Once again thank you for coming! And I hope you enjoy this momentary distraction please leave your comments or thoughts. They are most welcome!

Wednesday 25 May 2011

Down the Street



Hey readers, this next one is inspired by my walk today. Sometimes it's nice to write about more specific stuff. I realise that one thing I don't do much is write about very visible and specific events or if I do the poem is more vaguely inspired by them. 
Today I walked through my neighbourhood for two hours or so. Odd that you might think such a thing could inspire. I totally believe in the idea of a flaneur (french) though, basically the idea is of this figure who walks in the crowd, but he is not part of the crowd. In a very basic sense a flaneur is more concerned than anyone else with exactly where he is? 

Think about it how much time do we actually spend paying attention to where we are? Might seem elementary, but it really isn't and it's very true especially nowadays where we have awesome gadgets such as the iphone so that we can be constantly away from where our physical bodies are present. Anyway, I think a full rant about this is best kept for another day!

The point is I walked through my neighbourhood not the nice part where I live, but about a a kilometre down the street (a little less than a mile for international readers :P)/ It's government department housing and it's a very different life. Trash all over the streets, dirt instead of grass on the ground and up turned shopping trolleys. To be honest it really just seems to be an environment where people are forced to be. THere is a community garden where the graffiti unlike everywhere else is trying to paint a happy community picture, but nothing is happy here. Everything is old, tired and dirty. The people here and perhaps mor eimportantly the government has given up. 

My mum has always called it the land of the housos, and part of me was afraid as I wandered through it. Afraid of the unknown...but mostly afraid of being misunderstood. People are defensive when they're not happy and I was afraid that out of one of these silent houses someone would come along see me with my iphone (taking pictures...man that was sensitive) and chase me down the street. More than that though, I felt as though I was invading. It was such a sad and foreign place to me that I almost felt like an explorer and much like an explorer feels (maybe) I wanted to know everything, but I was too afrai of the curse lurking int he wind.

What can I say it was enlightening. I'm goign to show a few pictures. I think everyone should be reminded of the poor and how lucky they are...me in particular. I am so fortunate. Although I feel as though I appreciate it so little. Oh well, the poem below is just another relfection on my walk! Tell me your thoughts or if you have a similiar tale I would love to hear it.

How has your local neighbourhood mystified you? What secret part of your suburb has been recently unearthed to you? And perhaps if none of this applies to you, you might think to explore the familiar it might alarm you how unfamiliar it truly is :)

(BTW I will be going back and changing my posts, hopefully soon to include a picture of a path. The idea is that the blog is called "where shall I wander" so hopefully my internet will help me make this blog into a multimedia sort of deal!)

Down the Street

The place of ruin
Is greater than what
I knew at first

Spray paints for fences
Toys for lawn ornaments
Couches compensate for patios

Cars on concrete not bitumen
Men in fluoro uniform
A fear of being there

With my camera out
So different and the
Token held in my

Hand a symbol of
Everything missing from this
Desolate village of broken homes.

Saturday 21 May 2011

Parable of the Dolls

Not sure if this will be successful, but I had this in my phone a random thought I'd jotted down and I liked the idea of writing a moral story seeing as I am such a preacher myself. I started off with the idea to put it in prose, but this is a poetry blog. Anyway see what you think, it is an experiment, and I hope you get something out of it. As with all parables well the only I really know are Jesus's having been to a christian school, the most important thing is the message. What is that message? Well it would be didactic and preachy to tell you? So I'll do the equivalent of mushing veggies into your potato so you won't know until it hits you!

Anyway speak soon readers! As always I encourage anyone reading this to write their own stuff or post a comment if you feel so inclined. Thanks again.

