So there is much rejoicing in the Northern Oak camp as our new album, Monuments has been released and is available to buy from music.northernoak.co.uk
One of the influences for the album has been the Victorian scholar, George Eadon Deakin and a brief biography can be found on the inside of the CD case should you chose to buy a physical copy of the album. In his honour there is a secret twelfth track, a recording of one of Deakin's most famous works; 'Monuments for Hollow Souls'.
The poem is dedicated to his wife Arabelle who died of Scarlet Fever at a relatively young age and captures just how dramatically the event changed his character. The misery of her loss rotting his soul completely and giving birth to a pure loathing of humanity.
His choice of literature to reference, Milton's Paradise Lost and Darwin's Origin of the Species, would have been popular at the time but I wonder if the fact both question the nature of God (whether intentionally or not) were intentional. Mirroring his own questions about his faith in the power or indeed the existence of a deity. It is rumoured, based on those final lines, that Deakin committed suicide after completing this but we have no way of knowing whether he took his own life.
Its a stark, misanthropic piece. Right up my street really...
Monuments For Hollow Souls - George Eadon Deakin
As Eve sustained on rib of man,
So shall my wife subsist on blood.
My fingers writing endless praise
To that angelic countenance
Of high virtue and scarlet heart.
When fever took you from my side
My Heaven split asunder. A
Foul caesura of my will,
Allowing rot to set within.
Diseasing my vision so I
See Pandamonium’s vile truth.
The loathsome nature of mankind
Before your purity of voice.
How dare they keep on breeding twist-
-ed progeny for work houses
And other faecal pits of flesh?
For those that understand as I
These works will serve as stern allies
My monuments for hollow souls.
My gift to a world putrid without
Her light. I am prepared now, bear-
-ing poisoned words with which to greet
My maker such a scene that I
Wonder if Darwin would permit
Tuesday, 30 November 2010
Writing comics...
So in my time in the land of Sheffield I have encountered many a person and among them is the ever curious Owen Watts, who bloggers may already follow as the Crazy Fox Machine http://crazyfoxmachine.blogspot.com/ an exemplary artist whose work you can see here http://crazyfoxmachine.deviantart.com/.
Now when you meet someone who is that completely into their art, talented and looking to produce more I’m generally left thinking how I could work alongside them. The mighty O is oblivious to this as I have never taken my comic ideas to him as they are all far too overblown for the amount of time I can commit (I had visions of a 24 parts series, each one entitled and themed after a major arcana of Tarot detailing the overthrow of a Pedro Paramo type figure in a forgotten human outpost in space. I still have all the plans somewhere...) or are interesting ideas which never truly gained form.
So when Owen announced that he would be creating the comic, Doctor WTF – a series of comics by a mixture of different artists and writers – and asked if I would be interested I jumped at the chance. When confined to a story loosely themed by the Doctor Who mythos, an idea for a horror story came relatively quickly for me but the major learning experience was actually typing it up.
Everyone has their moment where they say they could write a better script than that etc but you really can’t appreciate how deceptively hard it can be. The main content of what would be said and the visual pieces was never altered but the exact wording and the number of panels was constantly changing, ranging from 2 to 3 pages in length and the text getting progressively smaller until I could make the content take up the least space without raping the English Language or damaging the character.
Its certainly given me a lot more respect for the medium, a better understanding of how to write it and a sense of anticipation for what the artist will make of my script and for potentially working on more of them.
So if there is anything that you’ve thought you’d want to try, something you could do better then go for it! It will be a unique experience and you never know what you might learn...
Now when you meet someone who is that completely into their art, talented and looking to produce more I’m generally left thinking how I could work alongside them. The mighty O is oblivious to this as I have never taken my comic ideas to him as they are all far too overblown for the amount of time I can commit (I had visions of a 24 parts series, each one entitled and themed after a major arcana of Tarot detailing the overthrow of a Pedro Paramo type figure in a forgotten human outpost in space. I still have all the plans somewhere...) or are interesting ideas which never truly gained form.
So when Owen announced that he would be creating the comic, Doctor WTF – a series of comics by a mixture of different artists and writers – and asked if I would be interested I jumped at the chance. When confined to a story loosely themed by the Doctor Who mythos, an idea for a horror story came relatively quickly for me but the major learning experience was actually typing it up.
Everyone has their moment where they say they could write a better script than that etc but you really can’t appreciate how deceptively hard it can be. The main content of what would be said and the visual pieces was never altered but the exact wording and the number of panels was constantly changing, ranging from 2 to 3 pages in length and the text getting progressively smaller until I could make the content take up the least space without raping the English Language or damaging the character.
Its certainly given me a lot more respect for the medium, a better understanding of how to write it and a sense of anticipation for what the artist will make of my script and for potentially working on more of them.
So if there is anything that you’ve thought you’d want to try, something you could do better then go for it! It will be a unique experience and you never know what you might learn...
Tuesday, 12 October 2010
Abby Brown - Backbiting
Route 57 is an online publication featuring the works of Sheffield University students and in the most recent edition there is this piece by the lovely Abby Brown.
Backbiting
She was already his as you dwelled
staring in one hand-mirror – gloomy blue.
With a dusty frame and a blueberry sheen
it reflected your filth, bedeviled your face,
making you just as blue as the glass it encased.
There were tinges of green locked
in your fleshy seams when
she bit her bottom lip and
he half-smiled. You saw and exhaled
jade sneezes from your emulous glare
your fingers curling, revolted
as the mirror gloated, bearing
your chubby eyes and bulky reflection.
Not her pastel lips, perfect for his
oaky eyes and coaly 80's hair
smelling of burnt sage and honey.
An issue of the poem that may divide opinion is the character referred to throughout. Personally I like the fact that I don't know who it is and that they are steadily revealed in descriptions through out the poem, it adds an air of mystery which draws you on (made me think of the evil queen in Snow White). However, from previous experience, it can stop some people from identifying with the poem. I would like to see more of this character though, who they are and how they proceed now those two are together.
Sound wise, it is extremely enjoyable to read with words like 'emulous' and 'fleshy seams' being very satisfying to read (The psychology graduate in me wonders if its shapes it makes your mouth form. Supposedly if you force someone to smile they will feel happier after time, whether that's down to chemical releases or cognitive disonance who can say..) and there are rhymes embedded in text which give a pleasant sound without the sledgehammer approach that most rhyme uses. There's also very good use of senses with the physical sneezing, the clear visual descriptions ('oaky eyes' is quite a unique and evocative one) and the smells such as his hair which give a lot of depth.
I confess though, I have no clue what the title is about! Something I will have to ask Miss Brown...
Backbiting
She was already his as you dwelled
staring in one hand-mirror – gloomy blue.
With a dusty frame and a blueberry sheen
it reflected your filth, bedeviled your face,
making you just as blue as the glass it encased.
There were tinges of green locked
in your fleshy seams when
she bit her bottom lip and
he half-smiled. You saw and exhaled
jade sneezes from your emulous glare
your fingers curling, revolted
as the mirror gloated, bearing
your chubby eyes and bulky reflection.
Not her pastel lips, perfect for his
oaky eyes and coaly 80's hair
smelling of burnt sage and honey.
An issue of the poem that may divide opinion is the character referred to throughout. Personally I like the fact that I don't know who it is and that they are steadily revealed in descriptions through out the poem, it adds an air of mystery which draws you on (made me think of the evil queen in Snow White). However, from previous experience, it can stop some people from identifying with the poem. I would like to see more of this character though, who they are and how they proceed now those two are together.
