The sound of my life is a grand piano
Meandering meaninglessly over streets paths rivers and lakes
The drum beat is subdued
And fades into gentle beats
The lights from my stage are soft
They do not aggressively demand
Entry into your eyesight
My band plays a simple forgotten
Summer rhythm, provokes laughter
And subdued conversation
And it is drowned by the consequence of people milling about
My stage is in the back
My grand piano plays a sharp note
Those in the audience turn
One sheds a tear until the plodding delicate rhythm resumes
No more shall my grand piano offend
Any ears
A collection of poems and musings by a rookie poet and constant dreamer - J.O.S.H
Wednesday 19 December 2012
Tuesday 18 December 2012
The Road Often Travelled
Okay so this is my attempt at a poem with a reference to that famous poem you know...the path less travelled by Robert Frost. However apart from the title that is where the similarities end. Although I'll have you know that my English teacher once told me that Robert frosts poem was literally about a friend of his who stubbouny tool a different path through the woods, but you didn't hear it from me.
What more can I say except this is a poem about someone going to the toilet ...right I warned you do with tat in mind you can click to another page or read on. But as with comedy poetry is one medium where there should be no topic off limits...in my humble opinion.
The Road Often Travelled
busting busting busting
Need to remove pants
Need wants desires
Overwhelming
Why now why now
Must the Velcro refuse to come
Unclasped
Why must this room smell
Like the stench of fifty old men's
Marinated sea balls
I could gag
Down they go
And swift to the seat my pale
Backside feel very soon it will
Be high tide
There is writing on the wall
There is piss on the floor
(and sand too)
But all of that is foggy somehow now
And distant
Like a choir conductor I rise proudly on that soiled seat
Wave out my hands like a bird
And with each compression of my
Lower regions I soar
Higher higher higher
Smiling falling gliding sailing
I hear a rough knock at the door
My business is down
The smell smacks me back to reality
But always mind the code
And never look back
I depart that small space
Smile at the hairy man with the sagging speedos
That same smile beams with the sun
And carries me back to the water and that delightful sense of feeling
So very very Young
What more can I say except this is a poem about someone going to the toilet ...right I warned you do with tat in mind you can click to another page or read on. But as with comedy poetry is one medium where there should be no topic off limits...in my humble opinion.
The Road Often Travelled
busting busting busting
Need to remove pants
Need wants desires
Overwhelming
Why now why now
Must the Velcro refuse to come
Unclasped
Why must this room smell
Like the stench of fifty old men's
Marinated sea balls
I could gag
Down they go
And swift to the seat my pale
Backside feel very soon it will
Be high tide
There is writing on the wall
There is piss on the floor
(and sand too)
But all of that is foggy somehow now
And distant
Like a choir conductor I rise proudly on that soiled seat
Wave out my hands like a bird
And with each compression of my
Lower regions I soar
Higher higher higher
Smiling falling gliding sailing
I hear a rough knock at the door
My business is down
The smell smacks me back to reality
But always mind the code
And never look back
I depart that small space
Smile at the hairy man with the sagging speedos
That same smile beams with the sun
And carries me back to the water and that delightful sense of feeling
So very very Young
The City and the City
No apologies china (awesome British fantasy author for those who don't know one of his prized novels has the same title as this blog post and poem) this was an awesome title for a book. Apologies in advance though because this poem although tying on the themes of that book ie such as the identity of a city and the ill sense of that elusive quality that makes one part of a city and not part. Readers all I can say is check the book out its about two overlapping cities: the integrity of each is preserved by laws refusing the citizens of each respective city from inadvertently entering or peering into the neighboring city.
But I digress this poem is about me and my life. There is no hiding how obvious it is, I'm currently living in two cities and the sense of loneliness as displacement is new to me. I think it's something unnatural to anyone if I'm honest. So I wanted to write something about ones identity and how that is tied to where we live but also the connections we have are really what defines home for me.
For your benefit I'm referring to two cities newcastle and sydney Australia. I use the term city interchangeably discussing about both cities as "the city". Anyway readers this is my poem enjoy!!!
The city and the City
The cool propeller air
Breathes on my naked room
It circulates the new dust on
New things which came from
The other city whose name
Still bares the title home
There is a sad cavity of space
Almost two hundred kilometres away
It used to keep my things
The walls are grey inside
This paradise prison
I recall the night of my eighteenth
Birthday when the girl I loved at Thr time and a fried tackled me upon a wall
A wall that I can only reach by car now
I recall the girl with the shaggy hair
Sitting on that bed
She too I can no longer reach
The city hears the sea each morning
And it's breaths are riddled with
The smell of salt and sand
The water calms me somehow
Places mg feet back on the ground
Drags my soul into this place
Atop this lofty tower and it's
Privileged vista
The city is riddled with people
As many as I can bear
At its core it's almost as foreign and alien to me as another country
The people here think things
There minds circulate in five kilometer circles
They move by their feet and now by wheels
We share the same city but theirs is smaller than mine
This city has people in the air
And more in the sea
It's alive in the mornings and not the night
This place somehow is etched into me
My soul is content here to linger
Yet the other city with all it's alien people is more my home still
A house rests in what most in the city
Deem the country
It's keepers are closest to me
They are my city
They are he feeling of the sand on
My wet feet
The are the calming breeze
The smell of salt
Two cities and neither home
I can only exist in one place
Now I exist in two
And those two parts of me
Will never join
We shall wander the same roads
Perhaps it will appear we are the same person
But we are half of what we supposedly are
A soul can only be stretched so far
The flesh is weak
The spirit shall ensure
The torn heart and the fear
The fear of the truth that here in the city I am at last naked and alone
At the mercy of my flesh
But I digress this poem is about me and my life. There is no hiding how obvious it is, I'm currently living in two cities and the sense of loneliness as displacement is new to me. I think it's something unnatural to anyone if I'm honest. So I wanted to write something about ones identity and how that is tied to where we live but also the connections we have are really what defines home for me.
For your benefit I'm referring to two cities newcastle and sydney Australia. I use the term city interchangeably discussing about both cities as "the city". Anyway readers this is my poem enjoy!!!
The city and the City
The cool propeller air
Breathes on my naked room
It circulates the new dust on
New things which came from
The other city whose name
Still bares the title home
There is a sad cavity of space
Almost two hundred kilometres away
It used to keep my things
The walls are grey inside
This paradise prison
I recall the night of my eighteenth
Birthday when the girl I loved at Thr time and a fried tackled me upon a wall
A wall that I can only reach by car now
I recall the girl with the shaggy hair
Sitting on that bed
She too I can no longer reach
The city hears the sea each morning
And it's breaths are riddled with
The smell of salt and sand
The water calms me somehow
Places mg feet back on the ground
Drags my soul into this place
Atop this lofty tower and it's
Privileged vista
The city is riddled with people
As many as I can bear
At its core it's almost as foreign and alien to me as another country
The people here think things
There minds circulate in five kilometer circles
They move by their feet and now by wheels
We share the same city but theirs is smaller than mine
This city has people in the air
And more in the sea
It's alive in the mornings and not the night
This place somehow is etched into me
My soul is content here to linger
Yet the other city with all it's alien people is more my home still
A house rests in what most in the city
Deem the country
It's keepers are closest to me
They are my city
They are he feeling of the sand on
My wet feet
The are the calming breeze
The smell of salt
Two cities and neither home
I can only exist in one place
Now I exist in two
And those two parts of me
Will never join
We shall wander the same roads
Perhaps it will appear we are the same person
But we are half of what we supposedly are
A soul can only be stretched so far
The flesh is weak
The spirit shall ensure
The torn heart and the fear
The fear of the truth that here in the city I am at last naked and alone
At the mercy of my flesh
Wednesday 12 December 2012
Deaden
Let the liquid amber
Poison course through my hands
Skin and turn my nails yellow
Perhaps then I'll feel nothing
Let the bottle sag
Onto the floor littered with the
Soiled evidence of my life
The proof I exist
Shirts stained and one new
Perhaps then I'll feel nothing
Out the window
Red yellow leaves
The wind blows some past my window
Another sip perhaps to forget that too
And then I'll feel nothing
Deaden my senses
So that I am not alone
Deaden my skin
So that I don't feel
Deaden me
Make me numb
And then I'll feel nothing
Poison course through my hands
Skin and turn my nails yellow
Perhaps then I'll feel nothing
Let the bottle sag
Onto the floor littered with the
Soiled evidence of my life
The proof I exist
Shirts stained and one new
Perhaps then I'll feel nothing
Out the window
Red yellow leaves
The wind blows some past my window
Another sip perhaps to forget that too
And then I'll feel nothing
Deaden my senses
So that I am not alone
Deaden my skin
So that I don't feel
Deaden me
Make me numb
And then I'll feel nothing
The Big Blue
Feel the deep tug
The wet greatness
Ready to drag you
Out and over everyone
Into the chasm of darkness
Under the waves
The waves roll deceptively calm
Then smash angrily against
Sand seaweed and flesh
It hides so many thoughts
And they are folded over and lost
So many eyes sit each day
And drift trough the white wash
Out into the big blue
The wet greatness
Ready to drag you
Out and over everyone
Into the chasm of darkness
Under the waves
The waves roll deceptively calm
Then smash angrily against
Sand seaweed and flesh
It hides so many thoughts
And they are folded over and lost
So many eyes sit each day
And drift trough the white wash
Out into the big blue
Tuesday 11 December 2012
I Missed the Train
I missed the train
It passed by and
continued On its way
It was a sky blue day
Unremarkable save only
For the missing of that train
I cannot say why
That was the most remarkable
Thing that has come to pass
Only that I felt myself sinking fast
As it took off
Ahead of me and over the tracks
Propelled by wires and electricity
Had I mistook the time?
The mind wanders so
Randomly and so mine too
Wanders back to the incident
With the train
How long now is it
Since I saw it pass
It may have been yesterday or
Even a year ago
Because very little has changed
The city and the trains
The people most look the same
At least to my eyes
what more is there to say of
That train
That it was only missed by me
That there were other souls staring back at me through the thick windows
Neither glad nor sad
Just tired and ready to sag
Down into a leather seat for
Minutes perhaps an hour or two
Some to see family
some to see few
The platform is the least changed thing
The ground is the same
The same broken rock and faint yellow strips
The same sad kiosk selling
Old pies
The buildings are chipped
That makes them antique
The only object that day unique
that day as far as I could tell was I
I who missed the train
And why was that?
Now I cannot say
There are many reasons but
Most likely the dullest is true
Which is why I ought keep
The missed train to myself
And yet it must be said
That on that day
In a summer not so dissimilar to
The one in which we now live
A man missed his train
He stood for a moment or so
And then walked away
It passed by and
continued On its way
It was a sky blue day
Unremarkable save only
For the missing of that train
I cannot say why
That was the most remarkable
Thing that has come to pass
Only that I felt myself sinking fast
As it took off
Ahead of me and over the tracks
Propelled by wires and electricity
Had I mistook the time?
