All entries for Thursday 04 October 2007

October 04, 2007

Poetry: Tombs

When I went to Cyprus on holiday, to 'relax' as put by my family (though we did little of that, thinking about it), we stayed in Pafos and visited a few of the local ruins. This is a poem I wrote when visiting the Tomb of the Kings. I'm not much of a ruin / museum person, but this, combined with several mosaics of Greek mythology seen in said ruins inspired me. It helps that I have done Epic Tradition last year: this is what I really drew on for this poem, as you can probably tell. So without further ado...


In the dust of Pafos

(womb of the navel of the world)

Lies the Tomb of Kings.

But it is the tomb of kings

In only its name.

In these houses for the dead

No Atreides laid himself to rest.

No Agamemnon slept here

Wrapped in regal webbing.

The blood of the kin of Oedipus

Ran not here in Pafos.

Yet these were noble men that lived.

Not kings of men that died

In a golden age of spears and swords

But men who lived, for a time.

No heroes lifting giant boulders

But the several men who could lift it together.

These were the men who were

Stoned in death.

Now here we walk:

Yellow stalks dot the wayside,

Green leaves huddle in clefts,

Darker plants net the rocks

Beneath the feet of tourists.

Between the sand and stone

And walls made before we came,

We descend.

Standing, leaning on pillars

For support, we look on family chambers

Which are empty.

They are not here.

All that is left of noble men,

Their wives and children,

Are the doors,

The steps,

The walls

And dust.

Poetry: Bacon

Written because I felt slightly surreal, and because my older sister said something odd that sparked the first line. Enjoy.



Dear Pig: O Pig,

Why do you cry,

Upon the melon coloured sky?

Do you snore while you’re relaxing?

Do your ankle bones need waxing?

Do you call your hat your home,

When between the trees you roam?

And don’t you think you should have felt

The butter on your pink skin melt?

Do you trip over you feet

For a girl with just a bit of meat?

But now your thoughts depart like ships.

I think I’ll eat you with my chips.

Poetry: Spam Stirfry

I wrote this as part of an exercise in the first Introduction to Creative Writing workshop.

The rules for those who are interested:

  • Long and short as desired
  • 10 syllables a line
  • Each line contains a word from 'caucasian refurbishment'
  • First word of each line must be I, you, he, she, they or we
  • Exception is the last line

Enjoy liberally.

Spam Stirfry

You, demigod, would you take a message

We have written to Milan. It’s convex,

They are sorry about that bong. Wait! Hey

You, it’s going to Alaska stop stop

I stop you leaving, you cipher pervert,

You get back here to the dress rehearsal.

We will take back our letter, convex man,

We will drown you in the cottage bathhouse,

We will. Or blowfish shall think when really

I will arrest you for the queen diabetic.

I mean the dastard beams are kinda good,

We would agree, aplomb, and so perforce

You would mount the altar of the crime scene,

And for that dubious crime, you’d detonate.

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