writing jam/rainy day - part 1

Making muddle of baking puddles, screaming curdles with bitter whey.
Climbing a ladder of I don't want to be here, crunching an apple, in the uncomfortable constant of whirligig roundabout change. Castles in the air, a ferris wheel with flapping legs; safety bar to hem you in, protect your head from falling out, out -- smack onto the tarred concrete, the bubbled cobbles, the unfriendly sharp-stoned flatspread, pierced deep with the mighty roots of steel.

---
I wrote this piece, and its continuation, on a heavily rainy day.

forecast bricks

forecast bricks, a-falling from the sky, this morning.

denting the grass, a raining danger.

confounding the best-laid landscapes,

cratering hedges and ticketing garden gnomes;

splashing and crashing

and crushing delicate fountainwork,

intricate garden lacery,

squashing it, slamming it,

flat.

A Way to Make You Smile

Here's some simple - but perhaps profound - words. Not mine.

I've found a way to make you,
I've found a way --
A way to make you smile

I read bad poetry
Into your machine.
I save your messages
Just to hear your voice.
You always listen carefully
To awkward rhymes.
You always say your name,
Like I wouldn't know it's you,
At your most beautiful.

Yes, this is from 'At My Most Beautiful', by the great R.E.M.
Give it a listen.

Actually I always thought it was describing a guy trying to get a reaction from his beloved, who was hooked up to medical machines, perhaps in a coma.
Reading the lyrics, I see it's not about that. It's just about leaving a message on someone's message machine.
But the simple sadness in the music is profound at any rate.

who'd have thought?

who'd have thought
    the man could teach me?

my soul-calming river-rushing moments came back to me,
and I relaxed, and let down my walls
to look beyond his smell and his shabbiness.

and then he began to sing. I coaxed myself to be calm,
to remain opened, to look beyond...
perhaps he's one of the hidden ones,
who challenge us to see greatness, if only we will look deeper,
look beyond...

he sang an ancient melody,
and it warmed my soul, as I sat there motionless,
listening, and keeping down my guard.

he sang and the holiness in what he flickered towards,
in what he aspired towards,
touched me and soothed my soul with comfort.

I wondered after he had gone -
and I barely knew what to wonder.

mindmap

mindmap, to get your thoughts out,
straighten them out, on paper:

mindmap, feel
the threads and strands begin to exist,
draw quick lines,
link words, feel
brain-ways click! and cogs engage

mindmap,
a dream is a word, and the castles of the air
are yours to build;

mindmap,
be free, break the walls
of your brain-prison, think
out of the straight and narrow ruled lines:
think big! think joined!
think everything is linked now,

blink, begin
to see things differently.

--------
Image from here.

rain

rain
tapping on the roof, so
thin away from the ceiling,
sounds
so
close to me, I even sat up
to see if it was
dripping down onto my bed.
but
-- sleep --
it
wasn't...


--------------
Image from here.

in and out of synch

the rain beat down,
and I watched the wipers,
swish and swipe,
wipe and rest, wipe and rest and return;
and they two were just slightly
out of
synch, and I waited and watched till they came together
as one. and again.

fading in and out of synchrosity,
in and out of touch;
come and go, waves lapping
and touching and missing:
water meets shore, retreats,
forth and back,
go forth and go back,
in and out of time.

-----
Image from here.

The Pain ("Killing Me Softly")

A poem about expressing what's truly inside, and how that process can be sparked by music. Inspired greatly by the song, "Killing Me Softly." For more info, see the footnoote.

And the pain
Speaks, in the space between;
where the buildings loom not, and the trees sit in the lonely silent emptiness;
where space flowers and spreads,
germinating in a cloud borne on swirling wind.

The pure pain
speaks out, vision spoken out on prophet's tongue,
played through, on fingers of the musical mathematicians,
sung out, sung out gently,
in throats of foggy-grouped singers.