The mind wanders so
Randomly and so mine too
Wanders back to the incident
With the train
How long now is it
Since I saw it pass
It may have been yesterday or
Even a year ago
Because very little has changed
The city and the trains
The people most look the same
At least to my eyes
what more is there to say of
That train
That it was only missed by me
That there were other souls staring back at me through the thick windows
Neither glad nor sad
Just tired and ready to sag
Down into a leather seat for
Minutes perhaps an hour or two
Some to see family
some to see few
The platform is the least changed thing
The ground is the same
The same broken rock and faint yellow strips
The same sad kiosk selling
Old pies
The buildings are chipped
That makes them antique
The only object that day unique
that day as far as I could tell was I
I who missed the train
And why was that?
Now I cannot say
There are many reasons but
Most likely the dullest is true
Which is why I ought keep
The missed train to myself
And yet it must be said
That on that day
In a summer not so dissimilar to
The one in which we now live
A man missed his train
He stood for a moment or so
And then walked away
Wednesday 14 November 2012
I had a Dream about the end of the World
I had a dream last night about the end of the world
No one realized the large fragments of the moon had already been destroyed
Which would sadly prove fatal
Also a young man whom I had known long ago was working in front of me
A large court room with the space of a large concert hall and a giant domed roof
The matter went south and my boss
For whatever reason turned homicidal
Perhaps the spores of doom had infected her mind as they would effect others
The I knew I sat in a circle my girl on one side and a gaggle of brazenly boasting good for nothings sitting across from me bragging about this merger of that of the anonymous steel skyscraper corporation at which they were employed
This all triggered by a simple question by myself "what is it you practice in there?"
My girl and I exchanged a look and then I was unfortunately exposed to a small procession of large Indian men all wearing orange and short for it was a hot day
Some random country of the middle-east had somehow been superimposed over one or the streets in the city in which I lived
And a friend who had not been a friend in years was with me
And the other who had been in the Court room though no longer the girl
Not my girl but another with curly hair who had seemed so engaged but now seemed much more ready to follow the other into a taxi away
But not before the Indian man was cornered by the three ogre-like men
Who oppressed him and gauged out one of his eyes
Next I knew was a parade although I knew not the cause
The Indian man the one who had been so cruelly assaulted had absented himself and there was only a small pool of blood splashed out under the light of the telegraph pole
It dried quickly as the revellers shouted and marched wearing long white tunics which rubbed over the orange sand of the ground in the twilight, whose sun passed quickly for soon the orange glow of the setting sun was replaced by torches
Many of those in the march
Wore masks with a grotesque and disproportionate ethnic face
Although it was more like one you'd see on one or those baby toy dolls
I witnessed it all an implored my friend call the police but our thoughts
And resolve to do right by the man who reappeared clutching his face with a bloody white rag was gone
Next despite distractions the end of the world continued
The moon fell out of the sky and into a soccer field which just incidentally was only a few hundred meters from where I stood
By all accounts the moon ought to have been many leagues across but it was no larger than a giants marble albeit dotted with craters and perfectly sphere
What remained of it shattered and the ground where it hit warped inwards like toffee
The next I remembered was a music video playing where people from a famous sitcom were singing or miming
They sat in tubs of full water
Their clothes all soaked and saggy in some kind of demented poetry
I then sat in my own tub
And lamented the fate of the Indian man
I imagined myself as the images on a plasma screen in a home I had never seen nor lived in
The wall paper was green and the cornices brown and wooden
It was likely in the inner city which as it would turn out was another puzzle
The dream ended when my neighbor who happened to be a musician of some renown almost caught me through the half open blinds half naked
And I do recall the absence of the moon triggered the worlds water to act haywire.
For without a moon there could be no tides my limited knowledge of science concurred with the immeasurably large body of water creeping over everything on the horizon
Like a tidal wave in slow motion that
I could not run from but could only sit and enjoy like a sunset
No one realized the large fragments of the moon had already been destroyed
Which would sadly prove fatal
Also a young man whom I had known long ago was working in front of me
A large court room with the space of a large concert hall and a giant domed roof
The matter went south and my boss
For whatever reason turned homicidal
Perhaps the spores of doom had infected her mind as they would effect others
The I knew I sat in a circle my girl on one side and a gaggle of brazenly boasting good for nothings sitting across from me bragging about this merger of that of the anonymous steel skyscraper corporation at which they were employed
This all triggered by a simple question by myself "what is it you practice in there?"
My girl and I exchanged a look and then I was unfortunately exposed to a small procession of large Indian men all wearing orange and short for it was a hot day
Some random country of the middle-east had somehow been superimposed over one or the streets in the city in which I lived
And a friend who had not been a friend in years was with me
And the other who had been in the Court room though no longer the girl
Not my girl but another with curly hair who had seemed so engaged but now seemed much more ready to follow the other into a taxi away
But not before the Indian man was cornered by the three ogre-like men
Who oppressed him and gauged out one of his eyes
Next I knew was a parade although I knew not the cause
The Indian man the one who had been so cruelly assaulted had absented himself and there was only a small pool of blood splashed out under the light of the telegraph pole
It dried quickly as the revellers shouted and marched wearing long white tunics which rubbed over the orange sand of the ground in the twilight, whose sun passed quickly for soon the orange glow of the setting sun was replaced by torches
Many of those in the march
Wore masks with a grotesque and disproportionate ethnic face
Although it was more like one you'd see on one or those baby toy dolls
I witnessed it all an implored my friend call the police but our thoughts
And resolve to do right by the man who reappeared clutching his face with a bloody white rag was gone
Next despite distractions the end of the world continued
The moon fell out of the sky and into a soccer field which just incidentally was only a few hundred meters from where I stood
By all accounts the moon ought to have been many leagues across but it was no larger than a giants marble albeit dotted with craters and perfectly sphere
What remained of it shattered and the ground where it hit warped inwards like toffee
The next I remembered was a music video playing where people from a famous sitcom were singing or miming
They sat in tubs of full water
Their clothes all soaked and saggy in some kind of demented poetry
I then sat in my own tub
And lamented the fate of the Indian man
I imagined myself as the images on a plasma screen in a home I had never seen nor lived in
The wall paper was green and the cornices brown and wooden
It was likely in the inner city which as it would turn out was another puzzle
The dream ended when my neighbor who happened to be a musician of some renown almost caught me through the half open blinds half naked
And I do recall the absence of the moon triggered the worlds water to act haywire.
For without a moon there could be no tides my limited knowledge of science concurred with the immeasurably large body of water creeping over everything on the horizon
Like a tidal wave in slow motion that
I could not run from but could only sit and enjoy like a sunset
Friday 26 October 2012
The Paths of Trains
The paths of trains are
Bound they pass one another
Propelled by controllers within
Their powerful steel shells
But there is no power in them
Hello friend beckons one steel coach
As he passes another the
Still zombie white light is all that
Betrays any semblance of emotion
Upon the grim visage of the carriage
There are no remarks upon the blight
And beauty which they encounter
The phantom lights stay the same
And the man within drives them
As the steel turns back to rust
flakes and flakes and flakes
Until it is replaced or the coach is
Eternally retired to fade unnoticed
Back into the dirt
Bound they pass one another
Propelled by controllers within
Their powerful steel shells
But there is no power in them
Hello friend beckons one steel coach
As he passes another the
Still zombie white light is all that
Betrays any semblance of emotion
Upon the grim visage of the carriage
There are no remarks upon the blight
And beauty which they encounter
The phantom lights stay the same
And the man within drives them
As the steel turns back to rust
flakes and flakes and flakes
Until it is replaced or the coach is
Eternally retired to fade unnoticed
Back into the dirt
Saturday 29 September 2012
A poem of desperate love
Bound and broken
Lying beside you
Lying on top of you
Dissolving into you
Mirror little, what do you see?
Paintings and faces
Thrown by you
reflected in you
Fires deep in my chest
Aching heaving
little or no rest
Thinking filament
Thinking big
Touch me
Want me
Experience the insides of me
Run your hands over the skin of me
Offend me with your love
Invasive and penetrating
Long and large and thick
Upon my breast
Upon me
Upon mine
Lying beside you
Lying on top of you
Dissolving into you
Mirror little, what do you see?
Paintings and faces
Thrown by you
reflected in you
Fires deep in my chest
Aching heaving
little or no rest
Thinking filament
Thinking big
Touch me
Want me
Experience the insides of me
Run your hands over the skin of me
Offend me with your love
Invasive and penetrating
Long and large and thick
Upon my breast
Upon me
Upon mine
Monday 24 September 2012
The Child
You say I'm okay
But what would you know
What do you see
When you shut your eyes
Happy places happy dreams ?
There's a lone black in me
Like a rotten stinking thing
Hard as cement and
Impossible to extract
You don't see anything
You don't understand
I'm all alone
There's little magic evident
In the looks of the sun
And water is water
All is as it is
There is no peace imputed
Into moments
I'm all alone
You say im wrong
But I am too smart
To believe in wrong
Or right anymore
There's just action and motions
There's results and probabilities
What business is it of mine
To assign any universal code?
You say you don't have to
This pleasant luxury catches
My heart and something
Opens minute and momentary
Faded dreams whisper on
Distant shores
"it's not too late"
But maybe I do have to
Perhaps we all trains
And my tracks lead to a
Broken land where the earth
Is dry and cannot remember prosperity
Is it resignation I ask or is it fate?
You don't listen or hear anyone
You've gone away
I realize now as I always had
What my words won't say
But my heart young and virile
Demands a companion
I need to know I'm wrong
I need to be told...
Deep down of course
Below the convenient melancholy
I am mere flesh and my skin is torn
I am a child cold and alone
All I need is another voice to be near me
All I need is another voice to hear me.
But what would you know
What do you see
When you shut your eyes
Happy places happy dreams ?
There's a lone black in me
Like a rotten stinking thing
Hard as cement and
Impossible to extract
You don't see anything
You don't understand
I'm all alone
There's little magic evident
In the looks of the sun
And water is water
All is as it is
There is no peace imputed
Into moments
I'm all alone
You say im wrong
But I am too smart
To believe in wrong
Or right anymore
There's just action and motions
There's results and probabilities
What business is it of mine
To assign any universal code?
You say you don't have to
This pleasant luxury catches
My heart and something
Opens minute and momentary
Faded dreams whisper on
Distant shores
"it's not too late"
But maybe I do have to
Perhaps we all trains
And my tracks lead to a
Broken land where the earth
Is dry and cannot remember prosperity
Is it resignation I ask or is it fate?
You don't listen or hear anyone
You've gone away
I realize now as I always had
What my words won't say
But my heart young and virile
Demands a companion
I need to know I'm wrong
I need to be told...
Deep down of course
Below the convenient melancholy
I am mere flesh and my skin is torn
I am a child cold and alone
All I need is another voice to be near me
All I need is another voice to hear me.
Sunday 9 September 2012
Flesh foe
would my emotions spill over
If I climbed inside a new skin
Would I forge a new identity
Or does the flesh determine me ?
If I climbed inside a new skin
Would I forge a new identity
Or does the flesh determine me ?
Saturday 8 September 2012
Child Pornography
I don't know what made me think of this, it's a strange line of thought. I was thinking about well not child pornography, but just how sexualised we all are nowadays. And I was watching a music video and thinking how strange a thing sex is.