Parable of the Dolls

Once there was a boy
he possessed one doll and it
was what he loved most

There was also a man
100 dolls he possessed
he loved them each

but 101 dolls he craved
he sought out the boy
with 1 doll he searched

and at last these two very
different men met
but the boy did not want

to part for gold he clung tightly
onto the doll and held
it far from the man

"I shall not trade her for all
the wealth in the land"
proclaimed the boy

the man left and wept
the 1 doll had been
his first but he had

sold it to buy another
to buy one grander
finer and richer

but even with 100
all he now wanted was
1 he left the boy

he returned to his
100 and was not heard
of since

the boy meanwhile
set his doll upon the shelf
he treasured it

and now his son plays
with the very same

When a boy of 5




When a boy of 5
I leant to tell a good lie
called poetry

Falling

It feels like a while since I dragged out something a little older. This is something I wrote, but never showed to my poetry class (pretentious bastards!) not really, but it was intimidating. I feel like this poem is typically dark, I write a lot of dark emotional things, but I like it reading back over it with fresh eyes and some of it I admit is a little clumsy (didn't like the last stanza- so why keep it you ask) - because even though I find the "babe" line clieche and a little like reverting to babyhood (and so a bit too oedipal) I like the last line! Anyway, enough of my yabbering. Here it is! Have a read, post a comment. I couldn't agree more with the hope and message, I think we all need to keep picking ourselves up everyday. Something I still need a bit of help with, but that's life right?

Falling


Life changes very little,
All I know is it comes and goes,
I’ve seen it snow on several occasions;
I’ve even felt the thunder trickling in the sky,
And seen it smack into the hard earth…
I felt it jostle me…and I fell
But life never changes if you don’t get up
The ground is tough moist, ridden with blood

Then the sky cleared and you get up again,
But you always topple over,
Like a toddler on his training wheels,
Or the black crow…striving to find his place in the millions
His eyes are black, but they are his own
Is it nobler to succumb to woe, or to deny such a fate of anyone

Is what is hard…always the right thing?
Falling, becomes a habit, sometimes it seems we only keep falling
Thud,thud,thud…hard on the bitumen
The bright lights…gleaming, whether now or later
What does it matter…how long one has,
Till the last fall

Life changes little, but this I hold on to
A warmth a glow…
That place where I can snuggle, tighter than a babe
Right between your warm embrace
Your arms will pick me up,
When I fall

Man in the Moon

Have you ever looked up at the night sky recently? I was driving along in the car and looked up. I tried to make sense of people saying there was a face in the moon and when I saw the face I had a strange thought. It's kinda an ugly face, well honestly it's hideous. If I saw that guy pass me on the street, I'd probably try not to stare. I'd probably feel sorry for him. Yes. I think those last few sentences certainly reflect on me and the world I live in, try not to judge readers!

 But it got me thinking and obviously got me writing. In my last post I said often poems for me start with asking a question. Well the question I asked funnily enough is, how can ugliness be a bad thing when the moon has such an ugly face?

 The Man in the Moon

The way I see it
there's a reason the
man in the moon
is a patchy figure
one with a scatching smile
and elongated lips
his spotchy eyes are hard to bear
and his last vestige of hair long
reduced to craters
Also why is he smiling the man in the moon
never ashamed
never pale or afraid
no even today as the light tries to hide him
he is still smiling

Some shorties: What is a warm night?; I Know this Boy; Song of Sounds

To me poems are sometimes a whole lot of small strings tied together and sometimes if you can imagine a long piece of rope made with lots of mismatched strings large and small all tied together, it's something like that. It's a wonder it can support anything at all? Maybe that's why poetry is such a personal things sometimes. Not that I claim to know what it is, but to me sometimes I only have a line or a single thought in a poem and I think by JOLLY, i must jot that little beauty down. Take this I wrote so hastily as I climbed off the train. Alot of poems start as a question for me.

I asked myself:

what is a warm night
is it light as he laughs and pretends
how clever he is to make night
into day

As I jotted that down I thought it was so fun! Haha, yeah funny what passes for fun these days. But all self deprocation aside, I think it's funny to see how poems come from playing around, like that. Those stupid random things you only say to your best friends or inside your head that make you laugh, like one time during class, someone mentioned the word monkey. While we were meant to be thinking about crime fiction, I could only hear a chimp rattling around in my head with big dopey eyes and I nearly burst out laughing in a pretty dead atmosphere. It's those secret thoughts that poetry comes from I think. Happy and sad.

Now the next thing I'm going to share is something I heard from my brother. He always knows how to make me laugh, even when it's incredibly unfunny. Dare I say the "sitting on the toilet" incident, which he will understand and my other siblings, if your out there on cyberspace. Anyway my brother was sitting on the train and a stoner beside him said in what you can imagine as a Texan drawl

I know this boy
I love this boy
I'm gonna kill this boy

Imagine that as your riding along. Some crazy stoner yowling he's gonna kill you! My brother quickly fled and ran fromt he carriage. Out of context, it's funny to hear it read out loud, "BOY!" nice and hoarse. He does it best.