Sound wise, it is extremely enjoyable to read with words like 'emulous' and 'fleshy seams' being very satisfying to read (The psychology graduate in me wonders if its shapes it makes your mouth form. Supposedly if you force someone to smile they will feel happier after time, whether that's down to chemical releases or cognitive disonance who can say..) and there are rhymes embedded in text which give a pleasant sound without the sledgehammer approach that most rhyme uses. There's also very good use of senses with the physical sneezing, the clear visual descriptions ('oaky eyes' is quite a unique and evocative one) and the smells such as his hair which give a lot of depth.
I confess though, I have no clue what the title is about! Something I will have to ask Miss Brown...
Tuesday, 28 September 2010
Speak Easy @ Sheffield Hallam Hubs 28/9/10
SO I tonight I 'performed' at Speak Easy at the Hallam Hubs. A spoken word night for which the full details can be found on their Facebook page
http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=109264991400&ref=ts
It always strikes me as a bit strange that I can happily go and scream my head off as part of Northern Oak and yet the half hour wait for my turn had me wanting to vomit. I have a good idea why, the fact its just me on the stage without 5 outstanding individuals by my side, that it's blindingly obvious what I'm saying and I don't know the crowd so have no idea how I will be received.
Either way practice will make perfect and I'll be a King of Carnival Creation before long...
The first poem was written in the lunchtime of a Poetry Business writing day and the second is an idea I had on a trip to Chester in March, which I finally finished today.
Waiting for the ambulance
Everything is grainy and monochrome
like silent films from closed picture houses
so it’s fitting her begging tongue
can’t be heard over the crash of blood
hurtling toward erratic bellow lungs
forcing a birdcage of ribs to rise
shattered arm winds toward her
she grabs the barely raised hand
a tight knit of white knuckles
the connection that serves as axiom:
there is truth in everything
hold on...
Drive through Snake Pass
I gaze out the passenger window
into the plunging valley.
Wondering if I could
dispel those forces
that hold me together.
Skin would be lost to the winds
only to be caught in a tree,
fluttering in vain attempts to escape.
Blood would drain into the soil
returning as vibrant flora.
Organs falling and splattering
like unfortunate creatures
embedded in the road
‘til only my bones remain.
Bones covered in tiny chips and fractures
that reveal my past with rugged honesty.
Untainted by the distortions of memory.
I imagine my soul,
the vortex within them,
forcing to their surface
in flowing emerald script
the facts of my nature I try to deny.
What this body is truly capable of.
Guiding strands of promising futures.
Answers I yearn to witness...
but even if this were possible;
my eyes would have been lost as well.
So this whole exercise
would be futile.
http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=109264991400&ref=ts
It always strikes me as a bit strange that I can happily go and scream my head off as part of Northern Oak and yet the half hour wait for my turn had me wanting to vomit. I have a good idea why, the fact its just me on the stage without 5 outstanding individuals by my side, that it's blindingly obvious what I'm saying and I don't know the crowd so have no idea how I will be received.
Either way practice will make perfect and I'll be a King of Carnival Creation before long...
The first poem was written in the lunchtime of a Poetry Business writing day and the second is an idea I had on a trip to Chester in March, which I finally finished today.
Waiting for the ambulance
Everything is grainy and monochrome
like silent films from closed picture houses
so it’s fitting her begging tongue
can’t be heard over the crash of blood
hurtling toward erratic bellow lungs
forcing a birdcage of ribs to rise
shattered arm winds toward her
she grabs the barely raised hand
a tight knit of white knuckles
the connection that serves as axiom:
there is truth in everything
hold on...
Drive through Snake Pass
I gaze out the passenger window
into the plunging valley.
Wondering if I could
dispel those forces
that hold me together.
Skin would be lost to the winds
only to be caught in a tree,
fluttering in vain attempts to escape.
Blood would drain into the soil
returning as vibrant flora.
Organs falling and splattering
like unfortunate creatures
embedded in the road
‘til only my bones remain.
Bones covered in tiny chips and fractures
that reveal my past with rugged honesty.
Untainted by the distortions of memory.
I imagine my soul,
the vortex within them,
forcing to their surface
in flowing emerald script
the facts of my nature I try to deny.
What this body is truly capable of.
Guiding strands of promising futures.
Answers I yearn to witness...
but even if this were possible;
my eyes would have been lost as well.
So this whole exercise
would be futile.
Sunday, 12 September 2010
The Wearer by Colette Bryce
The Wearer by Colette Bryce
Here is my necklace, blister
pearls, a single garnet
for the eye, diamond sparks,
but where am I?
This loop contained a laugh,
a pulse, a throat
that arched perhaps
in love, perhaps
disdain, that warmed
this chain and knew
itself as beautiful.
Whoosh… life! A peacock tail
can stop a clock, can shock
a room to silence.
Oh I played that game,
observed the trembling
hands of men pause
above my breasts. Exquisite,
they would murmur then.
Feast your eyes, look
for me. You'll find
my books, my silverware,
my gowns, the flute
that held my wine, the fork
that carried food
to my full lips.
The set, the props, and this,
this… my vanity, that loved
the gaze that looked
at me, that bloomed
like any peacock tail
at the soft words
of a lover, who whispered
that my teeth were pearls,
my ear a shell, mother-
of-pearl, that sapphires
were my eyes
but where am I?
This is an absolute whirlwind of a poem I love it. The constant line breaks and punctuation forces you to read it quickly and its that speed which makes that final line seem so much more shocking a stop. Like a train derailing.
My one complaint though is that I don't think the line 'but where am I' should have been in the first stanza, I think it would have been better for it to appear as a surprise at the end.
With regard to the content itself I doubt you really need me to explain the fact that it is a comment on the materialistic world in which the wearer inhabits and that the person is second to the necklace, the only way the lovers can describe her is by likening parts of her to the jewellery. Her actual physical nature is lost beneath the pearls the plaintive question of where am I? borders on rhetorical as she knows, nowhere to be found...
Here is my necklace, blister
pearls, a single garnet
for the eye, diamond sparks,
but where am I?
This loop contained a laugh,
a pulse, a throat
that arched perhaps
in love, perhaps
disdain, that warmed
this chain and knew
itself as beautiful.
Whoosh… life! A peacock tail
can stop a clock, can shock
a room to silence.
Oh I played that game,
observed the trembling
hands of men pause
above my breasts. Exquisite,
they would murmur then.
Feast your eyes, look
for me. You'll find
my books, my silverware,
my gowns, the flute
that held my wine, the fork
that carried food
to my full lips.
The set, the props, and this,
this… my vanity, that loved
the gaze that looked
at me, that bloomed
like any peacock tail
at the soft words
of a lover, who whispered
that my teeth were pearls,
my ear a shell, mother-
of-pearl, that sapphires
were my eyes
but where am I?
This is an absolute whirlwind of a poem I love it. The constant line breaks and punctuation forces you to read it quickly and its that speed which makes that final line seem so much more shocking a stop. Like a train derailing.
My one complaint though is that I don't think the line 'but where am I' should have been in the first stanza, I think it would have been better for it to appear as a surprise at the end.
With regard to the content itself I doubt you really need me to explain the fact that it is a comment on the materialistic world in which the wearer inhabits and that the person is second to the necklace, the only way the lovers can describe her is by likening parts of her to the jewellery. Her actual physical nature is lost beneath the pearls the plaintive question of where am I? borders on rhetorical as she knows, nowhere to be found...
Thursday, 9 September 2010
[untitled] by Rufinus
There are days when I'm plodding along, minding my own business, when I encounter a poem which really astounds me with the ability to make me think of something in a different light. Describing it in such a beautiful way that it appears a marvel.
Here below is Exhbit N, which as a whole isn't especially good but...