It's something we protect our children from ( well not that I have any kids). In it's most pure form though it's become a product, a product that I'm sure a lot of children are aware of. Why is it that so many things portrayed in so called "pop-media" betrays a moral failing in this department. So on that interesting line of thought, which probably requires more elaboration, but thankfully for you my audience, it's getting late in AUS so I'll end it here. As I said long ago, these poems are my words, but I know that what people get out of them will vary.
So have a read, and you know what here's hoping it gets you thinking.
Child Pornography
The girl with the bouncy breasts
smiles her lips are pink like candy
The boy too young to understand
this association notes his father transfixed
on something hidden and secret
The girl once thought bottoms were
for the toilet and other notions
were rather icky
her father trains her to sit with her bottom
on the seat and do as nature intends
the words wet moist and sticky
seem innocent enough
the words are not imbued with
anything but description
She is too young to understand
the purpose of thighs and the notion
of tingles
She doesn't know what lies in the open
the thoughts that were once secret
And how many see the girls
How many pause even now on streets
just to get a look
You look pretty
seems innocent enough.
The borders of her thighs are
more than an object
there is a history
it is silent and unwilling and unrelenting
The boy follows his father's transfixed gaze
he will soon possess the knowledge of flesh
for what are bodies but symbols after all
hollow carcases
Even the girl who is too young
is just another body to
fuck...
It's something we protect our children from ( well not that I have any kids). In it's most pure form though it's become a product, a product that I'm sure a lot of children are aware of. Why is it that so many things portrayed in so called "pop-media" betrays a moral failing in this department. So on that interesting line of thought, which probably requires more elaboration, but thankfully for you my audience, it's getting late in AUS so I'll end it here. As I said long ago, these poems are my words, but I know that what people get out of them will vary.
So have a read, and you know what here's hoping it gets you thinking.
Child Pornography
The girl with the bouncy breasts
smiles her lips are pink like candy
The boy too young to understand
this association notes his father transfixed
on something hidden and secret
The girl once thought bottoms were
for the toilet and other notions
were rather icky
her father trains her to sit with her bottom
on the seat and do as nature intends
the words wet moist and sticky
seem innocent enough
the words are not imbued with
anything but description
She is too young to understand
the purpose of thighs and the notion
of tingles
She doesn't know what lies in the open
the thoughts that were once secret
And how many see the girls
How many pause even now on streets
just to get a look
You look pretty
seems innocent enough.
The borders of her thighs are
more than an object
there is a history
it is silent and unwilling and unrelenting
The boy follows his father's transfixed gaze
he will soon possess the knowledge of flesh
for what are bodies but symbols after all
hollow carcases
Even the girl who is too young
is just another body to
fuck...
Wednesday 5 September 2012
Imagine
I had a horrid thought tonight. It's a thought I suppose only someone with as much time to think as I do can have, but it's a terrible one. Living as I do at present on my own and most nights, sitting alone and left to my devices, it's easy to wonder sometimes if being really connected to anyone is just a fantasy or a hope we all cling too. How much happens inside of us that the world will never know? Does that matter? Does that mean no one will ever see us truly, because no one can ever see every thought inside of us.
Yes, I think all these things. And it's not a crime to think them. Feeling loved and feeling valued, these are real things of course. But I think at the heart of it is the deeper truth, we all long to be known and to escape from inside of ourselves, because within us is a immense endless world that no one else can touch and it's scary to think about.
But who am I to stray from scary. Below I imagine an outside world that reflects what I just described as the inner world. The irony is of course, anyone who reads this is already disproving my own thoughts and anxieties because how can I be truly alone when I'm just disclosing all these thoughts to the world and how can my image of an empty world be alone when everyone who reads it will populate it with themselves.
I have to admit when I wrote this momentary thought I did consider when I imagined the world in the poem that there were all these spectors floating around in the imaginary cities and lands that rose up out of my imagination. (The real question is...what is the real poem right). Okay enough pontification you're here for the poem right? Well here it is Enjoy IMAGINE! And I'll be posting very soon.
Imagine
All the people in all the world were gone
But you got to walk down the same streets
see the same sunrises and sunsets
how more real would the world be then
What difference would it make?
Will you remember what it is to be lonely
After a month, a year, all your years
Will loneliness exist when there is nothing
in this world, but you and what you see fit to make
You would be the Lord of an invisible Court
The rules would be yours
You would have no limitations to where you might go
What you might do would be limited only by your imagination
Imagine that there are no consequences
That you can never lose anyone
In these empty streets
Empty houses
Empty lands
Empty seas
there is nothing to be gained
Nothing to be lost
Nothing to be loved
But that which is inside
Tuesday 28 August 2012
Tore
Marred fingers
Hollow tongues
Tear
Black mist
Dim hamlet
Frost
Green dress
Flowing fabric
Peace
Sun clouds
Miraculous tones
Goodbye
Steel bird
Foreign land
Soar
High clouds
Forgotten perfume
Naked
Cold windows
Saggy skin
Clean
Pounding lace
Beating chest
Weak
Downward swell
Sinking trough
Chill
Fairy stories
Popcorn moments
Horizon
Bursting tears
Fears gone
Rest
Hollow tongues
Tear
Black mist
Dim hamlet
Frost
Green dress
Flowing fabric
Peace
Sun clouds
Miraculous tones
Goodbye
Steel bird
Foreign land
Soar
High clouds
Forgotten perfume
Naked
Cold windows
Saggy skin
Clean
Pounding lace
Beating chest
Weak
Downward swell
Sinking trough
Chill
Fairy stories
Popcorn moments
Horizon
Bursting tears
Fears gone
Rest
Monday 27 August 2012
Good Morning
Time defeats him
Self imposed mirrors
Distract him from abstraction
A pleasant place in which to deny
The torment of the bumbling bus
The raucous of girls in too much makeup and the ritual of babies suckling
Morning has come
Time defeats him
He loses his head and drifts
Dreamlike hoping again not to wake
Self imposed mirrors
Distract him from abstraction
A pleasant place in which to deny
The torment of the bumbling bus
The raucous of girls in too much makeup and the ritual of babies suckling
Morning has come
Time defeats him
He loses his head and drifts
Dreamlike hoping again not to wake
Era
she was born of the sky
Her hair forever in the wind
She was lost and proud
Her family scattered and broken
It was a time of opals
And fire
It was a time of fireworks
And wide eyes
It was not a time to retreat
Into a private world
Ruled by domestic demons
And watchers inhabiting the
Roof she called home
She was a girl who was free
She was a girl that laughed
A girl that danced under the night
A girl that breathed in magic
To kiss away the pain
A girl that exposed her milk thighs
On the grass under the stars
She was born of the sky
And in the end died of it
She opened her arms like wings
Pinned to a crucifix
Her final pact was sealed by blood, sand and
Salt water
Her hair forever in the wind
She was lost and proud
Her family scattered and broken
It was a time of opals
And fire
It was a time of fireworks
And wide eyes
It was not a time to retreat
Into a private world
Ruled by domestic demons
And watchers inhabiting the
Roof she called home
She was a girl who was free
She was a girl that laughed
A girl that danced under the night
A girl that breathed in magic
To kiss away the pain
A girl that exposed her milk thighs
On the grass under the stars
She was born of the sky
And in the end died of it
She opened her arms like wings
Pinned to a crucifix
Her final pact was sealed by blood, sand and
Salt water
Tuesday 14 August 2012
Attics
Hello everyone
I was desperate to do a new post. I feel it's been a while. I started producing this seemingly random strong of thought and thought wow...this is odd. So l decided naturally to post it :-p
Moreover though read the last bit and return and try to understand what this represents the central metaphor is te sense of a rumble weed collecting dust picking up stray thoughts in your mind and clumping them all together as quite literally rolling with them! This is what I imagine inside my mind looks like sometimes rather dusty? What do you think?
Anyway without further adieu this is Attics.
ATTICS
Ever feel like a parasite
Multiply that feeling
You might know
How thoughts can bleed
A story ends and
Then begins
Endings are the top
Of the circle
And the circle is a train
I felt like air
I was falling
Floating at the same time
So free and disconnected
Blowing about everything
Content with invisibility
And Anonymity
Stars are stuck into
The sky
Stars are stuck by
God and no one understands
Why they burn
When they stop
Why they don't find a way to
Keep fighting
What turns a shining light into
A pitt of burning darkness
What fury shakes atoms to explode
Dust stings the air
Been there
Been here
Not long enough
To see clear
We keep attics
And they are full of tumble weeds
Who knows what they'll collect
Who knows what strange mish mash
Will collate in the dusty recesses
Of ourselves
I was desperate to do a new post. I feel it's been a while. I started producing this seemingly random strong of thought and thought wow...this is odd. So l decided naturally to post it :-p
Moreover though read the last bit and return and try to understand what this represents the central metaphor is te sense of a rumble weed collecting dust picking up stray thoughts in your mind and clumping them all together as quite literally rolling with them! This is what I imagine inside my mind looks like sometimes rather dusty? What do you think?
Anyway without further adieu this is Attics.
ATTICS
Ever feel like a parasite
Multiply that feeling
You might know
How thoughts can bleed
A story ends and
Then begins
Endings are the top
Of the circle
And the circle is a train
I felt like air
I was falling
Floating at the same time
So free and disconnected
Blowing about everything
Content with invisibility
And Anonymity
Stars are stuck into
The sky
Stars are stuck by
God and no one understands
Why they burn
When they stop
Why they don't find a way to
Keep fighting
What turns a shining light into
A pitt of burning darkness
What fury shakes atoms to explode
Dust stings the air
Been there
Been here
Not long enough
To see clear
We keep attics
And they are full of tumble weeds
Who knows what they'll collect
Who knows what strange mish mash
Will collate in the dusty recesses
Of ourselves
Thursday 26 July 2012
This Page
A blank page is all I need to create and destroy everything
I can undo it all I can watch the page fold in on itself
I can watch the lines and symbols float over the page
And project the lives of consciousness I project into it
I can craft anything I choose on this blank canvas
I am God I have no plan only a mind and a will
To travel onto this line
And the next
I’m on fire there’s something buried deep inside
And it’s going to live forever on this page
It’s going to rise up and swell out of me
There will be waves on this page
It won’t look it, but you’ll feel the slight swell
From this stanza
Into the next and the seemingly random gap of lines
Has a certain order if you look deeper
If you can see into me
Into the thing that this is now
Because it’s something more now
You and I here together
We’ve done something here today
We’ve travelled places
We’ve created
Thursday 12 July 2012
Broken
In a world where a lot of emotions, thoughts and feelings are forbidden I think poetry is a good way to express them.
I've always felt very strongly about bullying which is inevitable once being a bullied person myself.
I think it's such an isolating experience where it's effective. The funny thing is how it does break you, there is part of you that remains fragile. Maybe it's not dangerous in the most obvious ways but it's effects are subtle and I think we just need more understanding people in the world.
Because I truly believe this stuff can resurface and you'll watch a man of 45 recede to the age of 12.
