All 6 entries tagged Poetry
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May 30, 2009
Jotted down on the first page of a new blue-covered notebook.
This is my blue book.
Does that mean, then,
that I must always
record my most depressing moments?
Or am I able to
take from it
offered by the shushing
of the waves
on the beach on a still day?
But, no. It is a royal blue.
A regal, righteous tone
that attends and
shall command my language,
ushering in the liveried letters
one by one,
to line up in ranks
where they shall fight for my freedom.
February 15, 2009
Phases of Day
Twilight falls, a curtain
Of melancholy settling
Over the vestiges of a summer's day.
The gnats sing in their buzzing
Choirs, and the bats' wings
The vixen sneaks out of
Her earth, shoulders low,
And shrieks victory to the night,
A vicious, rust tinted
Call, to which
Three cubs cackle their accord.
Stars come out, white
As the owl's wings
On silent winds.
Wise raptor huntsman owns
The night that is his cover.
Moon rises over,
Meadow threads shining below, as the cats
Creep on their battlements
That their enemies made.
Dusky dawn arrives at last, twilight's
The gnat's puerile music
And a different chorus
Begins. The earth replaces its dictator:
Beast for the dove.
January 14, 2009
Beyond the Blowfish
This poem was a homework from Peter Blegvad, and it had to be written using these rules/constraints:
1. The poem can be of any length, but each line must contain only ten syllables.
2. Each line must contain one of the words Peter read out when we were doing the free-writing exercise in class: blowfish, cuddle, detonate, Cyprus, destiny, anti-semitism, couch, beyond, convulsive, car, bass, demi-god, convex, Alaska, cypher. A word can be repeated or not used at all.
3. The first word of all the lines save the last one must be I, you, he, she, we, or they.
There was also another rule which was that the poem should contain one or several of the phrases that we underlined in our free-writing exercise, but I forgot about this one, as did everyone else, so this will just have to do for now, and maybe I'll write another version later.
Beyond the Blowfish.
I gingerly prod deflated blowfish —
We wait for the moment — damp — detonate!
We see convulsive inflations — small fish —
I, the demi-god, cannot understand:
We say, why did the bass fish not go bang?
I cast the blowfish onto the old couch:
We see our destiny in
We climb into the car — convex — bent — squash…
The blowfish twitches out its life — gone now.
January 07, 2009
Free–writing exercise from first seminar with Peter Blegvad
This is a transcript of the free-writing exercise I did in our first poetry seminar with Peter Blegvad. Basically, we were writing down whatever came into our heads as quickly as would could, whilst incorporating words shouted out by Peter whilst we were writing into the "sense" of the piece. I don't quite think I'm prepared to call this piece poetry just yet, but it does nevertheless seem to have vague kind of sense about it, some feeling of a sort of wholeness, so I'm putting it up here simply because of the curiosity it planted in my head. Anyway, here it is:
metal trees with splintered blowfish sides
an explosion of petals fall like lead
dead men walk in icy shoes
and parrots scream out expletives
orang-utan cuddles cameraman
and twitchers shoot down eagle chicks
detonates with a whisper
flashes with sound
light is buried under heavy Cyprus wood
scent of needles pricking memory
amnesia nothing destiny’s approach
somnambulism’s wake-up call
and dream-death of the forgiven soldier
anti-Semitism running rife around
the eyes of children who play
the tv switching from flame to rose
and back to liquidity
ideas slog and blankness couches on the cortex
society’s weight pushing down beyond the pillows
with a convulsive mutter
and gun-mouth rattles car-sides tinting
bass sound in soprano city
singers crunching under feet of empires
who are in legion demi-god and
not separate like cacti in the desert
water swells and boils and rushes over land
the Moses of our millennia
convex perceptions of a man who isn’t real
vanity’s mirror is full of cracks
and mankind’s use has spotted it
Alaska-like with snow-capped peaks
impenetrable to the feeble mind
a winding scree of loose ciphers
jargon gobbledegook trollish rubbish
all belong on a garbage heap
this is where we long to weather
and moulder here till death we meet.
November 19, 2008
This is a selection of poetry revolving around the theme of insomnia. I was going to place them in chronological order, but then decided to post them in order of personal preference instead.
I still haven't worked out how to stop the stanzas running together yet with this stupid line break format, so yet again the separation of one stanza from another will be marked with an x.
Sleepless nights and adrenalin haze
pass me by as title-less days,
the moon sweeps in, Triumphant arc,
but brings with it not the winsome sleep-dark.
Days and evenings merge all one together,
derelict without touch of soft eider feather.
Pills slip down at once sugar and bitter,
but have no effect on eyelid’s twitch-flicker.
The milky drink’s burning, too hot and yet cold,
then daylight’s sharp beam comes too dazzling, too bold!
Huddle up cat-like, world curling in,
numb mind receives just confusion and din.
Hammers keep beating, blows throbbing my head,
as I crawl to my rack – to that torture – my bed.
The Madness of the Daytime Sleeper
As migraine worsens
so back-ache lessens,
pain relieving fellow pain –
then senses fold into regression
and flashing lights burst on again.
Pills are eaten,
lights still flicker in my mind.
Thunder claps as brain cells weaken
and I know I must be going blind.
This is the madness of the daytime sleeper,
tales from the memory that never rests,
any minute nap’s a keeper,
but goodness knows, this can’t be best.
Asleep and drowning,
slipping into void.
The laughter clicking
in the fuzz dream-noise.
An indistinct stalker,
blurred and now blind;
I trip and I stumble,
both falling behind.
Panic now, sleep smudged,
sluggish and cold.
The winds of despair,
tear a rip-roaring hole.
Fighting through clouds now,
wade-jumping through treacle,
as I run, hide – await:
tomorrow night’s sequel.
October 09, 2008
Thorn and Rosebud
The formatting of this blog doesn't seem to like it when you put double spacing, so I've had to use x to indicate where there is supposed to be a blank line.
Thorn and Rosebud
The roses climb
out of time
pushing the bud
pushing the rosebud
desperately pushing at the rosebud
to make you mine.
The thorns climb no more,
and the flower blossoms.
- June 2008