[untitled] by Rufinus
How could I have known
Kythereia was in her bath,
her lovely hands letting
her hair laugh about her throat.
May she, my queen, have mercy-
my eyes saw what was not meant for me.
Her unspeakable beauty, her graces
have shamed even the Goddess.
Her hair laugh about her throat, as soon as I read this my mind was set alight. What a stunning way to describe hair? I would never have though of it laughing but now I can imagine hair moving gently around her neck as if each strand is playing with the other, it has such a positive feel and makes the mental picture of an attractive nubile lady naked in the bath come all the more alive.
It's great to find little treasures like this.
Here below is Exhbit N, which as a whole isn't especially good but...
[untitled] by Rufinus
How could I have known
Kythereia was in her bath,
her lovely hands letting
her hair laugh about her throat.
May she, my queen, have mercy-
my eyes saw what was not meant for me.
Her unspeakable beauty, her graces
have shamed even the Goddess.
Her hair laugh about her throat, as soon as I read this my mind was set alight. What a stunning way to describe hair? I would never have though of it laughing but now I can imagine hair moving gently around her neck as if each strand is playing with the other, it has such a positive feel and makes the mental picture of an attractive nubile lady naked in the bath come all the more alive.
It's great to find little treasures like this.
Affectation by Martin Collins
AFFECTATION
You can find me amidst the plaguescapes.
Beneath the bilious clouds
trapped by foetid air.
Drowning in eruptions
Wens, blisters, tumours, phagadaenas
I know their banal gossip,
Questioning my choice to remain.
The thought makes me expel smoke from my maw
like a daemonic engine releasing rage.
The burning inside tells me this is home,
I do not need to hide who I am.
There’s one thing that won’t infect me here,
their affectation.
This was written in the lunch break of a Poetry Business writing day just before I took it into the afternoon workshop (it would appear one works best under pressure..). The inspiration was that all the poems I had written in the morning session were based on reality or personal experience and nothing imaginary. So my personal challenge was to write something fantastic for which I invented a person and/or creature living a self-imposed exodus in some inhospitable terrain, which I dubbed the plaguescapes (I think that name is probably a product of The Locust album title Plague Soundscapes. Note me using the lower case suggesting it is something that can occur in multiple places, not a singular event...I'll stop babbling now).
The title is my joke upon the voice of the poem as although he claims he will never suffer from affectation like those he detests, by his very nature he is affected to do what he does. However the fact the voice is not fleshed out or given identity a few of the people at the workshop stumbled on this and couldn't engage with the poem without knowing who was speaking.
As a result, I'm not entirely sure if its finished in this format, by which I don't know if I am going to change the poem so that is feels stronger and more effective as a stand alone poem to deal with issues of 'Who is the voice?' or make it part of a series... more importantly whether one has the time...
You can find me amidst the plaguescapes.
Beneath the bilious clouds
trapped by foetid air.
Drowning in eruptions
Wens, blisters, tumours, phagadaenas
I know their banal gossip,
Questioning my choice to remain.
The thought makes me expel smoke from my maw
like a daemonic engine releasing rage.
The burning inside tells me this is home,
I do not need to hide who I am.
There’s one thing that won’t infect me here,
their affectation.
This was written in the lunch break of a Poetry Business writing day just before I took it into the afternoon workshop (it would appear one works best under pressure..). The inspiration was that all the poems I had written in the morning session were based on reality or personal experience and nothing imaginary. So my personal challenge was to write something fantastic for which I invented a person and/or creature living a self-imposed exodus in some inhospitable terrain, which I dubbed the plaguescapes (I think that name is probably a product of The Locust album title Plague Soundscapes. Note me using the lower case suggesting it is something that can occur in multiple places, not a singular event...I'll stop babbling now).
The title is my joke upon the voice of the poem as although he claims he will never suffer from affectation like those he detests, by his very nature he is affected to do what he does. However the fact the voice is not fleshed out or given identity a few of the people at the workshop stumbled on this and couldn't engage with the poem without knowing who was speaking.
As a result, I'm not entirely sure if its finished in this format, by which I don't know if I am going to change the poem so that is feels stronger and more effective as a stand alone poem to deal with issues of 'Who is the voice?' or make it part of a series... more importantly whether one has the time...
Monday, 5 July 2010
Musician's Circle by Martin Collins
Musician's Circle
When asked how long we've played together,
we recount the years with a pleasant surprise
before a knowing wink starts the next tune.
Our shared memories, different colours
refracted from the same pure light,
evoke the melody which fills the room
the glory of our days and adventures
lay beside the trials we've overcome
and the odd missed or mangled notes,
private sorrows we helped each other through.
Each bar is a story only we know.
Even so, all who hear our song
feel the human beauty of these moments
which resonate with their exploits
until the end when they applaud
not just our sound but all of creation.
M. Collins
Went down to the folk session at the Kelham Island Tavern and it always amazes me how a bunch of people who have never seen or practiced with each other before can (to my eyes and ears) miraculously play such awesome tunes together.
There was a woman who lead the session for quite a while who had turned up with a friend and somebody asked them how long they had been playing together and as she smiled and replied a good few years now I immediately started writing and redrafting this for the rest of the night.
Still not 100% with the ending, it captures a large part of what I was thinking but seems a bit too Christian for my liking.
When asked how long we've played together,
we recount the years with a pleasant surprise
before a knowing wink starts the next tune.
Our shared memories, different colours
refracted from the same pure light,
evoke the melody which fills the room
the glory of our days and adventures
lay beside the trials we've overcome
and the odd missed or mangled notes,
private sorrows we helped each other through.
Each bar is a story only we know.
Even so, all who hear our song
feel the human beauty of these moments
which resonate with their exploits
until the end when they applaud
not just our sound but all of creation.
M. Collins
Went down to the folk session at the Kelham Island Tavern and it always amazes me how a bunch of people who have never seen or practiced with each other before can (to my eyes and ears) miraculously play such awesome tunes together.
There was a woman who lead the session for quite a while who had turned up with a friend and somebody asked them how long they had been playing together and as she smiled and replied a good few years now I immediately started writing and redrafting this for the rest of the night.
Still not 100% with the ending, it captures a large part of what I was thinking but seems a bit too Christian for my liking.
Tuesday, 29 June 2010
The Donkey's Delirium - Martin Collins
The Donkey's Delirium
The stage sees countless men and countless Pucks
find their delight debasing other souls.
They laugh as cruel children do at violence.
I’m not as dense as my visage suggests,
her faerie beauty beyond this actor
playing a farce so inconsequential
but why must I embrace my wretched fate?
When I can kiss her pale and perfect form...
Why cannot I dream this midsummer night,
that this moment will stretch on eternal
and I shall not afear the coming wake
until the Dawn’s fingers do sear my skin.
So through the wonders of Facebook this group was found
http://www.facebook.com/#!/group.php?gid=109264991400&ref=ts
A monthly spoken word night at the Hallam Hubs and tonight was their last one before taking a break for the summer. The theme was Midsummer's Nights Dream (although nobody really followed it) and despite having well over a week to prepare it I furiously scribbled this in 45 minutes before heading down.
I wish I could understand why if I have plenty of time I can produce nothing but shitty half-arsed lines and yet when the deadline is about to rape I'm suddenly full of inspiration. There's been a couple of Northern Oak songs where I've been hitting my head against a brick wall then suddenly wrote all the lyrics the night before a practice. I know the ideas sort of gestate in my head beforehand, I'd had been toying with writing something about the relationship between Titania and Nick Bottom before I sat down to write but still it turned out a lot better than expected.