Broken
How dare you
Yes innocent you
Who whispered words
Words the girl repeats everyday
In her head
And now the girl is a woman
But it's too late you took something
From her and she's broken
How could you think
How could you prosper
While she tested the fragile lining
Of her wrist on the metal lining of torn cans
And watched it drip
So red in so pale a room
Drip drip drip
How dare you
Yes you happiness in tact
You'll never know
The thoughts and darkness
That overwhelm and consume her
You'll never know what can't be undone
You can't understand
You broke her
But you've already forgotten
She never will
How dare you
How dare she
She who has so much to offer
She dangles her life helplessly
She can't understand the feelings
That's because part of her doesn't work
It makes her raw sad and numb
All at once
The taste of iron surfacing on the tongue a young woman
Older than she deserves
Spoiled and Broken
I've always felt very strongly about bullying which is inevitable once being a bullied person myself.
I think it's such an isolating experience where it's effective. The funny thing is how it does break you, there is part of you that remains fragile. Maybe it's not dangerous in the most obvious ways but it's effects are subtle and I think we just need more understanding people in the world.
Because I truly believe this stuff can resurface and you'll watch a man of 45 recede to the age of 12.
Broken
How dare you
Yes innocent you
Who whispered words
Words the girl repeats everyday
In her head
And now the girl is a woman
But it's too late you took something
From her and she's broken
How could you think
How could you prosper
While she tested the fragile lining
Of her wrist on the metal lining of torn cans
And watched it drip
So red in so pale a room
Drip drip drip
How dare you
Yes you happiness in tact
You'll never know
The thoughts and darkness
That overwhelm and consume her
You'll never know what can't be undone
You can't understand
You broke her
But you've already forgotten
She never will
How dare you
How dare she
She who has so much to offer
She dangles her life helplessly
She can't understand the feelings
That's because part of her doesn't work
It makes her raw sad and numb
All at once
The taste of iron surfacing on the tongue a young woman
Older than she deserves
Spoiled and Broken
Backyard
I'll be honest sometimes I have no idea what I'm doing when I write these poems. I know the learned ones are scowling at me right now. But I suppose what I mean is that I think the best poems are discoveries.
This poem evolved out of a few haphazard images. I just kept writing and of course some of the stuff that comes out is forced but keep going and you get to do this great thing where you essentially complete the thought.
So this poem is a complete stream of consciousness which I do not apologise for. Writing isn't always about doing something artistically brilliant for me as you know the blog and writing are first and foremost for me.
Hopefully poetry can help tap into that unimaginable millionth part of me as Milan Kundera might say :)
Backyard
Grass between my toes
Films black and white
Technicolor rose cotton
Dress
Dress fabric denim
Silk pants plays nylon
Burgundy coca cola
Veranda
Wood chisel white saw
Dust light rays of white
Hot sun between grass
Beyond the patio
This is old barrow
Sand turf dirt black
Fingers bogged nails
Down raking planting mowing
Forging holes building home
Poles yard sticks
Trampoline bounce pagola
Sunset milk Marsala
Orange zest lemonade
Wild furry grass under my feet
This poem evolved out of a few haphazard images. I just kept writing and of course some of the stuff that comes out is forced but keep going and you get to do this great thing where you essentially complete the thought.
So this poem is a complete stream of consciousness which I do not apologise for. Writing isn't always about doing something artistically brilliant for me as you know the blog and writing are first and foremost for me.
Hopefully poetry can help tap into that unimaginable millionth part of me as Milan Kundera might say :)
Backyard
Grass between my toes
Films black and white
Technicolor rose cotton
Dress
Dress fabric denim
Silk pants plays nylon
Burgundy coca cola
Veranda
Wood chisel white saw
Dust light rays of white
Hot sun between grass
Beyond the patio
This is old barrow
Sand turf dirt black
Fingers bogged nails
Down raking planting mowing
Forging holes building home
Poles yard sticks
Trampoline bounce pagola
Sunset milk Marsala
Orange zest lemonade
Wild furry grass under my feet
Wednesday 4 July 2012
Pillow Talk
Pillow Talk
Not wanting to distract
From the mallet swaying
Towards the back of her head
Jackie laid low into the pillow
And breathed deep the thick
Wall of air baking the back of her
Tongue.
Not wanting to distract
From the mallet swaying
Towards the back of her head
Jackie laid low into the pillow
And breathed deep the thick
Wall of air baking the back of her
Tongue.
Monday 2 July 2012
All there is
Stand by the window
Stand by the door
Stand by the road
Stand by the shore
Puzzle at the colours
Puzzle at the bends
Puzzle at the sounds
Puzzle at the ends
Dreamily lurking cold
Rug up feel cold
Feel shivering spikes
Feel deep down its not right
Not as it should be
Queer how afraid
Ought we be
What ought we think
At night in the darkness of the sea
Do we use it to fill us up
Keep our inside full
And our hearts cold with fear
Sit feel the jarring quality of concrete
Sit still and listen to sounds you won't understand
Sit and wander in your head and into the sky
Sit close your eyes now open them
There you are
Stand by the door
Stand by the road
Stand by the shore
Puzzle at the colours
Puzzle at the bends
Puzzle at the sounds
Puzzle at the ends
Dreamily lurking cold
Rug up feel cold
Feel shivering spikes
Feel deep down its not right
Not as it should be
Queer how afraid
Ought we be
What ought we think
At night in the darkness of the sea
Do we use it to fill us up
Keep our inside full
And our hearts cold with fear
Sit feel the jarring quality of concrete
Sit still and listen to sounds you won't understand
Sit and wander in your head and into the sky
Sit close your eyes now open them
There you are
Wednesday 20 June 2012
Cry
Cry
Why do we all sit there and say its okay
Why do we all hope it's not our problem
Why do we all think feeling sorry is enough
Why do we dwell on things as it that will fix them
Why do we think we should mask the nasty but do it anyhow
Why do we stand still as our friends suffer
Why do we not care as long as we can't see the pain
Why do we make sure we never meet eshothers eyes for too long
Why do we do things we know are wrong
Why do we do it when we know it will hurt them
Why do we lie to ourselves that it's okay
Why is it so hard to help
Why is it too much to expect a helping hand
Why are we not allowed to demand kindness
Why is kindness a present and not essential
Why do we treat each other like this.
Why do we know the right but choose the easy
Why is it easier to forget and deny suffering
Why is it so easy to think about ourselves
Why is it so important to think of ourselves first
Why did we forget to trust
Why do we need to believe in something more
Why do we sacrifice people for monetary gain
Why do we compete with each other and not lend a hand
Why is personal sacrifice in vain if it's for anyone else
Why did we forget to value anything other than us
Why do I feel the need to write this
Why do I bother
Why do I cry out in pain and anger
Why do I need right now for someone to tell me I'm wrong
Why can't I just accept how things are.
Why do we all sit there and say its okay
Why do we all hope it's not our problem
Why do we all think feeling sorry is enough
Why do we dwell on things as it that will fix them
Why do we think we should mask the nasty but do it anyhow
Why do we stand still as our friends suffer
Why do we not care as long as we can't see the pain
Why do we make sure we never meet eshothers eyes for too long
Why do we do things we know are wrong
Why do we do it when we know it will hurt them
Why do we lie to ourselves that it's okay
Why is it so hard to help
Why is it too much to expect a helping hand
Why are we not allowed to demand kindness
Why is kindness a present and not essential
Why do we treat each other like this.
Why do we know the right but choose the easy
Why is it easier to forget and deny suffering
Why is it so easy to think about ourselves
Why is it so important to think of ourselves first
Why did we forget to trust
Why do we need to believe in something more
Why do we sacrifice people for monetary gain
Why do we compete with each other and not lend a hand
Why is personal sacrifice in vain if it's for anyone else
Why did we forget to value anything other than us
Why do I feel the need to write this
Why do I bother
Why do I cry out in pain and anger
Why do I need right now for someone to tell me I'm wrong
Why can't I just accept how things are.
Monday 18 June 2012
The Storyteller
Scattered moments and images
Do not make for story
And yet this is our frame
Our lives are stories
So perfectly crafted
With plot holes and bias
Unreliable narrators haunt
The fly on the wall
There are no stories
Just fragments broken
And scattered through years
Some provoke tears
Shapes floating foggy in
Our internal mists are
A good place to stick truth
And stories
Writing is a labour and a bore
I'm not sure how to imagine
The empty blankness between moments
Those moments of un profound quiet reflection that remind me
What I am and what I am not
I am an animal flesh bound
Determined to be something
Inspiring I dream up things
No one has ever touched or seen
I latch onto the mists of emotions
I make it flesh
Because i think
We all still want to believe
In stories.
Do not make for story
And yet this is our frame
Our lives are stories
So perfectly crafted
With plot holes and bias
Unreliable narrators haunt
The fly on the wall
There are no stories
Just fragments broken
And scattered through years
Some provoke tears
Shapes floating foggy in
Our internal mists are
A good place to stick truth
And stories
Writing is a labour and a bore
I'm not sure how to imagine
The empty blankness between moments
Those moments of un profound quiet reflection that remind me
What I am and what I am not
I am an animal flesh bound
Determined to be something
Inspiring I dream up things
No one has ever touched or seen
I latch onto the mists of emotions
I make it flesh
Because i think
We all still want to believe
In stories.
Wednesday 13 June 2012
Whispers between White Sheets
I feel and when I do I feel deeply and intensely. When you read this I hope everyone is thinking of that special someone. It's simple because when something works, it always is. Who needs complicated? I hope you enjoy this one, it's very different from my last...less than pleasant poem.
Whispers between White Sheets
I can tell you'll be here for a while
I can tell by your smile
I can tell all the while
you look at me with those beautiful almond eyes
I can tell a lot by the crinkle of your nose
I can tell so much by the wrinkles on your face
and the ways in which you wrinkle your toes
in a morning in bed beside me
I can be free feeling the silk of your skin beside me
I can be free falling in beside your step
listening to the clack of your heels
the sound of your mouth as its sips and moans
I can tell you'll be here for a while
I can tell by you smile
I can tell all the while
you hold me.
Whispers between White Sheets
I can tell you'll be here for a while
I can tell by your smile
I can tell all the while
you look at me with those beautiful almond eyes
I can tell a lot by the crinkle of your nose
I can tell so much by the wrinkles on your face
and the ways in which you wrinkle your toes
in a morning in bed beside me
I can be free feeling the silk of your skin beside me
I can be free falling in beside your step
listening to the clack of your heels
the sound of your mouth as its sips and moans
I can tell you'll be here for a while
I can tell by you smile
I can tell all the while
you hold me.
Pleasant Vibrations
Sometimes the most painful and powerful moments are inside of us. Inside of each of us there is an underground. There's a place we aren't aloud to show anyone. That's where this poem belongs in that troubling loneliness all of us have felt in our darkest moments, where we are so alienated and disconnected from the world.
Maybe one day, we human beings will know how to talk about this. Until then, here is Pleasant Vibrations.
Pleasant Vibrations
The red fuzz of lights
disguises the ugly bile within her
the rain clouds and the fog
are smoking mirrors for the
horror only she knows and no one can feel
the car thuds along
what to say
what to never say
the pleasant vibrations of the morning
are lost on her
in agony she screams out
not in pain but loneliness
Maybe one day, we human beings will know how to talk about this. Until then, here is Pleasant Vibrations.