The pain
Slips ballroom sideways,
in that agonizing quiet grace,
bare of the vulgar matted overgowns,
coats and wraps,
screens and veils:

The pain
tears at its onlookers's heart,
upon his eyes' fall to it, lying naked in its pooling blood,
ghastly face to be once beheld
and never forgotten:

The pain
becomes eye-flowingly beautiful
in its plain simplicity,
in the consequence of simple step after
simple step;

She dances
in simple grace;

The beautiful pain
Is too much to bear.
-----------------------

This is a song, inspired by a song, inspired by a song.
I was in someone's car today, and heard a cover of the beautiful song, "Killing Me Softly."

As Wikipedia tells it, Singer/songwriter Lori Lieberman saw Don McLean singing his composition "Empty Chairs" in concert. Afterwards, Lieberman wrote a poem titled "Killing Me Softly with His Blues", which became the basis for the song written by Norman Gimbel and Charles Fox.

I listened to Roberta Flack's (Grammy-winning) version of the song just now, and it really moved me in its simplicity; in its directly described pain and anguish. As I interpret it, the songwriter expresses the dumbfounding, bewildering, overpowering experience of having her emotions and deepest, most inner experiences suddenly laid bare by a stranger:

... And there he was, this young boy
A stranger to my eyes
Strumming my pain with his fingers
Singing my life with his words
Killing me softly with his song
Killing me softly with his song
Telling my whole life with his words
Killing me softly with his song...

She speaks of her intense discomfort at being laid emotionally bare: vulnerable and helpless, at the mercy of the "young boy" with the words that penetrated into her heart like a knife:

I felt all flushed with fever
Embarrassed by the crowd
I felt he found my letters
And read each one out loud
I prayed that he would finish
But he just kept right on

Strumming my pain with his fingers
Singing my life with his words
Killing me softly with his song

I really found there was a lot of pure, frank emotion expressed in this song. A lot of pain.
And that inspired me to write my poem above. Joining as a link in the chain of songs...

Don McLean ("Empty Chairs") -> Lori Lieberman ("Killing Me Softly With His Blues") -> Charles Fox & Norman Gimbel ("Killing Me Softly With His Song") [Performed by Roberta Flack] -> Me ("The Pain")

To really get my poem, I recommend you read it while you have "Killing Me Softly With His Song" play in the background. That's what I did as I wrote it.

a haiku

Haiku is easy.
Short and simple, and it's done.
Profound? Not always.

:-)

For more info on haiku, look at Wikipedia's article.
I've seen that among twitter poets, haiku is quite a popular medium of expression.
So have a look at #haiku...

Enjoy...

singled out late

and there they all stand
already begun,
and here I come,
late and the clock ticks with every step
I take, making me late, making me late.

the shame and the pain
of sticking out so plainly,
in front of them all,
in front of them all, innocently guiltless,
passively okay, done nothing wrong,
all's good, all's fine,
but who's this guy
coming up late? who does he think he is,
bringing up late?
can bend the rules? disobey
what we all keep to?

who said he can be late?

and the unthought thoughts,
that I plaster onto their foreheads,
brewed and fomented,
frothed and hydrated
in the panic of my fevered mind
crash cymbally onto my face,
into my ears,
and my pain mounts, I am chastened
by
myself in the lonely silence
of coming late and
sticking out so sorely,
like
a bruised thumb.

---
Image from here.

graffiti -> kids

my answer to graffiti is
have kids.

so you're concerned;
something inside you pecks at
the transience of your brief time here:
in this school, in this tunnel,
in this freaking world.

so you want
to feel safe in knowing
that your name will be remembered,
that your memory will linger on 
-- such strange common thoughts
in the soul of a party-lifed teen --
wanna feel comfortably legacied,
not for nothing have you suffered your existence.

so you take your name,
carve it,
dip it,
paint it,
scratch it,
they won't forget, no, you won't pass on
pass by into blankness,
into unexistence, no;
your name will outlast your presence.

my answer to graffiti is
have kids

have a kid who'll
know you, who'll experience you,
who'll learn to know your name,
who'll be planted with some of your very soul,
who'll live on with it long
after you move on out,
long
after you pass on by,
long after they paint over your
carved, sprayed, etched name
with a new coating of
plastic for the new kids who'll
never read it, never see it, never know
who you were.

become a real-life legend,
not a label of a name, connection forgotten,
context overwritten,
faded into the dusty oblivion
of time and time and passing time.