I hope you like it, it got a decent cheer which was good enough for me! The quality of the performances were all good but not scary like the quality of some of the poems taken to the Poetry Business writing workshop. My favourite was a guy who turned World War 2 into a football commentary!
Now to put more time and effort into setting up my own spoken word night like I have been planning...
The stage sees countless men and countless Pucks
find their delight debasing other souls.
They laugh as cruel children do at violence.
I’m not as dense as my visage suggests,
her faerie beauty beyond this actor
playing a farce so inconsequential
but why must I embrace my wretched fate?
When I can kiss her pale and perfect form...
Why cannot I dream this midsummer night,
that this moment will stretch on eternal
and I shall not afear the coming wake
until the Dawn’s fingers do sear my skin.
So through the wonders of Facebook this group was found
http://www.facebook.com/#!/group.php?gid=109264991400&ref=ts
A monthly spoken word night at the Hallam Hubs and tonight was their last one before taking a break for the summer. The theme was Midsummer's Nights Dream (although nobody really followed it) and despite having well over a week to prepare it I furiously scribbled this in 45 minutes before heading down.
I wish I could understand why if I have plenty of time I can produce nothing but shitty half-arsed lines and yet when the deadline is about to rape I'm suddenly full of inspiration. There's been a couple of Northern Oak songs where I've been hitting my head against a brick wall then suddenly wrote all the lyrics the night before a practice. I know the ideas sort of gestate in my head beforehand, I'd had been toying with writing something about the relationship between Titania and Nick Bottom before I sat down to write but still it turned out a lot better than expected.
I hope you like it, it got a decent cheer which was good enough for me! The quality of the performances were all good but not scary like the quality of some of the poems taken to the Poetry Business writing workshop. My favourite was a guy who turned World War 2 into a football commentary!
Now to put more time and effort into setting up my own spoken word night like I have been planning...
Monday, 3 May 2010
Untitled 3/5/10 - Martin Collins
We would go to stately homes and grand summer houses
in whichever country, whenever the opportunity. Wander
through more rooms than you could ever need. Marvel
at all the fountains, fixtures and furniture
decorated in decadent details.
It always made me want to vomit.
Someone owning such grand structures for mere months
while generations of families huddle together
in tiny terraced houses.
Regardless
there is still some part of me
that would like, in later life,
to take tea in the drawing room
and as light streams through
impossibly large curtains,
act like it was worth it in the end
-M. Collins 3/5/2010
Of the poems I wrote at the workshop, this is my favourite which has been slightly edited since then. The exercise had been to think of a place that we wanted to be with Sebastian Barker's 'In the Heart of Hackney' as an example to inspire us. I'm really struggling with a title though, all I can think of now is 'The loathsome frivolity of the larger home.' however that warns the reader what my opinion is and I want the line "It always made me want to vomit." to be unexpected. It certainly elicited the desired surprise and laughter from the other people at the workshop without such a title.
One thing I noticed about my writing after doing a number of exercises in a row is that I have a penchant for taking the first person and being very autobiographical. It not only makes me worry about my own self-absorption but that I may be misinterpreted when I write something that isn't about me in the first person. Perhaps I'm worried that I have written about myself and just don't want to accept it? Ho-hum.
Sunday, 2 May 2010
The Lower Jaw Trick - Simon Currie
So I remembered literally a couple of days before the event that there was a Poetry Business writing workshop on last Saturday so I decided to bite the bullet, book a place and pay the man. I'm glad I did as I actually had a brilliant session and wrote more in a matter of hours than I've been able to make myself in months. I will be sure to put some of it up on here once I've type them up.
The first half of the day was writing exercises and the second half was a writing workshop. All the poems brought along were of a great quality but one of them really stood out to me, so I'm going to type it up here and hope that he does not mind...
The Lower Jaw Trick - Simon Currie
That move, accomplished only once,
when, comfortably seated, shot-gun cocked,
cartridge loaded, muzzle in your mouth,
you pull the trigger with a big toe (either will do).
My son, who knows about such things, tells me
it takes off all your head above the lower jaw.
The sound will bring anyone in earshot
to find a colourful scene:
blood and brains up the wall,
you, sat on your chair insensate,
natty moustache gone forever,
the smile wiped off your face.
The nearest I have got to such a sight
is when my mother took me to visit an aunt
whose pressure cooker had blown up,
a grain of barley stuck in the safety valve.
Walls and ceiling were draped in fronds of leek,
a pattern William Morris would have died for.
Just the look of it is macabre with the three verses of 6 line and as you read the initial verse you are immediately filled with dread at where the poem is going to take you. So when the ending does arrive its so unexpected, bizarre and comical. We all burst out laughing when he finished reading it although I wonder if some of us were laughing in relief that he chose a lighter ending.
It's how we as the reader change after finishing the poem. Go back and read it again, now you knowing where the poem is going you suddenly notice all the lighter touches more like the natty moustache. With no suicide impending in the 18 lines you are able to remove yourself from the subject matter and take a more objective view, the whole thing stops being so sinister.
It is so clever.
There was a discussion of whether he should include 'my son' on line 5, the lady hosting the workshop thought that it threw up uncomfortable questions about the son and his relation to suicide. However I argued that it should be kept purely because of how much more detached it makes the poem. It leaves me imagining him discussing the subject matter over the dinner table with his son and the funnier thing is that people generally do....
The first half of the day was writing exercises and the second half was a writing workshop. All the poems brought along were of a great quality but one of them really stood out to me, so I'm going to type it up here and hope that he does not mind...
The Lower Jaw Trick - Simon Currie
That move, accomplished only once,
when, comfortably seated, shot-gun cocked,
cartridge loaded, muzzle in your mouth,
you pull the trigger with a big toe (either will do).
My son, who knows about such things, tells me
it takes off all your head above the lower jaw.
The sound will bring anyone in earshot
to find a colourful scene:
blood and brains up the wall,
you, sat on your chair insensate,
natty moustache gone forever,
the smile wiped off your face.
The nearest I have got to such a sight
is when my mother took me to visit an aunt
whose pressure cooker had blown up,
a grain of barley stuck in the safety valve.
Walls and ceiling were draped in fronds of leek,
a pattern William Morris would have died for.
Just the look of it is macabre with the three verses of 6 line and as you read the initial verse you are immediately filled with dread at where the poem is going to take you. So when the ending does arrive its so unexpected, bizarre and comical. We all burst out laughing when he finished reading it although I wonder if some of us were laughing in relief that he chose a lighter ending.
It's how we as the reader change after finishing the poem. Go back and read it again, now you knowing where the poem is going you suddenly notice all the lighter touches more like the natty moustache. With no suicide impending in the 18 lines you are able to remove yourself from the subject matter and take a more objective view, the whole thing stops being so sinister.
It is so clever.
There was a discussion of whether he should include 'my son' on line 5, the lady hosting the workshop thought that it threw up uncomfortable questions about the son and his relation to suicide. However I argued that it should be kept purely because of how much more detached it makes the poem. It leaves me imagining him discussing the subject matter over the dinner table with his son and the funnier thing is that people generally do....
Saturday, 17 April 2010
Friday, 16 April 2010
Love You to Death by Type O Negative
Yesterday I discovered that Peter Steele, the vocalist and bassist for Type O Negative, had been confirmed as dead from Heart Failure. Normally when famous people die I'm not that affected by the whole thing but this case is an exception. I have linked Type O Negative to so many things in my life...
First getting into them at secondary school. Unable to sleep as per usual so I would be listening to October Rust all the way through to Haunted at night. Each day wandering down to school mumbling along to 'We Hate Everyone' and meaning it most of the time.