The red fuzz of lights
disguises the ugly bile within her
the rain clouds and the fog
are smoking mirrors for the
horror only she knows and no one can feel
the car thuds along
what to say
what to never say
the pleasant vibrations of the morning
are lost on her
in agony she screams out
not in pain but loneliness
Monday 11 June 2012
Apparently
Apparently it's a virtue
To be rude
And it's kind too to unveil
Your cruelty
Apparently it's not racist as
Long as you can laugh
Apparently it's not mean if
Something good comes out of it
Apparently All the bullies
need a little more respect
Apparently feelings
Aren't important
Apparently you are a bore to care
And people could care less
About the guy eating scraps
From the sidewalk
Apparently I'm out of touch
Apparently love is a nice word
As long as its removed
from any sort of kind action
Apparently it's smart to be subtle
And it's pathetic to complain
So they tell me put a smile on my face
Apparently mistakes feel fantastic
Apparently it's okay to be honest
Just make sure it's all good
If not keep it inside
And let it fester
Keep it to yourself because
Apparently no one really cares.
To be rude
And it's kind too to unveil
Your cruelty
Apparently it's not racist as
Long as you can laugh
Apparently it's not mean if
Something good comes out of it
Apparently All the bullies
need a little more respect
Apparently feelings
Aren't important
Apparently you are a bore to care
And people could care less
About the guy eating scraps
From the sidewalk
Apparently I'm out of touch
Apparently love is a nice word
As long as its removed
from any sort of kind action
Apparently it's smart to be subtle
And it's pathetic to complain
So they tell me put a smile on my face
Apparently mistakes feel fantastic
Apparently it's okay to be honest
Just make sure it's all good
If not keep it inside
And let it fester
Keep it to yourself because
Apparently no one really cares.
Wednesday 6 June 2012
Weasel Pirate
Look here look there
Not a panda nor a hare
With a thick sooty nose
somewhat oversize
With a nice pink head
It is most common
For the female to be so well
Haired and oiled
Almost glistening as it traipses
Near by lurking creeping
Pretending at grandeur and schemes
Too great for its eel midget head
ring of gold and
Doting ears
unfurl and flap
As she climbs through the rigging
Pillaging and phishing pages
She sits a throne of mud
Try not to get too sticky
You have brown on you
Not a panda nor a hare
With a thick sooty nose
somewhat oversize
With a nice pink head
It is most common
For the female to be so well
Haired and oiled
Almost glistening as it traipses
Near by lurking creeping
Pretending at grandeur and schemes
Too great for its eel midget head
ring of gold and
Doting ears
unfurl and flap
As she climbs through the rigging
Pillaging and phishing pages
She sits a throne of mud
Try not to get too sticky
You have brown on you
Tuesday 29 May 2012
The Nightmare in My Head
I feel like I have to introduce this one, just to be certain no one gets too offended by it. The actual poem goes for a bit longer, but I think this stanza about sums it up. It's another poem lurking about in the vault and as you'll soon gather it has a somewhat unpleasant tone.
I think sometimes in poetry what I am trying to do and what I feel other poets are trying to do, is to tap into something very primal. It isn't so much what is said, but what is felt and what is behind the words. The words are just a vessel for something deeper and sometimes...darker.
The Nightmare in my Head
Let me introduce you to
The Nightmare in my head
One day I saw a vision it was remarkably fuzzy
And perhaps a tad uncertain
Which you may find a relief to be frank
But it was a vision
I saw your body curling up like the edge of a cigarette
I smiled screaming in my sleep
You didn’t scream
like paper you shrivelled
And I stepped you into the ground
The end.
Driving
Good morning all! (well AEST that is)
I was trying to dig up an old poem to share today. Truth be told it's actually quite applicable to something that happened only a few days ago. I think so many of you will relate to it. That peace of driving, it's almost like meditation and it can be magical to share that with someone else. Completely disengaging from abbsolutely everything in the world, so that you create your own private world.
I convince myself it's not too dissimilar to driving on the moon (apologies for the db neg). Anyway everyone enjoy! And don't you worry I intend to be posting again V soon and for any poets who come across this site, feel free to post me a link or suggest a poem you think I should re-post. Always happy to hear from you!
I was trying to dig up an old poem to share today. Truth be told it's actually quite applicable to something that happened only a few days ago. I think so many of you will relate to it. That peace of driving, it's almost like meditation and it can be magical to share that with someone else. Completely disengaging from abbsolutely everything in the world, so that you create your own private world.
I convince myself it's not too dissimilar to driving on the moon (apologies for the db neg). Anyway everyone enjoy! And don't you worry I intend to be posting again V soon and for any poets who come across this site, feel free to post me a link or suggest a poem you think I should re-post. Always happy to hear from you!
Driving
Falling autumn leaves
Recollections and night talk
Ghost stories and camp fires
By the light of a full luminous torch
Breaths possessed of autumn
Wrinkles by my bedside
The contours of our love
So deep
So far
so good
So full
I imagine how to say the unsayable
To imagine the moment as it is now
Captured
Forever next to our bedside
Forever this same picture
Of the sun-setting over the expanse of the horizon
And the final melting gold of the sky
Unfolding beside you and I
And kisses
and this feeble chemistry
and the road
and the sun
and you
driving into tomorrow.
Sunday 27 May 2012
When we Climbed in Trees
Remember the days when we climbed trees
I took your secrets and held them close
I took your hand and up and up we climbed
We never believed how high we'd go
Remember the times we nearly touched fire
You always gazed into the flames
And I watched your eyes and the shadows that
flickered across your face
Remember the days when we hid in the dark
We closed off our hearts and pretended
All the things we were too afraid to say
The feelings were too new to us then
Remember the time when our hands nearly froze
we sat under the trees and we
Still pretended to care about the world
As we stole shy looks at one another
Remember the day when I cried
I was small back then too small to climb as high
I watched you and I tried to follow but I fell
I tried to look away so you wouldn't see my tears
Remember the times when we used to sit
I would say something to fill the gaps
And you would smile
The same way as when we climbed trees
I took your secrets and held them close
I took your hand and up and up we climbed
We never believed how high we'd go
Remember the times we nearly touched fire
You always gazed into the flames
And I watched your eyes and the shadows that
flickered across your face
Remember the days when we hid in the dark
We closed off our hearts and pretended
All the things we were too afraid to say
The feelings were too new to us then
Remember the time when our hands nearly froze
we sat under the trees and we
Still pretended to care about the world
As we stole shy looks at one another
Remember the day when I cried
I was small back then too small to climb as high
I watched you and I tried to follow but I fell
I tried to look away so you wouldn't see my tears
Remember the times when we used to sit
I would say something to fill the gaps
And you would smile
The same way as when we climbed trees
Lonely Tree
Hey everyone,
I was driving down back from Canberra and I saw this lonely tree sitting in the middle of a field all by itself. It made me want to go over to it and hug it the clouds were going dark.
It was a funny thing to think really but it made me wonder why is that tree by itself, when it could be like other trees all together? I suppose maybe this was through human design or perhaps the quality of the soil. In any case there is something I think to be said of a tree who stands so tall and proud in the middle of a field; exposed to the scrutiny of the world.
So to you and all other lonely trees this poem is for you.
Lonely Tree
Lonely tree
Who stands alone upon a grassy field
The sky howling
The sky throbbing above
I notice you and remember
I see you lonely tree
So distant so free
Like no other trees
crowded in fields
Greener than yours
Do not give up tree
Live long live as you wish to be
One day I'll come
One day I'll sit
Under your long limbs
Under your long years
Then tree together
We will be
Only you and only me
Free at last to be
I was driving down back from Canberra and I saw this lonely tree sitting in the middle of a field all by itself. It made me want to go over to it and hug it the clouds were going dark.
It was a funny thing to think really but it made me wonder why is that tree by itself, when it could be like other trees all together? I suppose maybe this was through human design or perhaps the quality of the soil. In any case there is something I think to be said of a tree who stands so tall and proud in the middle of a field; exposed to the scrutiny of the world.
So to you and all other lonely trees this poem is for you.
Lonely Tree
Lonely tree
Who stands alone upon a grassy field
The sky howling
The sky throbbing above
I notice you and remember
I see you lonely tree
So distant so free
Like no other trees
crowded in fields
Greener than yours
Do not give up tree
Live long live as you wish to be
One day I'll come
One day I'll sit
Under your long limbs
Under your long years
Then tree together
We will be
Only you and only me
Free at last to be
Wednesday 23 May 2012
Blue Moon
I saw the most spectacular moon the other month. I don't know why I'm waiting till now to write about it...but basically as a few fishers in the nearby wharf chimed it was supposedly the biggest moon in...a year I'm guessing didn't hear the last bit.
Suffice to say this was a brilliantly white orb glowing so bright in the sky. It most certainly wasnt by any stretch of the imagination blue. But as us Aussies and perhaps our other English counterparts say there are some wondrous things that only happen once in a Blue Moon.
Blue Moon
The blue moon weaves a way
Into dreams and water
And you are here.
Breathless nipping wonder
seas swell like breathing
And you are here
The musk of the sea
Wiped on the rocks
And you are here
The tangle of the worlds
Lights gloam on water
And you are here
Almond eyes subtle tongue
Gentle brown warmth
You are here
The cliffs and the seas
The rocks sand and the grit
And you are here
The Thunder clap of waves
Swirling unfolding lapping
And you are here
As the tide takes over
As the sun grows older
You are here
Night comes and the
black wet Water with it
And you are here
Salt sand grass tickling
Hands entwined
hot mouth perfume skin
Our clothes barely holding
Wet
The blue moon weaves a way
Into dreams and water
And you are here.
Suffice to say this was a brilliantly white orb glowing so bright in the sky. It most certainly wasnt by any stretch of the imagination blue. But as us Aussies and perhaps our other English counterparts say there are some wondrous things that only happen once in a Blue Moon.
Blue Moon
The blue moon weaves a way
Into dreams and water
And you are here.
Breathless nipping wonder
seas swell like breathing
And you are here
The musk of the sea
Wiped on the rocks
And you are here
The tangle of the worlds
Lights gloam on water
And you are here
Almond eyes subtle tongue
Gentle brown warmth
You are here
The cliffs and the seas
The rocks sand and the grit
And you are here
The Thunder clap of waves
Swirling unfolding lapping
And you are here
As the tide takes over
As the sun grows older
You are here
Night comes and the
black wet Water with it
And you are here
Salt sand grass tickling
Hands entwined
hot mouth perfume skin
Our clothes barely holding
Wet
The blue moon weaves a way
Into dreams and water
And you are here.