be brave, and live life,
beyond a brief etching.
become the legend
you want remembered,
and pass on your awesomeness
to generations to come.

my answer to graffiti is
have kids

---
Image adapted from here.

suddenly I'm overcome

and suddenly it fills me,
thrills me,
bleeds my heart open, all revealed of a sudden;
tears spring to escape, push to dive
out of the corners of my eyes:
suddenly I'm overcome.

and now I have
images in my mind,
sounds ringing, ringing in my ears.
I've got the sweet saddest guitar of years ago
coming at me, in to my heart;
suddenly I'm overcome.

now I just want to cry,
throat burns, as it all bursts forth.
cry? why? I
don't know; don't know the tune
of the song singing in my soul, the melody that bursts, now,
bursts out, aching to be set free:
suddenly I'm overcome.

and now I ask myself,
as the crowding of the crusty outside noise
comes sliding back like mud,
over bare exposed cracks of
soul,
what I'm going to do,
what to do
with this song in my soul,
with these words, this tune, this pain;
I ask myself, but - stop thinking! - here come tears:
suddenly I'm overcome.

I don't know!
I don't know what it is, that's got my heart aching, bursting,
got my eyes streaming,
so full, so full of
... something...

suddenly,
I'm overcome.

---
Just a small note: this really happened. Helped to have some amazingly emotive and heart-tugging old folk music playing.

seagull at the lake

A while ago, I took a trip with some friends to a large lake, and was quite taken with the great presence of seagulls.
As I describe in the poem below, something in me rebelled against this. Surely seagulls are supposed to be at the sea, not at an inland lake? Their very name says so.
Well, this intrigued me enough to serve as inspiration for a poem.
Here it is. Enjoy. As always, your comments are welcome.

seagull at the lake

big fat birds

picture white,
with alarming wingspans,
jumped and swooped at our crumbs in the park.

'why doesn't someone tell them
they're in the wrong place?' I said,
and got a serving of laughs for my wit.

you're SEA-gulls. that's what y'are.
why are you at a lake?
you're big and bulky and fresh-looking,
on trees and green grasses, park benches and very un-seasideness;
and something of the little boy's traditional
seaside holiday education,
rules and knowledges imbibed,
input and written up, written down in the soft places inside,
rebels against this out-of-placeness.

for sure, live where you want,
seagulls.
be happy and dive for your food on the grass,
carry on living the seagull way;
but...

you're seagulls. living at a lake. faaaar from the sea.
does this not
feel a little strange to you?

---
Picture is from here.

your selfishness; my pants

selfish
or just blind to the thought
that other people may exist,
beyond your own eyes and Freuded wants.

I left my pants, harmlessly hanging,
neatly creased, doing you no harm.
You want the bed, so you take my clothes
and dump them in a creasy crumple.

I understand you want the bed.
But what
did I ever do to you?
what did my clothes ever
do to you? that you drop them like that

and the added kick
of the fact that in the end,
you never did take the stupid bed
frustrates me just a little more.

Inspiration: Leo Buscaglia

Here are some powerful quotes from Leo Buscaglia.
What I've read of his works, and what I've seen quoted from him, is often highly inspirational. Never mind inspiration, I do believe the man knew what he was talking about, and that the world is in desperate need of his kind of teachings.

What love we've given, we'll have forever. What love we fail to give, will be lost for all eternity.

So true. And what a change from our readily accepted definition of "love" as being something that "does it for me".

Worry never robs tomorrow of its sorrow, it only saps today of its joy.

True, isn't it? Here are some more.

Your talent is God's gift to you. What you do with it is your gift back to God.

Love is life. And if you miss love, you miss life.

Love is always open arms. If you close your arms about love you will find th
at you are left holding only yourself.

Only the weak are cruel. Gentleness can only be expected from the strong.

The easiest thing to be in the world is you. The most difficult thing to be is what other people want you to be. Don't let them put you in that position.