Now the last thing I'm going to share is something which for a few days was only a single line. I was like, hmm I like this phrase "Song of Sounds". Why? It's absolutely ridiculous really? It's redundant and makes no real sense or it's completely unimportant to say. But honestly, that's the beauty of poetry, it redefines what's important. I don't see it as silly, look at how the line looks listen to the flow of the words. Suddenly, if you look at language differently, you realise that meaning is a little less concrete. ANyway, I could ramble on all day about language and my views on it and by the way anyone who can offer a vastly enriched multi-lingual perspective please post. Love to hear from you!

But anyway this is what I came up with and it is political, but sometimes politics is all emotion! As anyone would know if they're in Australia at the moment. So I wrote about the refugee policy of the moment (let's hope it is a brief moment")

Song of Sounds

They are crying
for your help
the children behind
the gates on
Christmas island they
sing a haunting
ballad of narrow
escapes on the
violent seas and
of their gentle
new masters due
to send them
back again into
lions jaws cast
adrift forever only
a song of sounds
on the rolling
waves of the sea.

Chapters; the shadow of Himself; the dancing bear; the flutist; Elevator man

Thanks Amy- Elle this is officially the first comment inspired poem. I realised that it would be interesting to experiment with the chapters format a bit more. I thought of the first four I'd written and realised they were all sort of sunny and whimsical, I'd like to think that what I have written here could be decribed more at autumn. So it's quite appropriate coming to the end of May.

The last poem in particular owes itself to my friend Chantal and the way she described a certain somebody always getting stuck in train doors and elevator doors. I thought it was an interesting idea and sometimes I was criticised by my annoying poetry teacher for not being specific enough well :P there you go!

Anyway, thanks as always for reading. I've wanted to post sooner, anyway here they are the next four chapters.

CHAPTERS

the shadow of Himself

the man is a boy. he wears a grin and cannot begin to understand the pain he is in.
Maybe if he had crossed oceans why maybe then he might leave behind more
than a dream

the dancing bear

there is a dancing bear she goes to it each day with a hand full of her mother's
cinnamon bread the bear will not dance for her but it's teeth move somewhat
like a smile for which the girl is grateful. The bars she leans on are her own.

the flutist

her flute recalls a pleasant tune only pleasant and not disarming her mild melody
catches a young gentleman's eye, but only momentarily before he is engaged in
the fine silks adorning the beauty who has eyes only for the phone in her hand
and she is late so very late and the tune is now only a whisper.

elevator man

her heart swells for the boy who keeps getting stuck between doors but he will
never see how he makes her eyes light up and her skin bounce and she will
always look away but through the corner of her eye she will always know the
way he held the elevator door open for that old woman last tuesday

Saturday 7 May 2011

Knowing

Hi all,

Thought I'd post another poem or is it? Now I could spend weeks debating what I think a poem is, but as I've tried to indicate poems can be a vast array of things. But anyway what I'm going to post, is something pretty rough which I wrote quickly today. As with many things that occupy me on a daily basis it's about a girl and a particular girl at that. It's a fantasy conversation I have in my head of how things might go if fantasy became reality.

I'm sure we've all had moments where we've idolised someone from across the room and literally found it hard to look over at someone else. No? Well if not let me know, always interested in hearing the other side of the story. Anyway without further ado, here is Knowing.

(Please note: To avoid confusion the first three paragraphs are one person's thoughts and the second are another) 

(But in another note: as the reader you are ultimately entitled to read and gleam from this whatever you wish :) )

Knowing

Hey

Hi

I saw you the other day, I hoped you were watching me? Was that true, were you looking over my way or were you just kinda tilting your head. You know I bet you don’t think I noticed your really bright blue eyes and they’re not the kind of blue you read about it’s not something you can make up. 

I’ve heard and it makes me doubt, whether it is a good idea to get your attention. What comes out of your mouth? That’s something I’ve often caught myself considering. I can’t help what thoughts I have when it comes to you. I’m afraid that they might be too much for you to handle.