Monday 21 May 2012
Cold like Fire
Lying under moon colored blankets
Two feet with fidgeting toddler toes
Entwine and thread like vines
Slippery fish-cold sweat
The funk of stale dry fluid
Mistaken for porridge
Honey- shine yolks drooling over
Snap sour toast that dance with
Green wrinkles of spinach
Bitter chest rind balances on
Tongues that tug and pull
Black oily hairs
Faces buried in animal satisfaction
Lapping up the hot pots overflowing with sweet breads
Two feet with fidgeting toddler toes
Entwine and thread like vines
Slippery fish-cold sweat
The funk of stale dry fluid
Mistaken for porridge
Honey- shine yolks drooling over
Snap sour toast that dance with
Green wrinkles of spinach
Bitter chest rind balances on
Tongues that tug and pull
Black oily hairs
Faces buried in animal satisfaction
Lapping up the hot pots overflowing with sweet breads
Friday 18 May 2012
Jabberwocky by Lewis Carrollfrom Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)
Good morning all,
You know the funny thing...I've never really read this poem ever. People tell me I should read Alice in Wonderland.
The thing I wasn't expecting I'd enjoy so much about this poem was how it sounds. I love the ridiculous line "calloo callay!"
It was actually you one of my noble readers who got me to take a look. And you were quite right I think the thing to take from this is the sound and flow of the words...although I like the idea of a jabber wonky although I suppose reading this poem I'm my much closer to knowing what one is.
But anyone reading this try reading this aloud. I think you'll really enjoy the sing-song quality of the Jabberwocky. As for whether I'll read Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass well the jury is still out on that one.
THE JABBERWOCKY
`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.
Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
You know the funny thing...I've never really read this poem ever. People tell me I should read Alice in Wonderland.
The thing I wasn't expecting I'd enjoy so much about this poem was how it sounds. I love the ridiculous line "calloo callay!"
It was actually you one of my noble readers who got me to take a look. And you were quite right I think the thing to take from this is the sound and flow of the words...although I like the idea of a jabber wonky although I suppose reading this poem I'm my much closer to knowing what one is.
But anyone reading this try reading this aloud. I think you'll really enjoy the sing-song quality of the Jabberwocky. As for whether I'll read Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass well the jury is still out on that one.
THE JABBERWOCKY
`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.
Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
Thursday 17 May 2012
The Prison
We sat playing merry games
Darkness enveloped us then
Meats were distributed foul
Words were spoke and I sat
Back in white noise
The next day you could hardly
Tell the voices from the thoughts
The numbness from the reality
Walking down hallways trapped entranced
Doubtful of anything pleasant
Skeptical from experience
Desperate in love desiring an anchor
Something solid stationary
Weeks do not dull dark thoughts
They only multiply like a spiders
Infecting with a habit of sticking
To all you love
That's how he hit her that first time
The fist through her brain
As all you love becomes a sieve
For every menace he brewed in his torn heart
another man was
Driving along one night
It was A long dark highway
through bush and ignored but ever present stars
And by the time he was home he scarcely could recall the trip
Save for the dark miasma crawling
And sucking like leeches at his chemical thought
Is it right to be so numb to sensations
Does the internal rule after all as
Our pedestrian bodies strut across
Unnavigable streets
How deep and dark can a mind wander
How much can thoughts dominate experience
Did you see the boy who got pushed down into mud
It wasn't the mud that stuck but
Something darker and impossible to wash out
Did you try and talk to him
Did you hear the stuff he says or rather doesn't say
The way he sways his head as he speaks
And how he looks at the point on the wall beside you
The way he denies and denies
Again and again and again
I thought all this as I sat
Now they are laughing
It is time i decided that
I must also laugh
"that is most funny" I exclaimed
Most funny I thought as it
Became less so
Very funny I repeated only to my mind
Sinking now
I wasn't there anymore not really
I was in a place where laughter
Manifested differently
And soon it was infecting me
And jabbing me
And all I could think was
How desperately I wanted to escape.
Darkness enveloped us then
Meats were distributed foul
Words were spoke and I sat
Back in white noise
The next day you could hardly
Tell the voices from the thoughts
The numbness from the reality
Walking down hallways trapped entranced
Doubtful of anything pleasant
Skeptical from experience
Desperate in love desiring an anchor
Something solid stationary
Weeks do not dull dark thoughts
They only multiply like a spiders
Infecting with a habit of sticking
To all you love
That's how he hit her that first time
The fist through her brain
As all you love becomes a sieve
For every menace he brewed in his torn heart
another man was
Driving along one night
It was A long dark highway
through bush and ignored but ever present stars
And by the time he was home he scarcely could recall the trip
Save for the dark miasma crawling
And sucking like leeches at his chemical thought
Is it right to be so numb to sensations
Does the internal rule after all as
Our pedestrian bodies strut across
Unnavigable streets
How deep and dark can a mind wander
How much can thoughts dominate experience
Did you see the boy who got pushed down into mud
It wasn't the mud that stuck but
Something darker and impossible to wash out
Did you try and talk to him
Did you hear the stuff he says or rather doesn't say
The way he sways his head as he speaks
And how he looks at the point on the wall beside you
The way he denies and denies
Again and again and again
I thought all this as I sat
Now they are laughing
It is time i decided that
I must also laugh
"that is most funny" I exclaimed
Most funny I thought as it
Became less so
Very funny I repeated only to my mind
Sinking now
I wasn't there anymore not really
I was in a place where laughter
Manifested differently
And soon it was infecting me
And jabbing me
And all I could think was
How desperately I wanted to escape.
Wednesday 16 May 2012
A Love Story (Celebrating 1+ years of Where Shall I Wander)
Im terrible with birthdays and somehow I missed my own. I am pleased to announce to my readers that Jolly one-click is proud to be moving into a new year. It's well overdue now, but I thought I could do something I haven't done in a while, go back into the vaults and rather than write a new poem post something I've written a while ago.
I think this is a good one to pick. It's not particularly nostalgic, but it's an experiment. It's four little experiments. I can't even remember the reason for the heading "love story", but each of these poems or at least a few of them were the rough workings of larger ones I wrote later.
I hope you enjoy this look into the drafting of poems. Sometimes as I've said before I simply liek the sound of words or I like sometimes I like changing the tone around. You know you have something really dark so you understate it in your language. Actually there's a song, George Michael "Cars and Trains", it has the catchiest beat, but the chorus goes something like this, it's funny too different songs in a way...but it'll give you an idea of what I'm trying to say.
"Getting you ass to the top of that building
throwing yourself under cars and trains
taking the pill that you know will kill ya
under the wheels the same the same."
Ah George gotta love ya! Give it a listen, it's actually a really cool song. It's on his album Patience. Let's be uber patient for the next one eh?
Anyway without further adue here it is "A Love story" a quartet of short paragraph form poetry. Thank you again readers for staying reading on this site. I appreciate everyone who has even glanced at this page (if only to learn about Sarah Simpson's Grave...hahaha).
Disintegrates. Open eyes, dead train. But still alive. Still here
The Hospital Bed. I did not know it, but i saw the glassy
eyes
humming awake on that bed, the grey hands sighing over the fresh sheets,
the sudden jolt as if by frankenstein But there were no bolts, only the flesh and those howling eyes. Soon strangled from life.
the cold air whips about your person warning sirens in the twilight relics of the time-fold but the black ash of the highway Always the same
I think this is a good one to pick. It's not particularly nostalgic, but it's an experiment. It's four little experiments. I can't even remember the reason for the heading "love story", but each of these poems or at least a few of them were the rough workings of larger ones I wrote later.
I hope you enjoy this look into the drafting of poems. Sometimes as I've said before I simply liek the sound of words or I like sometimes I like changing the tone around. You know you have something really dark so you understate it in your language. Actually there's a song, George Michael "Cars and Trains", it has the catchiest beat, but the chorus goes something like this, it's funny too different songs in a way...but it'll give you an idea of what I'm trying to say.
"Getting you ass to the top of that building
throwing yourself under cars and trains
taking the pill that you know will kill ya
under the wheels the same the same."
Ah George gotta love ya! Give it a listen, it's actually a really cool song. It's on his album Patience. Let's be uber patient for the next one eh?
Anyway without further adue here it is "A Love story" a quartet of short paragraph form poetry. Thank you again readers for staying reading on this site. I appreciate everyone who has even glanced at this page (if only to learn about Sarah Simpson's Grave...hahaha).
A
Love Story.
Superman. A train. Close your eyes. 200 miles an hour. Smacks my head,
but
I
only hear vibrations. Asleep the metal melts. Into a coffin, my bodyDisintegrates. Open eyes, dead train. But still alive. Still here
humming awake on that bed, the grey hands sighing over the fresh sheets,
the sudden jolt as if by frankenstein But there were no bolts, only the flesh and those howling eyes. Soon strangled from life.
A Piece of Evidence. Riding to tomorrow. transfixed on the
horizon. Gazing at the night-day
Apparitions
As they whisper their Ancient secrets A piece of evidence Beating in your ear
asthe cold air whips about your person warning sirens in the twilight relics of the time-fold but the black ash of the highway Always the same
Funny Face. You have a funny face. The sort i can’t quite look away from. Hey funny face. The sort i can’t hide from I love ya. I’ll hug ya. Come in funny face. Always laughing. With those big blue cheeky eyes The kind of eyes that cry And cry and cry Funny feast of mine
it
ought to have been mine. at least in a dream. maybe at a time
Where were the Words
Where were the words
Where were my words
When the world stopped working
When the world stopped working
Where was my plan
When it all vanished
When it all vanished
What could I have done?
Is there such a thing as fairness?
Did I wait too long?
Did I wait too long?
Where were the words
The words that might have saved me
Where are they now?But lost in my stomach
Where is my head
lost hovering warm and close
...too closelost hovering warm and close
Where was my heart
Radiant and pulsing
Ready to fight
Full of passion and conviction
Where was my courage
It came too late
in a time of delusional luxury and procrastination
Radiant and pulsing
Ready to fight
Full of passion and conviction
Where was my courage
It came too late
in a time of delusional luxury and procrastination
Where were my friends
When the world turned dark
Where were they when knives
rammed through my heart.
Where were they when knives
rammed through my heart.
Thursday 3 May 2012
Sydney's Face
It's funny I haven't written much patriotic, but I just found a brilliant way to use some odd things I've observed in the last two weeks. See folks this is how a poem emerges. This morning I looked up my Pops nostrils and I took out my iPhone and wrote down (as you do )that they looked like two almonds.
About a week before I looked out at the sunset and as it faded behind the blue mountains I thought of the light in a new way...like a big sagging lip drowsily maybe drooling onto the pillow as it goes to sleep.
Anyway everyone here's something a little lighter than my last posts. Just wanted to share that very insightful look inside the mind of a poet...haha. Hope it wasnt too disappointing.