'My Girlfriend's Girlfriend' makes me think of my second year of Uni as Secretary of the Rocksoc. I'd got in touch with Corp and managed to book the main room for our own club night on Halloween. We the committee did fucking well that night, bringing in 500 people. I played MGG in the middle of my DJ set and although it was clear a number of people didn't know it, it was completely worth it for each face in the audience which immediately went 'HELL YES!' as soon as the intro drum beat kicked in.
Those little touches about Type O which made them all the more awesome, like releasing a 'least worst of' rather than a 'best of'. Reminding me you can still get far despite disliking yourself.
Twice I saw them play at the London Astoria, one of my favourite venues and a key part of my adolescence which has now been torn down.
The moments they kick into pure heavy metal with a wicked sense of humour, the 'Slow, Deep and Hard' album is worth it just for the song 'Unsuccessfully Coping With the Natural Beauty of Infidelity'. Steve and I heard it for the first time at the first Type O show I went to and for weeks afterwards we were bellowing, "SLUT, WHORE" in Steele's accent.
My excitement about the first new album they released since I got into them, 'Life is Killing Me'. When they released 'The Dream is Dead' as a promo I had that on repeat for hours.
'Die With Me' was mine and Krysia's song and always will be. The number of couples that must have their own Type O song. The number of people who must have used Steele's beautiful voice and at times erotic bass lines to romance their love interest. Seriously we all owe a massive debt.
'Wolf Moon' recently developed a new link in my mind...
Then there is 'Black No.1'. I have yet to meet anyone that did not find this song truly epic and the only song I properly learnt in my brief period trying to be a bassist.
The fact that he's gone doesn't inspire a fear of mortality but feels like some sort of attack on my life. Something that has clearly been a key part of it and helped shaped what I've become, as base and ineffectual as it is, is now gone. 'Attack' is definitely the right word.
So let's return to this blogs normal transmission
Love You to Death and the song if you haven't heard it
Made me laugh that as I found that youtube video the top comment said 'The Ultimate love song', now I'm sure that's a massive argument waiting to happen but this is a definite contender for the title.
The music itself is incredibly seductive, definitely the sort of song you would want to fill the background of a date or other romantic encounter.
The way he sings the lines like Her hips move and I can hear what they're saying, swaying always leaves me thinking of those moments where you are with your lover, so close that you can feel their breath, sense the minute movements of their body, that shiver of anticipation for what is to come running through you both... the beast inside of me is gonna get ya, get ya, yeah...
Then there is the line I am your servant, may I light your cigarette which I find such an incredibly romantic and evocative image. The thought of a gentleman leaning toward the girl, sinking into her personal space and yet the only thing connecting them being the flame from the lighter, a flame that perhaps burns in both of them. Strange that the only person I've been out with who smoked was Anne-Marie and yet this line never came to mind at the time.
The lyrics finish with that trademark Type O self-loathing, am I good enough, for you? A feeling that I have shared with them for a long time. I imagine I'm not as bad these days but that sense of contempt will always be there. I'm often frustrated that there isn't a better word for it, something distinct and ugly.
R.I.P. Peter Steele, hope you really are 'Free at Last'.
First getting into them at secondary school. Unable to sleep as per usual so I would be listening to October Rust all the way through to Haunted at night. Each day wandering down to school mumbling along to 'We Hate Everyone' and meaning it most of the time.
'My Girlfriend's Girlfriend' makes me think of my second year of Uni as Secretary of the Rocksoc. I'd got in touch with Corp and managed to book the main room for our own club night on Halloween. We the committee did fucking well that night, bringing in 500 people. I played MGG in the middle of my DJ set and although it was clear a number of people didn't know it, it was completely worth it for each face in the audience which immediately went 'HELL YES!' as soon as the intro drum beat kicked in.
Those little touches about Type O which made them all the more awesome, like releasing a 'least worst of' rather than a 'best of'. Reminding me you can still get far despite disliking yourself.
Twice I saw them play at the London Astoria, one of my favourite venues and a key part of my adolescence which has now been torn down.
The moments they kick into pure heavy metal with a wicked sense of humour, the 'Slow, Deep and Hard' album is worth it just for the song 'Unsuccessfully Coping With the Natural Beauty of Infidelity'. Steve and I heard it for the first time at the first Type O show I went to and for weeks afterwards we were bellowing, "SLUT, WHORE" in Steele's accent.
My excitement about the first new album they released since I got into them, 'Life is Killing Me'. When they released 'The Dream is Dead' as a promo I had that on repeat for hours.
'Die With Me' was mine and Krysia's song and always will be. The number of couples that must have their own Type O song. The number of people who must have used Steele's beautiful voice and at times erotic bass lines to romance their love interest. Seriously we all owe a massive debt.
'Wolf Moon' recently developed a new link in my mind...
Then there is 'Black No.1'. I have yet to meet anyone that did not find this song truly epic and the only song I properly learnt in my brief period trying to be a bassist.
The fact that he's gone doesn't inspire a fear of mortality but feels like some sort of attack on my life. Something that has clearly been a key part of it and helped shaped what I've become, as base and ineffectual as it is, is now gone. 'Attack' is definitely the right word.
So let's return to this blogs normal transmission
Love You to Death and the song if you haven't heard it
Made me laugh that as I found that youtube video the top comment said 'The Ultimate love song', now I'm sure that's a massive argument waiting to happen but this is a definite contender for the title.
The music itself is incredibly seductive, definitely the sort of song you would want to fill the background of a date or other romantic encounter.
The way he sings the lines like Her hips move and I can hear what they're saying, swaying always leaves me thinking of those moments where you are with your lover, so close that you can feel their breath, sense the minute movements of their body, that shiver of anticipation for what is to come running through you both... the beast inside of me is gonna get ya, get ya, yeah...
Then there is the line I am your servant, may I light your cigarette which I find such an incredibly romantic and evocative image. The thought of a gentleman leaning toward the girl, sinking into her personal space and yet the only thing connecting them being the flame from the lighter, a flame that perhaps burns in both of them. Strange that the only person I've been out with who smoked was Anne-Marie and yet this line never came to mind at the time.
The lyrics finish with that trademark Type O self-loathing, am I good enough, for you? A feeling that I have shared with them for a long time. I imagine I'm not as bad these days but that sense of contempt will always be there. I'm often frustrated that there isn't a better word for it, something distinct and ugly.
R.I.P. Peter Steele, hope you really are 'Free at Last'.
Friday, 9 April 2010
What is given to friends is not lost by Martial
So this Saturday just gone, I had the Northern Oak crew over for our second feast. Catie created some delicious goats cheese tarts, I produced a damn fine lamb roast if I do say so myself and Rich charmed us all once more by making sure his apple crumble had a penis sculpted onto the top...
Sharing a meal with good friends had me thinking of some of the poems I studied in Latin, in particular one of Martial's Epigrams about giving to friends. So I found some translations here.
Unfortunately I can't find the original Latin so you won't be able to appreciate how it originally looked or sounded (or how difficult it can be to write, making sure you follow the specific syllable pattern and slipping a caesura in...)
Waffling aside here is a translation of the specific epigram and someone's attempt to put it into a poetic format similar to the original.
EPIGRAMS. BOOK V. - XLII. WHAT IS GIVEN TO FRIENDS IS NOT LOST.
A cunning thief may burst open your coffers, and steal your coin; an impious fire may lay waste your ancestral home; your debtor may refuse you both principal and interest; your corn-field may prove barren, and not repay the seed you have scattered upon it; a crafty mistress may rob your steward; the waves may engulf your ships laden with merchandise. But what is bestowed on your friends is beyond the reach of fortune; the riches you give away are the only riches you will possess for ever.
