often than not caused by us humans. As Bill Hicks said, we are a virus with shoes... Weather and mood are reflective of one another, thus in Death Warmed Me Up is the line "the weather had, up to that moment, been indifferent". One thing weather and mood have in common: They can both be unpredicable, often frighteningly.

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Breaking too early


a body within a body, within a shaft,
Knowing the elevator would hit ground
with an unceremonious thud, it being old,
braced himself, and for a fractured moment
the body's sense of itself in space interrupted
the vestibule of inner ear tensed, mid-air.

Russian dolls: Vestibulated, elevated,
descending, relative to space, outer,
inner, each defining the other, necessarily,
airily, impressively, compressively, rippling
outward from tiny stones to vast column,
column of air, calcium to atrium, bone to stone.

As the lift bore down, barrelling, balling,
the man's mind stalled, cast adrift momentarily,
ball bearings cast adrift, knees chuckled, swash
buckled, no metal rods did though, nevertheless
he was impressed by the over-arching timeless
marching of molecules, how it was stopped.

Once safely thudded, gravitational pull restored,
Another impact struck, while he the being was
still off-balance, still weak at the knees, brain
swilling in its own fluid. It struck that while falling
essentially, really, truly, physically, downward force
is all in the mind - All the while the infinity mocks us.


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It's Getting Realer

Infinity is too vast a concept
and weather too diverse
for the tiny atrium of the mind to contain,
for the grey matter to unfurl.

As the globe warms, the pace quickening,
mother earth angrier and angrier,
we specks are cast about and woken
from our ignorant semi slumber.

We, now so much more than the twelve tribes,
now The Six Billion, each a vacuum,
each sealed, deluded, individualised,
the outer infinity invisibly, insidiously closing in.

For the physicist will tell you: the perfect vacuum
is only a philosophical concept,
it is never observed in practice;
When will the individually-wrapped packages burst?

When will the vacuum packed become
the ransacked, get sucked back
out into the space void
backfilled, mere filaments in a vast lightbulb?

At a Loser's End

I am between holiday and work. I don't do well without structure... Addicts always cite boredom. Don't worry, I haven't taken to heroin or anything.


The Perils of Boredom

The benign enemy, insidious, creeping
transparent ivy, toxic as only nothingness
can be, can be and be and be some more
until, melting away, a cobra emerges, its
head reared, its name Danger.

Spongiform is this lump, absorbing of all
repressing quality, void of all imperfection,
or perfection, for that matter; spikeless,
toothless, but with every hour surrounding
more, soporific, anaesthetic, heavy.

As more cold liquid fills the arteries
its dullness convects towards the heart.
As the temperature rises, meandering,
at first until the chameleon, the serpent,
shape-changer whip-cracks, lashes.

Laying in wait, in slumbering potency,
the undergrowth takes shape, silent,
cowering with sinister smile, manipulative
as only neuro transmitting raiders can be;
hormone imbalancing, trojan, shocking.

Statesmen vs Action People

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.

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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.

Non Urbane

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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 London and New York

But in Mumbai and Mexico and Sao Paulo

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


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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.

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.

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.