Sydney's Face
I'm convinced Sydney has a face
With My pops almond nostrils
And a nose wrinkled with the same
Adorable crinkliness of my girlfriend
The tongue would be as long as its highways with a retractable tongue
Like my fathers old garage door
Its eyes would seem like juicy black fruits soaked in the stars of night
As they bathe in the Harbour
Hair spun carelessly in sand and on
Some days salt, chilli, oregano, chilli
He'd have my mums forehead
With the the same three lines she's worn since I first learned to frown
Bushy eyebrows like our former PM and the koalas stamped on our shield
A cheek soft and pillowy almost like one
Of those big fat gym balls
Delightful on the rump soft on the hands
A jaw and chin not carved in the Renaissance but blunted and crude like those shoddy things they call houses out west way
Maybe also it would be blue and wet skin amphibious and grotesque
Like the way you'll never know if you'll emerge from the sea with a grin
Or maybe a blue bottle attached lovingly to your leg
All the rest I've only just now made up but that's just as well
Because I saw the fat red lip
Of Sydney from my dull dreary quarters
It stretched flat and amber gold
Hanging slackly over the tops of the mountains
About a week before I looked out at the sunset and as it faded behind the blue mountains I thought of the light in a new way...like a big sagging lip drowsily maybe drooling onto the pillow as it goes to sleep.
Anyway everyone here's something a little lighter than my last posts. Just wanted to share that very insightful look inside the mind of a poet...haha. Hope it wasnt too disappointing.
Sydney's Face
I'm convinced Sydney has a face
With My pops almond nostrils
And a nose wrinkled with the same
Adorable crinkliness of my girlfriend
The tongue would be as long as its highways with a retractable tongue
Like my fathers old garage door
Its eyes would seem like juicy black fruits soaked in the stars of night
As they bathe in the Harbour
Hair spun carelessly in sand and on
Some days salt, chilli, oregano, chilli
He'd have my mums forehead
With the the same three lines she's worn since I first learned to frown
Bushy eyebrows like our former PM and the koalas stamped on our shield
A cheek soft and pillowy almost like one
Of those big fat gym balls
Delightful on the rump soft on the hands
A jaw and chin not carved in the Renaissance but blunted and crude like those shoddy things they call houses out west way
Maybe also it would be blue and wet skin amphibious and grotesque
Like the way you'll never know if you'll emerge from the sea with a grin
Or maybe a blue bottle attached lovingly to your leg
All the rest I've only just now made up but that's just as well
Because I saw the fat red lip
Of Sydney from my dull dreary quarters
It stretched flat and amber gold
Hanging slackly over the tops of the mountains
Imagine Storms
Imagine
storms
Imagine the
thunder of free horses
As they
gallop like steam engines over a plain
A plain with
thunder overhead
And grass
ripe for for burning
Can you
imagine
Pain without
blood or a mark
Maybe a prick
that pierces
See blankets
And see
safety
Feel cool
The nervous
chill of air-conditioning in
Long lonely
yellow lit halls
Without shadows
and music
Imagine nails
dragging over dried skin
Imagine the
small white arteries that form
The soft
trickle of red blood as it turns to treacle
Warm and near
comforting
Can you
imagine
Can you see
fire as it burns hairs on skin
How close do you
look
How long do
you look at the individual fibres
As they
dissolve silent
Imagine storms
Imagine hell
Imagine
prison
Imagine
whispers of a dark voice
Imagine squid
fingers that shoot
Darkness into
murky pools
Imagine
phantoms
See them
trail behind your eyes
Tickle the
blood vessels circling your brain
Imagine
wrapping yourself tight
But feeling
nothing
Imagine a
lightning strike
The thunder
booms
Do you hear?
It rings
again louder still and inescapable
Bound inside
you
It’s always
inside
Storms
Imagine
storms
Imagine the
crashes of thunder
Are waves
Imagine the
blinding lightning
Is the sun turned
white and petrified
Imagine
sinking into the peat
Imagine going
dark
Imagine
softly suffocating
Imagine no
more suffering
Imagine
Wednesday 2 May 2012
Poison Me
Poison me
So that we can drown
In a toxic bubble
Called fun and parties
And ecstasy
Force liquid burning
Down my throat
Rotting my insides
Because its good
Don't resist
Don't hold back
Don't be a pussy
Don't be weak
Down it quick
Let your mouth be an endless
Chute spilling the happiness
Straight to your rotting liver
Straight to your grey matter
So that we can drown
In a toxic bubble
Called fun and parties
And ecstasy
Force liquid burning
Down my throat
Rotting my insides
Because its good
Don't resist
Don't hold back
Don't be a pussy
Don't be weak
Down it quick
Let your mouth be an endless
Chute spilling the happiness
Straight to your rotting liver
Straight to your grey matter
Thursday 19 April 2012
Puddles
I've tried to impose some restriction on myself today. I was told once that structure can be anything but ultimately it comes down to patterns. I won't go into the detail see though if you can pick it.
It doesn't take much to inspire a poem...but I was taken aback as I walked up the steps at my rail station how the sun shimmered off the pools of water in the carpark. It was beautiful and their were moments where the light melted with the water and it really did seem as though I was seeing gold.
I suppose really beauty is everywhere we only need to see it. I hope anyone reading this had the opportunity to see something beautiful today :) maybe in the least likely place.
Puddles
There is a golden puddle
This morning it shines just
As bright as any water
There are two bodies entwined
On leather seats rattling bound
In opposite directions back home
There is a proud pool
Peeking between shoulder blades and
Sighing restless in deep crowds
There are names and whispers
Green men and dark women close
Like magnets they find each-other
There is a puddle here
a place passed everyday in
No way is it special
Until its beauty is seen.
It doesn't take much to inspire a poem...but I was taken aback as I walked up the steps at my rail station how the sun shimmered off the pools of water in the carpark. It was beautiful and their were moments where the light melted with the water and it really did seem as though I was seeing gold.
I suppose really beauty is everywhere we only need to see it. I hope anyone reading this had the opportunity to see something beautiful today :) maybe in the least likely place.
Puddles
There is a golden puddle
This morning it shines just
As bright as any water
There are two bodies entwined
On leather seats rattling bound
In opposite directions back home
There is a proud pool
Peeking between shoulder blades and
Sighing restless in deep crowds
There are names and whispers
Green men and dark women close
Like magnets they find each-other
There is a puddle here
a place passed everyday in
No way is it special
Until its beauty is seen.
Sunday 15 April 2012
Adam Lindsay Gordon's Bush Poem
Everyone to me there are few ways I can describe what it is about Australia I feel makes me Australia. All of it is captured in this poem. It's not the landscape though, it's relationship this poet has with it. It's a complex love. It's something so unexpected. It's the attitude of all of us I'd like to think. Read this poem and see if you understand what I mean. It's behind glass in Canberra the seat of the Australian Commonwealth Government. I wonder why?
Adam Lindsay Gordon, poet, 1876
In Australia alone is to be found the Grotesque,
the weird the strange scribblings of nature learning how to write
Some see no beauty in our trees without shade,
Our flowers without perfume,
Our birds who cannot fly
And our beasts who have not yet learned to walk on all fours.
But the dweller in the wilderness
Acknowledges the subtle charm of this fantastic land
of monstrosities.
He becomes familiar with the beauty of the wilderness
He learns the language of the barren and the uncouth
and Can read the hieroglyphs of the haggard gum trees
blow into odd shapes, distorted with fierce hot winds
Or cramped with cold nights when the Southern Cross
Freezes in a cloudless sky of icy blue.
The phantasmagoria of that wild dreamland
Termed the Bush interprets itself
And the poet of our desolation begins to
Comprehend why free Esau loved his heritage of desert sand
better than the bountiful richness of Egypt.
Adam Lindsay Gordon, poet, 1876
In Australia alone is to be found the Grotesque,
the weird the strange scribblings of nature learning how to write
Some see no beauty in our trees without shade,
Our flowers without perfume,
Our birds who cannot fly
And our beasts who have not yet learned to walk on all fours.
But the dweller in the wilderness
Acknowledges the subtle charm of this fantastic land
of monstrosities.
He becomes familiar with the beauty of the wilderness
He learns the language of the barren and the uncouth
and Can read the hieroglyphs of the haggard gum trees
blow into odd shapes, distorted with fierce hot winds
Or cramped with cold nights when the Southern Cross
Freezes in a cloudless sky of icy blue.
The phantasmagoria of that wild dreamland
Termed the Bush interprets itself
And the poet of our desolation begins to
Comprehend why free Esau loved his heritage of desert sand
better than the bountiful richness of Egypt.
From An Author
Greetings all,
I've mentioned my poetry teacher many times and although it is sometime since we've parted ways his advice continues to rub off on me. There were two things really he had to say...aren't I cruel to point it out, but really it's like those big philosophy books the lay person will emerge from the philsophical immersion with a single thought. It's nuanced and deep, deeper sadly than can easily be expressed...
Anyway I digress, the thing he'd always be interested in with can be summed up in two words, "rhythm " and "play". Today is all about "play".
Boredom is great fruit for the imagination. What wonders germinate! (Yes he must be a poet say you the reader, who else would use such a reprehensibly pretentious word). So before you my readers I am about to state a few very silly truths about the English language, no doubt a five year old could do the same. But I think the world needs to play...and a new friend of mine, she told me recently that the very concept of childhood has changed and is somewhat artificial. So today as a critique and a bit of fun, I'm going to explore the idea of "play" in language. Because language especially English, because atm that's all I know is rather stupid and not at all adult!
From An Author
Analyse beings with anal
Coincidence with coin
Does begins as do, but it has evolved
Narrow it can't be coincidence contains row
Bother is a composition of her and also bot
She contains he (as they daily remind us)
Health a noun for all purposes contains heal most definately a verb.
Language contains gauge and what really is it trying to gauge?
Explain is derived of pain
Writing ends in ting, a kind of bell a momentary sound, a momentary diversion
I've mentioned my poetry teacher many times and although it is sometime since we've parted ways his advice continues to rub off on me. There were two things really he had to say...aren't I cruel to point it out, but really it's like those big philosophy books the lay person will emerge from the philsophical immersion with a single thought. It's nuanced and deep, deeper sadly than can easily be expressed...
Anyway I digress, the thing he'd always be interested in with can be summed up in two words, "rhythm " and "play". Today is all about "play".
Boredom is great fruit for the imagination. What wonders germinate! (Yes he must be a poet say you the reader, who else would use such a reprehensibly pretentious word). So before you my readers I am about to state a few very silly truths about the English language, no doubt a five year old could do the same. But I think the world needs to play...and a new friend of mine, she told me recently that the very concept of childhood has changed and is somewhat artificial. So today as a critique and a bit of fun, I'm going to explore the idea of "play" in language. Because language especially English, because atm that's all I know is rather stupid and not at all adult!
From An Author
Analyse beings with anal
Coincidence with coin
Does begins as do, but it has evolved
Narrow it can't be coincidence contains row
Bother is a composition of her and also bot
She contains he (as they daily remind us)
Health a noun for all purposes contains heal most definately a verb.
Language contains gauge and what really is it trying to gauge?
Explain is derived of pain
Writing ends in ting, a kind of bell a momentary sound, a momentary diversion
Thursday 12 April 2012
The Laughing Dark
There are two types of laughter
One
Readily acknowledged happy loud and alive
Two
Is an ugly smear delighting in cruelty
Two
white eyes gleaming in the dark
They call it the laughing dark
The sort of things you'd never imagine
Hide in it and are part of it
It was inside us first they say
There it lay one day
Till it was unleashed
A shaman of old
He told of two forces
It was said he laughed also
A shrill shriek of a laugh
It seemed to ripple red
What manner of magic or craft
He Used cannot be said but
One night the dark light in
The corners of his eye
Became something tangible
Soon it fed and grew
Because as it was part of him
It was also part of us
You weren't surprised though
Where you?