Thieves may break locks, and with your cash retire;
Your ancient seat may be consumed: by fire:
Debtors refuse to pay you what they owe;
Or your ungrateful field the seed you sow;
You may be plunder'd by a jilting whore;
Your ships may sink at sea with all their store:
Who gives to friends, so much from fate secures;
That is the only wealth for ever yours.
Hay.
So yes the poem starts off particularly grim by pointing out that at any point life can empty its bowels upon you from whichever height it desires. However that which you give to your friends is outside the evils fate may have in store for you. That good deed is yours and their appreciation is yours.
So myself and 2010 are not exactly seeing eye to eye at the moment and the good times at Chaise Pizza now have a date at which they will end. One Saturday I gave some of my time and money to prepare some food for good friends to enjoy and for me to take delight in their company. Whatever happens, that happy memory is mine.
Sharing a meal with good friends had me thinking of some of the poems I studied in Latin, in particular one of Martial's Epigrams about giving to friends. So I found some translations here.
Unfortunately I can't find the original Latin so you won't be able to appreciate how it originally looked or sounded (or how difficult it can be to write, making sure you follow the specific syllable pattern and slipping a caesura in...)
Waffling aside here is a translation of the specific epigram and someone's attempt to put it into a poetic format similar to the original.
EPIGRAMS. BOOK V. - XLII. WHAT IS GIVEN TO FRIENDS IS NOT LOST.
A cunning thief may burst open your coffers, and steal your coin; an impious fire may lay waste your ancestral home; your debtor may refuse you both principal and interest; your corn-field may prove barren, and not repay the seed you have scattered upon it; a crafty mistress may rob your steward; the waves may engulf your ships laden with merchandise. But what is bestowed on your friends is beyond the reach of fortune; the riches you give away are the only riches you will possess for ever.
Thieves may break locks, and with your cash retire;
Your ancient seat may be consumed: by fire:
Debtors refuse to pay you what they owe;
Or your ungrateful field the seed you sow;
You may be plunder'd by a jilting whore;
Your ships may sink at sea with all their store:
Who gives to friends, so much from fate secures;
That is the only wealth for ever yours.
Hay.
So yes the poem starts off particularly grim by pointing out that at any point life can empty its bowels upon you from whichever height it desires. However that which you give to your friends is outside the evils fate may have in store for you. That good deed is yours and their appreciation is yours.
So myself and 2010 are not exactly seeing eye to eye at the moment and the good times at Chaise Pizza now have a date at which they will end. One Saturday I gave some of my time and money to prepare some food for good friends to enjoy and for me to take delight in their company. Whatever happens, that happy memory is mine.
Thursday, 1 April 2010
Liberty Bodice by Sian Hughes [entry for The Hippocrates Prize competition]
So back two Wednesdays ago there was this article in The Independent
Verse that will make you feel better.
About a poetry competition which is focused on medical themes, with the winner being announced at a symposium on Poetry and Medicine next week at the University of Warrick. Both of the short listed poems in the article are very good but this one really stands out [I've typed it out in the format from the paper as it is more pleasing to the eye than the version in the online article]
Liberty Bodice
by Sian Hughes
A few days after the operation
the nurses let you in the shower room
alone. The one with the mirror.
The dressing on your left side
is felted, fixed like old fashioned vests
you wore to boarding school-
from this angle, you're twelve,
embarrassed, packed away.
From the other, you're a woman.
You turn one way, and back again.
The nurses listen outside. But it's later
you cry, in your sleep, secretly.
like homesick girls in the dormitory,
down both sides of your face
into your brand new, flatter pyjamas.
I assume that the poor woman has had to had to have a breast removed but by not explaining exactly what has happened or giving a reason for why it makes the poem all the more striking. By removing the disease from the equation you're forced to focus upon the woman's sense of loss, experience the horror of something key and irreplaceble being taken from her.
The nurses listening outside not only speaks of how and why we conceal our personal pain from others but on the flipside we question why they are listening. Has other peoples' suffering become so commonplace to them that it is now a game to guess if she will cry?
Then there are the regular comparisons to being a young girl. That by having a symbol of her womanhood taken from her she has been forced back into childhood, that her worth has been reduced somehow. It leaves you wanting to reach out to the woman and assure her that this is not the case but in a world so obssessed with image, if she turned back and assured you through tear filled eyes that it is the counter-arguement would sit like a ball in your throat.
These are an incredible set of verses, the title not only reinforcing the idea of being forced back into childhood but a cruel play on words as well.
Verse that will make you feel better.
About a poetry competition which is focused on medical themes, with the winner being announced at a symposium on Poetry and Medicine next week at the University of Warrick. Both of the short listed poems in the article are very good but this one really stands out [I've typed it out in the format from the paper as it is more pleasing to the eye than the version in the online article]
Liberty Bodice
by Sian Hughes
A few days after the operation
the nurses let you in the shower room
alone. The one with the mirror.
The dressing on your left side
is felted, fixed like old fashioned vests
you wore to boarding school-
from this angle, you're twelve,
embarrassed, packed away.
From the other, you're a woman.
You turn one way, and back again.
The nurses listen outside. But it's later
you cry, in your sleep, secretly.
like homesick girls in the dormitory,
down both sides of your face
into your brand new, flatter pyjamas.
I assume that the poor woman has had to had to have a breast removed but by not explaining exactly what has happened or giving a reason for why it makes the poem all the more striking. By removing the disease from the equation you're forced to focus upon the woman's sense of loss, experience the horror of something key and irreplaceble being taken from her.
The nurses listening outside not only speaks of how and why we conceal our personal pain from others but on the flipside we question why they are listening. Has other peoples' suffering become so commonplace to them that it is now a game to guess if she will cry?
Then there are the regular comparisons to being a young girl. That by having a symbol of her womanhood taken from her she has been forced back into childhood, that her worth has been reduced somehow. It leaves you wanting to reach out to the woman and assure her that this is not the case but in a world so obssessed with image, if she turned back and assured you through tear filled eyes that it is the counter-arguement would sit like a ball in your throat.
These are an incredible set of verses, the title not only reinforcing the idea of being forced back into childhood but a cruel play on words as well.
Friday, 26 March 2010
The Bat Detector by Elizabeth Barrett
So readers I have been procrastinating furiously in an attempt to justify the slow rate of job applications and as a result have started a promotions company, http://www.myspace.com/erranttentacles
The inspiration for this is that the past few Northern Oak gigs I have D.I.Y.ed and so I've decided to give myself a more professional air rather than just 'Can I book your venue for my band please?' and organise some more events while I'm at it.
As well as metal concerts, I have been thinking about organising poetry/spoken word events. For not only would I like to see more of them but it would give me an excuse to get off my arse and write more so I can perform myself. Now I have managed to hunt down 'The Inky' and I've found out about the organisation that produces it (Signposts just off division street) and also discovered the Poetry Business, both of which I am planning to go down and have a chat with at some point soon.
This research has reminded me though of last poet I paid to see perform. She was my teacher for a writing poetry module I signed up for in first year of university. Elizabeth Barrett. I'm not sure if it's a fit of nostalgia or something else but I wouldd like to see her again and ask her how she is. A quick trawl of the internet has not turned up much.
When I went to see her perform, it was during a Sheffield 'Off The Shelf' festival. I *think* it was 2006 either way it was definitely my second academic year. She was reading from her book 'The Bat Detector' which was interpersed with some music by a friend. I turned up in good time to buy a copy of the book and get a seat. While waiting for it to start she actually came up to me and confessed she was suprised that I was there, I told her I wanted to experience the book which she'd mentioned a number of times during the course for which she thanked me and signed my copy.