What I find beautiful about these sayings is that they're so simple, yet so deeply true. Why don't more people talk like this?
-----
The quotes are from this page. I found a brief description of Leo Buscaglia and his approach on this page. Happy reading

a flat eye

she had a pretty face
but her eye was flat:
it held its mighty power over her in ugly smugness.

her friend looked fine,
no strange eyes,
and her nonchalance was nondescript and smooth.

but the first girl
had a flatted eye.
I suddenly urged a surge of pity
for a pretty girl
with all the chances but -
for this one thing,
the lid that drooped, the eye that hid in caved darkness within.

what are her chances?
what are her odds?
what kind of a special guy
will see through the eye
and into her soul?

and where, among the million,
is he?

boiled potato and a can of sardines

boiled potato,
but it cooked too fast,
too hot,
too much: and it's
soft on the outside, chewy on the inside.

boiled potato,
skin slips outa my grasp,
soap in a tub,
dog in your arms.

can of sardines,
with tomato sauce.
didn't expect much;
I was not disappointed.

can of sardines,
but the pull-ring broke,
so I had to lift the cover
with the back of a fork.

boiled potato,
a can of sardines.
crunchy? who'da thought? yes, it's
bunches of crunchy chewy
potato,
mixed with simple sardines;

it's my meal, and I' got it,
and I'll chew it
till it's gone!

fire-inspired

yes, I'm inspired,
suddenly,
to crunch down, aim and fire,
to put my shoulder 'gainst a wheel and push it till it grinds!

I'm fired up,
all aflame,
and hoping it doesn't die childless again.

I'm motivated,
moving with push,
like a river on its way,
-- don't get in my way --
like a hippo to water, here I come, here I go!

I'm all fired up,
I'm ready to go.
Ready to grease palms, scuff skin to a callus,
Get rough, get sweaty.

I'm ready to go big. Ready to go strong.
Ready to set out,
buckle up,
Here I go!

----
Image from here

a friend in pain

I have the privilege of the friendship of a really amazing person. She's been through some very difficult, dark times, but she remains one of the most cheerful, happy people I know.
Hearing her story inspired me to write this poem, as a series of Twitter tweets:

1> she tells of autumn leaves, crunched, swirled in bitter howling winds. tales of a fantasy messed-up life, couldn't be true - right?
2> her stories chill, the darkness haunts the deepest spots in her pupils; hellfires on earth, a walking nightmare.
3> but silver sparkles in the tears on her cheeks, in the gusting wind that snatches and plays with our uttered words.
4> , the bitter revelation past, she smiles and laughs. Got no choice? 
5> No; her choice is to smile, to bite down on the lemon and draw sugar from somewhere deep. Or maybe she's decided how to live. 
6> Cup half full? Not always; she sighs. Not always, my friend; but her laugh comes again, a welcome refrain -- 
7> -- sprinkling a teaspoon of sugar, to help the medicine go down. No umbrella on her, but she knows how to shine! 
   
May she have much joy...
---
1 2 3 4 5 6 7

glued

glued to the screen, yeah,
you know what I mean.

outside the sun dances all along the horizon,
but that doesn't touch me.

inside my face flickers, two-step in time with the tiniest pixels,
flushing and pulsing,
washing me with eery palest light.

inside I slowly
wither and die,
get old and dry,
and my back slips out, shoulder droop
to where they shouldn't go.

outside things go on, life carries along,
people love and hate and dance and sing and cry and get
frustrated,
anguished,
pained!

but,
inside I am at one
with the gentle constant hum,
glued to the screen,
you know what I mean,
slowly dying in the unearthly zombie silence.

twitter & poetry

you can find some great poems on twitter.
it's a creative challenge to fit something meaningful and poetic inside 140 characters or less.
have a look at the #poetry hashtag.

The twitter users I'm following include some interesting poets! Look here

I think it's a great exercise for an aspiring poet to churn out some tweet-poems. It forces you to really focus your creativity on what exactly you want to say, and to say it in the smallest possible space. You can be creative with symbols, too...

candy 4 ur soul

Many begin, but do not continue.
Many set out, but do not arrive.
Many speak stirring words,
But fail to craft them an existence.

Many promise,
But few fulfil.

Many declare,
But few deliver.

So I will remain modest of speech, quiet of intent,
and try to deliver
what I can.

Enjoy the ride