 As it is we’re talking. I’m telling you what I’m thinking, but that’s besides the point isn’t it. There’s something a lot deeper. That I can’t say not yet. Will you come with me tonight? Do you want me to tell you the thing I’ve been keeping from you, do you want to know me better?

Your words are strange, the same as the way you move and check I’m not looking. You think you know me so well. Had you bothered to ask me? But you’re right I am pretty curious. I hadn’t thought really about what you saw in me. I don’t think you really know, do you? Didn’t you notice the way I’d try and smile a little bit. I did try and notice you, didn’t you realise.

I think I need to do this and talk to you. I can’t explain really there are so many other people here, but there’s something exciting about you. You’re different aren’t you? You don’t waste time and I see the way you look at people, the way you dismiss them. It makes me nervous, only because I don’t understand. But I want to. So yes. Let’s meet. I want to know.

Poetry Republic and "Dental Poem"; "When We lived In Trees" and "Death, Who Never Stays for Breakfast"

Greetings all,

I've been participating in this really cool competition today. It's a poetry competition called Poetry Republic, google it to know more. But basically it works by having the entrants judge each other's poetry. It's fascinating to see how other people write. And I don't mean in the professional and perfect sense, the great thing about this is that really poetry can be exactly what I think it is! Like I would know, but to me and today it is perfectly clear good poetry is play!

I mean all the worst poems I read were afflicted with someone writing clearly what they thought would be good instead of what they wanted to write or what they considered fun. One of the best poems...and sadly I can't post some of them up legal reasons! But one of the best poems was called "Dental Poem" once the competition ends I swear I'll find who wrote it, but if you want to check it out, It'll be there on the Poetry republic website, they keep all the entries published on the website. Pretty cool huh?

Anyway, "Dental Poem" it is basically a whole lot of onomatopoia, it's literally playing on the sounds of words. And he/she separates the syllables up. One line is zzzzzt zzzt as the dentist drills into the teeth and another is P-p-pain Pa-Pa-pain and then the next line Pay-ment...I love the connection there between Pain and Payment, which in truth is the real pain of visiting the dentist. But the poem is so simple and honestly funny? I've got nothing against a poem that is serious, but man I enjoyed this one and I actually laughed out loud, not Lol. That's very different as all of us know.

Another one I really loved was called "When we Lived in the Trees". It had four sections, it's basically about a relationship and the seasons of that relationship, but the language the author uses is as though it's like the relationship is a metaphor for growing up. At first they live in the tree, then they're flying, then they're facing the rocky seas and at last sadly the "girders" of the relationship rust and then nostalgia hits and the narrator again longs to live up in the trees. Isn't it such a perfect image! It seriously effects me just writing about it now. I wish I could post these poems here for you, but that's intellectual property for ya!

Now the third poem I'd like to mention because I liked it conceptually, was called "To Death, who never stays for Breakfast". Now this is such a delightfully dark and fun poem. This is the sort of idea that has to come from that sense of play. The narrator in this poem is well I won't ascribe gender (although...haha already I'm thinking female), but this narrator is being gilted by death. Yeah...it's like a bizarre take on suicide or is it? It's bloody brilliant really, the idea had me hooked the author/narrator are describing death that hooded guy with the sickle (or maybe in this universe a sexy guy wearing a hood with a sickle?) as a player unable to commit to the narrator. In other words unable to just let the narrator die. Yes suicide was never such an amusing topic. The melodrama in the language just makes it all the more amusing.

It's a shame the poets are left annoynmous during voting. I wish I could tell you who they were. All I know is that this is what poetry is about, it's about exploring our deepest impulses and playing with what we're capable of. The playful and simple Dental Poem and the very silly and dark "To Death, Who never stays for Breakfast". Then of course "When We lived In Trees" the sort of poem I'm a sucker for, because this is written by a person who truly longs to live in trees. Because when you write from the heart your essentially exposing yourself on the page like nothing else. Poems often deal with feelings and emotions. Admire those brave enough to be silly, because in my humble opinion play is what makes poetry live.

Perfection is overrated! (Keep that in mind all you insane perfections - including myself of course). Anyway, that's all for now. I better move along to my third round of twelve poems, the first poem has a curious title, "Ramblings of an Unkempt Man". I'm hoping it will be very silly.

J