The title poem from the book is a particularly good one
http://www.wreckingballpress.com/html/barrett.php
It's a brilliant piece to read aloud as Barrett has put a lot of care into the sound. I know that she personally has no interest in technology so lines such as list resistor, capacitor and circuit board, are clearly there only because she likes how they roll off the tongue.
After the scene has been set with the explanation of the detector, Barrett goes on to explore the nature of communication. Revealing to us how much his attempts to understand the bats is damaging what little he had with his family.
When I first read the poem I had thought that the situation and account here was fictional but it became all the more piercing and poignant hearing it live. As she talked about this period in her life and I had to accept it as a piece of her past and once reality.
The final lines
You are adjusting your volume control, turning
down the sound of me, wailing on long wave -
pitching my 20kHz calls down the stairs.
are not only clever plays on what has gone before but an additional sign of desperation as she attempts to speak with him in his own terms.
---
When I saw her live the thing that struck me most about her performance, was that she ran through an entire chapter of the book but skipped out the first poem. It was about her [then] husband discovering empty contraceptive pill packets in the bin and realising that she was cheating on him. I still wonder why she would be bold enough to put it in print but not prepared to read it to an audience.
The inspiration for this is that the past few Northern Oak gigs I have D.I.Y.ed and so I've decided to give myself a more professional air rather than just 'Can I book your venue for my band please?' and organise some more events while I'm at it.
As well as metal concerts, I have been thinking about organising poetry/spoken word events. For not only would I like to see more of them but it would give me an excuse to get off my arse and write more so I can perform myself. Now I have managed to hunt down 'The Inky' and I've found out about the organisation that produces it (Signposts just off division street) and also discovered the Poetry Business, both of which I am planning to go down and have a chat with at some point soon.
This research has reminded me though of last poet I paid to see perform. She was my teacher for a writing poetry module I signed up for in first year of university. Elizabeth Barrett. I'm not sure if it's a fit of nostalgia or something else but I wouldd like to see her again and ask her how she is. A quick trawl of the internet has not turned up much.
When I went to see her perform, it was during a Sheffield 'Off The Shelf' festival. I *think* it was 2006 either way it was definitely my second academic year. She was reading from her book 'The Bat Detector' which was interpersed with some music by a friend. I turned up in good time to buy a copy of the book and get a seat. While waiting for it to start she actually came up to me and confessed she was suprised that I was there, I told her I wanted to experience the book which she'd mentioned a number of times during the course for which she thanked me and signed my copy.
The title poem from the book is a particularly good one
http://www.wreckingballpress.com/html/barrett.php
It's a brilliant piece to read aloud as Barrett has put a lot of care into the sound. I know that she personally has no interest in technology so lines such as list resistor, capacitor and circuit board, are clearly there only because she likes how they roll off the tongue.
After the scene has been set with the explanation of the detector, Barrett goes on to explore the nature of communication. Revealing to us how much his attempts to understand the bats is damaging what little he had with his family.
When I first read the poem I had thought that the situation and account here was fictional but it became all the more piercing and poignant hearing it live. As she talked about this period in her life and I had to accept it as a piece of her past and once reality.
The final lines
You are adjusting your volume control, turning
down the sound of me, wailing on long wave -
pitching my 20kHz calls down the stairs.
are not only clever plays on what has gone before but an additional sign of desperation as she attempts to speak with him in his own terms.
---
When I saw her live the thing that struck me most about her performance, was that she ran through an entire chapter of the book but skipped out the first poem. It was about her [then] husband discovering empty contraceptive pill packets in the bin and realising that she was cheating on him. I still wonder why she would be bold enough to put it in print but not prepared to read it to an audience.
Monday, 15 March 2010
Dulce et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen
So we Northern Oak types were in the peaks last weekend working on a music video for Bloodstock unsigned. I fully expect it to be damned embarassing but at least it means you will all be able to have a good laugh!
While having lunch in a pub, Chris told Rich that he had no decorum (which in all honesty our Northern Bloke doesn't!) and then commented on it being a very satisfying word. Well the word makes me think of this war poem which I have dug out.
Poems can have a number of purposes but some of the best are those that can paint a scene so vividly that you can see it clearly with your mind's eye.
Immediately Owen frames the scene for us by picking out all the little details; the state of the men, that they are missing shoes and the calibre of shells being used. The verbs are also chosen to dramatic effect; they 'curse' through the mud and the fatigue is so great and intoxicating that they are left 'drunk' on it.
The second stanza is the most graphic. As we see soldiers go through the motions of protecting themselves from gas, only to appreciate the horror as one man does not get his mask on in time. The first and only mention of colour is the green of the mask's visor and it consumes both the narrator's and our view of the scene. Forcing us into some terrifying otherworld as the soldier who plunges at him now and again in his nightmares. We wonder if we might see him in our own at night.
The actual language itself deserves a special mention, not for the imagery but the way it sounds. Say aloud to yourself
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud / Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
Feel the way your mouth contorts as you say the two lines. There is no pleasant way to say them, you are forced into exhaling harsh sounds which mirror the vulgar imagery of the poem.
It all combines to make us believe him completely, that the claim it is 'sweet and right to die for your country' is a lie.
While having lunch in a pub, Chris told Rich that he had no decorum (which in all honesty our Northern Bloke doesn't!) and then commented on it being a very satisfying word. Well the word makes me think of this war poem which I have dug out.
http://www.warpoetry.co.uk/owen1.html
Poems can have a number of purposes but some of the best are those that can paint a scene so vividly that you can see it clearly with your mind's eye.
Immediately Owen frames the scene for us by picking out all the little details; the state of the men, that they are missing shoes and the calibre of shells being used. The verbs are also chosen to dramatic effect; they 'curse' through the mud and the fatigue is so great and intoxicating that they are left 'drunk' on it.
The second stanza is the most graphic. As we see soldiers go through the motions of protecting themselves from gas, only to appreciate the horror as one man does not get his mask on in time. The first and only mention of colour is the green of the mask's visor and it consumes both the narrator's and our view of the scene. Forcing us into some terrifying otherworld as the soldier who plunges at him now and again in his nightmares. We wonder if we might see him in our own at night.
The actual language itself deserves a special mention, not for the imagery but the way it sounds. Say aloud to yourself
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud / Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
Feel the way your mouth contorts as you say the two lines. There is no pleasant way to say them, you are forced into exhaling harsh sounds which mirror the vulgar imagery of the poem.
It all combines to make us believe him completely, that the claim it is 'sweet and right to die for your country' is a lie.
Friday, 12 March 2010
To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell
Time for something light hearted me thinks. After last nights post I ended up having a rather intense dream where I was a Seargent in charge of a dimly lit submarine during a war, a field day for Freud I am sure...
http://www.luminarium.org/sevenlit/marvell/coy.htm
One of my all time favourite films is 2046. Tony Leung is one sexy beast and if I ever become as handsome and dashing to women as he is, I could easily imagine myself whispering into a young girls ear with a roguish smile,
Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
However that is perhaps the only vaguely charming line within the poem and no matter how finely I attire myself I will never be the sort of man to woo women in bars.
Our cassanova Marvell carries off the poem in clunky rhyming couplets and what worries me is that this might have actually worked upon his object of affection! Although a big part of that is my ongoing angst against predictable rhyming. Also, though he tries to pass himself off as a noble soul by assuring her he would devote years to the praise of each of her parts, his other phrases he uses are some the least romantic possible!
I mean how can you read the lines,
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow
and not think of the man's 'marrow'? My GCSE English teacher certainly struggled and so quickly passed over these lines. This is nothing compared to his threat in the second stanza, that should he not be allowed to take her virginity then the maggots will do so when she dies!