You knew about the two types
When I began
I knew it
As I knew it when the telling was
Done for me
The sort of knowing best forgotten
Or at least that is the lie your mind hides conspicuously from you
Now you know of it
But you shall not see it
Only feel it
its eyes are not the sort
That Lurk in our world of light
It laughs at such notions
Look now outside
Hear the sounds of dark
That is not their sound
The crickets are gentle and the wind
Tonight is calm
All these things you know also
And it is close
It will make itself plain
All the feelings and sensation
You've carried all that you did not see
You will not soon forget
Nor will it
It thinks as do we
The laughing dark
Now you know it
But you will feel it better in time
And perhaps you will tell someone else of it
Perhaps then you will know
What it truly is...
One
Readily acknowledged happy loud and alive
Two
Is an ugly smear delighting in cruelty
Two
white eyes gleaming in the dark
They call it the laughing dark
The sort of things you'd never imagine
Hide in it and are part of it
It was inside us first they say
There it lay one day
Till it was unleashed
A shaman of old
He told of two forces
It was said he laughed also
A shrill shriek of a laugh
It seemed to ripple red
What manner of magic or craft
He Used cannot be said but
One night the dark light in
The corners of his eye
Became something tangible
Soon it fed and grew
Because as it was part of him
It was also part of us
You weren't surprised though
Where you?
You knew about the two types
When I began
I knew it
As I knew it when the telling was
Done for me
The sort of knowing best forgotten
Or at least that is the lie your mind hides conspicuously from you
Now you know of it
But you shall not see it
Only feel it
its eyes are not the sort
That Lurk in our world of light
It laughs at such notions
Look now outside
Hear the sounds of dark
That is not their sound
The crickets are gentle and the wind
Tonight is calm
All these things you know also
And it is close
It will make itself plain
All the feelings and sensation
You've carried all that you did not see
You will not soon forget
Nor will it
It thinks as do we
The laughing dark
Now you know it
But you will feel it better in time
And perhaps you will tell someone else of it
Perhaps then you will know
What it truly is...
Mrs Macquarie's Chair
Good morning everyone,
Laid out before me is the reason I love where I live. I'm sitting on the edge of the Botanic gardens a spot known to us Sydney sliders as Mrs Macquarie's chair.
What do I see? Everything really boats, planes and the water with the lift shining off it like crystal. Then to my right are giant metal cranes that make me marvel at how much we have conquered nature in some sense that's what they represent to me. To my left the world renowned arch of the Harbour bridge and white sails of the Opera house.
This isn't a secret spot. It's just a favorite I'm discovering as more and more minds and eyes gaze and linger in the same sight before me. It's a beautiful morning and it's great to share such an amazing sight with so many other people this morning.
Hopefully this poem will give you some idea of what it feels like to sit here in y denim jeans on the cold grass with the cool salty breeze blowing over my skin.
Mrs Maquarie's Chair
Crystal
Like thin sky blue fingers
Tumbling over and under
Breathing on rock shores.
The tangle of metal and grass
The loll of bodies on hillsides
Jackets discarded
Eyes open half closed
Chairs and portals into
Worlds so near to touch
To waters and foam
Helicopters, ferries and water.
Salt.
Leaves and wind
Upraised hairs on elephant skin
Folk of all sorts and all colours
Dull made pink in the morning light
Bright made pure in the greeness of ground
White stone sails
An arch unmistakable
More eyes metal eyes
Clasping eyes
The stains of eyes embalmed in albums.
Perspectives visions
Trapping time, trapping nature and stealing a moment
A glimpse a blink
Sun mingles here it rests
Like smooth concrete
Water intermingles with it
And lays out a golden carpet
Over this vast Harbour
The sounds of eyes
"Look at this look at that!"
Feet slow to keep pace
Thoughts amble
There are few words here
The sounds are of beasts
Of flies licking salt and blood off skin
Birds diving and yowling
Or soaring near silent, whipping their wings
But also there are other sounds
The giant ferries churning through the water
And for their size struggling to cut a path through water
Propellers chop meanwhile high in the sky above sounding like a roar
As if maybe the metal is crying out confused as to how it got so high
From its home in the earth
do you see that
Crystal ?
Do you see it shimmering and
Lapping right at our feet?
Laid out before me is the reason I love where I live. I'm sitting on the edge of the Botanic gardens a spot known to us Sydney sliders as Mrs Macquarie's chair.
What do I see? Everything really boats, planes and the water with the lift shining off it like crystal. Then to my right are giant metal cranes that make me marvel at how much we have conquered nature in some sense that's what they represent to me. To my left the world renowned arch of the Harbour bridge and white sails of the Opera house.
This isn't a secret spot. It's just a favorite I'm discovering as more and more minds and eyes gaze and linger in the same sight before me. It's a beautiful morning and it's great to share such an amazing sight with so many other people this morning.
Hopefully this poem will give you some idea of what it feels like to sit here in y denim jeans on the cold grass with the cool salty breeze blowing over my skin.
Mrs Maquarie's Chair
Crystal
Like thin sky blue fingers
Tumbling over and under
Breathing on rock shores.
The tangle of metal and grass
The loll of bodies on hillsides
Jackets discarded
Eyes open half closed
Chairs and portals into
Worlds so near to touch
To waters and foam
Helicopters, ferries and water.
Salt.
Leaves and wind
Upraised hairs on elephant skin
Folk of all sorts and all colours
Dull made pink in the morning light
Bright made pure in the greeness of ground
White stone sails
An arch unmistakable
More eyes metal eyes
Clasping eyes
The stains of eyes embalmed in albums.
Perspectives visions
Trapping time, trapping nature and stealing a moment
A glimpse a blink
Sun mingles here it rests
Like smooth concrete
Water intermingles with it
And lays out a golden carpet
Over this vast Harbour
The sounds of eyes
"Look at this look at that!"
Feet slow to keep pace
Thoughts amble
There are few words here
The sounds are of beasts
Of flies licking salt and blood off skin
Birds diving and yowling
Or soaring near silent, whipping their wings
But also there are other sounds
The giant ferries churning through the water
And for their size struggling to cut a path through water
Propellers chop meanwhile high in the sky above sounding like a roar
As if maybe the metal is crying out confused as to how it got so high
From its home in the earth
do you see that
Crystal ?
Do you see it shimmering and
Lapping right at our feet?
Monday 9 April 2012
I hate and I love
I hate and I love
If you asked me why
I would guess at an answer
As possible as it is to say
What it is to love
And what it is to hate
A girl tantalizing close
And yet unfairly distant
Hope barely kindled
Mixed with pessimism so certain
She came in my dreams
A fantasy large and round
In all the ways the best for me to observe
Now my gaze is interrupted by glares
Glares that stream now unwarranted
To interrupt the landscape of
Her smooth lips curled but no
Longer charming
Filled instead with the snarl
Painted on when last I laid eyes
On her
Locked from her
thick lip stick with no taste for my mouth
Ribbons of hair absent from my hands
The floor boards are hard
On my bare feet
They are harder as I stand
And wait
Voices far away start up first
Then clearer
Now doubt
No ring no knock
Absence only
For tonight
Sleep
but alone
Thoughts intrude as they always would
Fears shadows sounds lights
Distractions perhaps from
The absence felt so keenly
In clean sheets in this bed
This giant empty bed
Empty with me
If you asked me why
I would guess at an answer
As possible as it is to say
What it is to love
And what it is to hate
A girl tantalizing close
And yet unfairly distant
Hope barely kindled
Mixed with pessimism so certain
She came in my dreams
A fantasy large and round
In all the ways the best for me to observe
Now my gaze is interrupted by glares
Glares that stream now unwarranted
To interrupt the landscape of
Her smooth lips curled but no
Longer charming
Filled instead with the snarl
Painted on when last I laid eyes
On her
Locked from her
thick lip stick with no taste for my mouth
Ribbons of hair absent from my hands
The floor boards are hard
On my bare feet
They are harder as I stand
And wait
Voices far away start up first
Then clearer
Now doubt
No ring no knock
Absence only
For tonight
Sleep
but alone
Thoughts intrude as they always would
Fears shadows sounds lights
Distractions perhaps from
The absence felt so keenly
In clean sheets in this bed
This giant empty bed
Empty with me
Back
A shorty! Life is too short anyway when I typed this on my iPhone notes I was strolling back from lunch to the office and just got this powerful image into my head. Sometimes that's all a poem is...although I've recently been to a poetry gig or two where people get up and recite these longer poems.
So you may see some longer babies coming your way. My only issue with longer poetry is that poems are so abstract how can you possibly process it all as you read it ?
Maybe though on the other hand a real poem begins as an idea or image like the one below and evolves into something more. That's perhaps the intriguing thing about poetry they have such an organic genesis...as opposed to so much else written in the western world these days.
Back
Bitterness is the sound of footsteps
Thwacking like bullets on the pavement
So you may see some longer babies coming your way. My only issue with longer poetry is that poems are so abstract how can you possibly process it all as you read it ?
Maybe though on the other hand a real poem begins as an idea or image like the one below and evolves into something more. That's perhaps the intriguing thing about poetry they have such an organic genesis...as opposed to so much else written in the western world these days.
Back
Bitterness is the sound of footsteps
Thwacking like bullets on the pavement
Wednesday 4 April 2012
Thrashing
Hello all! Easter is drawing near and I thought it was about time I posted something. My brother has his engagement party this weekend.
As with all parties I enjoy nothing better than dancing. My brother had a smoke machine and lasers ! It was amazing at times while we thrashed on the dance floor at the back of my house, we'd be engulfed completely in smoke! It was so cool one minute you would be In a crowd the next you would be completely alone buried in fog and smoke.
It was a fun night of dancing! And that is what has inspired my poem tonight. Dancing vigorously...I was thrashing ! :)
Thrashing
Sometimes amid night
Amid bodies
Thick steamy misted musty forms
Blur in and out of light
Blurring appearance
Sweat and musk mingle
Slamming feet ache from the effort
Lasers scrape and burn holes in sound
Lights flicker in bright unnatural tones
While sonorous claps course
On drifts at the edge of beats
Then after
When it's finally done
Here I am
Here we are
The same people as before we
started thrashing
As with all parties I enjoy nothing better than dancing. My brother had a smoke machine and lasers ! It was amazing at times while we thrashed on the dance floor at the back of my house, we'd be engulfed completely in smoke! It was so cool one minute you would be In a crowd the next you would be completely alone buried in fog and smoke.
It was a fun night of dancing! And that is what has inspired my poem tonight. Dancing vigorously...I was thrashing ! :)
Thrashing
Sometimes amid night
Amid bodies
Thick steamy misted musty forms
Blur in and out of light
Blurring appearance
Sweat and musk mingle
Slamming feet ache from the effort
Lasers scrape and burn holes in sound
Lights flicker in bright unnatural tones
While sonorous claps course
On drifts at the edge of beats
Then after
When it's finally done
Here I am
Here we are
The same people as before we
started thrashing
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