Gentlemen (or ladies of that inclination), if any of you find a woman upon which the line, "Can I eat you out before the maggots do?" works I will bow to your courage while wondering what manner of being you have just pulled.
The poem is good fun but really not one I'd recommend for winning a girl's affections...
http://www.luminarium.org/sevenlit/marvell/coy.htm
One of my all time favourite films is 2046. Tony Leung is one sexy beast and if I ever become as handsome and dashing to women as he is, I could easily imagine myself whispering into a young girls ear with a roguish smile,
Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
However that is perhaps the only vaguely charming line within the poem and no matter how finely I attire myself I will never be the sort of man to woo women in bars.
Our cassanova Marvell carries off the poem in clunky rhyming couplets and what worries me is that this might have actually worked upon his object of affection! Although a big part of that is my ongoing angst against predictable rhyming. Also, though he tries to pass himself off as a noble soul by assuring her he would devote years to the praise of each of her parts, his other phrases he uses are some the least romantic possible!
I mean how can you read the lines,
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow
and not think of the man's 'marrow'? My GCSE English teacher certainly struggled and so quickly passed over these lines. This is nothing compared to his threat in the second stanza, that should he not be allowed to take her virginity then the maggots will do so when she dies!
Gentlemen (or ladies of that inclination), if any of you find a woman upon which the line, "Can I eat you out before the maggots do?" works I will bow to your courage while wondering what manner of being you have just pulled.
The poem is good fun but really not one I'd recommend for winning a girl's affections...
Astronaut: A Short History of Nearly Nothing by Amanda Palmer
http://whokilledamandapalmer.com/song.php?track=1
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1O6GqCwjh-k
I know that Amanda Palmer put out a companion to her album. So I am sure if we paid the pennies we could grab her explanation of the song and see some witty asides from Neil Gaiman. However you are reading my blog, so you will be getting my thoughts upon it for free!
The song starts by posing a question. Taking the voice of the Astonaut's lover, Amanda asks if it is enough to have some love? Then declares that she is still not getting what she wants as if it's an answer. No, it is not enough. However the entirety of the song is about how missing the astronaut has become their existence, how they are prepared to live their their life as an afterthought. They may not be getting want they want, they may not be happy now but there was time so perfect that it justifies the wait. Surely that kind of love, no matter how small, is enough?
The line that sticks out the most for me is "I want to touch the back of your right arm". I imagine there is a specific story behind why she wants to touch them there but for me it captures a key aspect of relationships; the little things. Those mannerisms which your learn over time and can't help but find cute, being able to tell what is on their mind or maybe just a certain smile. That simply being able to touch their arm or embrace them can be enough.
The final verse, where Amanda's voice becomes barely audible, she proposes that the lover left behind is left exploring as deep and dark a void as the astronaut. I think the metaphor is clear enough.
Right now for me though, it raises the question of how a life should be lived. The astronaut had career and ambition, which we accept and applaud and yet we deem the lover who stayed at home an afterthought. They both found themselves alone in the emptiness, is it really justified to differentiate them?
I had been on a path to being my own form of astronaut in my chosen industry. It has left its mark, the nodes of my neural network have strengthened so that the business words roll more easily off my tongue and the ideas and values lurk in my consciousness (There is a bit for £@#%ing me L.E.B.). If I were to truly succeed, I would have had to commit myself completely to the company. Now my development along that trajectory is at a standstill I wonder, am I still heading to that void? Am I in one now?
I wish you could remind me who I was / because every day I'm a little further off
Monday, 8 March 2010
Mirror by Sylvia Plath
http://www.sylviaplathforum.com/mirror.html
This poem always makes me think that there are some pains I will never truly appreciate having been born to the house of man. I can't say I've ever been a fan of the mirror but Plath gives it an insidious sense of villiany, like the vile friend that we continue to trust no matter how much it hurts us.
I have to question though, who the true liar is? Yes we can gaze into the inverted pool of the mirror and see every spot, line and the barely visible scar but that is not how we see each other. We look at each other beneath the streaming sunlight, in the semi-darkness of pubs and venues and in drunken capers beneath the moonlight. At which point do we really see the 'truths' of the mirror? Psychology has certainly found no evidence of this in our memories.
It's why I hate photographs, they never look true.
The final line of the poem is incredibly vivd, like some hag rising from the dark depths where only the angler fish and other obscene lightless creature reside, opening its maw of scattered remaining teeth to swallow some poor beautiful woman whole.
This poem always makes me think that there are some pains I will never truly appreciate having been born to the house of man. I can't say I've ever been a fan of the mirror but Plath gives it an insidious sense of villiany, like the vile friend that we continue to trust no matter how much it hurts us.
I have to question though, who the true liar is? Yes we can gaze into the inverted pool of the mirror and see every spot, line and the barely visible scar but that is not how we see each other. We look at each other beneath the streaming sunlight, in the semi-darkness of pubs and venues and in drunken capers beneath the moonlight. At which point do we really see the 'truths' of the mirror? Psychology has certainly found no evidence of this in our memories.
It's why I hate photographs, they never look true.
The final line of the poem is incredibly vivd, like some hag rising from the dark depths where only the angler fish and other obscene lightless creature reside, opening its maw of scattered remaining teeth to swallow some poor beautiful woman whole.
Friday, 5 March 2010
Pig Destroyer - One Funeral Too Many
All star-crossed and starry eyed innocence pulled away by maturity's tide,
loneliness as the void into which all this warped obsession is cast,
shyness as the dam denying the river its ultimate purpose,
deafened by all the silent laughter under the whispered promises,
which rusted down to jagged lies anyway,
stab me again my sweet little murderer.
Whatever you may may think of grindcore and Pig Destroyer, JR Hayes is a damned poet and if I become anywhere near as good a lyricist as him I will be a very happy man.
Leading from the Shakespeare, quote he deftly leads us through a maelstrom of emotions in such dazzling, succint lines. Each metaphor so provocative, my favourite being shyness as a dam. How many romances never unfurled their petals because neither party had to courage to utter three words to the other? The thought of jagged lies hanging in the pregnant pauses between couples, like minature swords of Damocles threatening to destroy everything, is so stark and beautiful.
The final line is not just some visceral hook, its the admission that as much pain as it causes him he would do it again.
If you did not listen out then all of this would be lost in the song that is not even a minute and desperately needs better recording and production. It is certainly an arguement for why Hayes should include more spoken word in PxDx or do seperate readings. However it wouldn't capture the violence of the emotions. some things need to stream out in a fit of rage. It's what they are.
Some things are meant to last 3 years and 3 months, others 54 seconds.
loneliness as the void into which all this warped obsession is cast,
shyness as the dam denying the river its ultimate purpose,
deafened by all the silent laughter under the whispered promises,
which rusted down to jagged lies anyway,
stab me again my sweet little murderer.
Whatever you may may think of grindcore and Pig Destroyer, JR Hayes is a damned poet and if I become anywhere near as good a lyricist as him I will be a very happy man.
Leading from the Shakespeare, quote he deftly leads us through a maelstrom of emotions in such dazzling, succint lines. Each metaphor so provocative, my favourite being shyness as a dam. How many romances never unfurled their petals because neither party had to courage to utter three words to the other? The thought of jagged lies hanging in the pregnant pauses between couples, like minature swords of Damocles threatening to destroy everything, is so stark and beautiful.
The final line is not just some visceral hook, its the admission that as much pain as it causes him he would do it again.
If you did not listen out then all of this would be lost in the song that is not even a minute and desperately needs better recording and production. It is certainly an arguement for why Hayes should include more spoken word in PxDx or do seperate readings. However it wouldn't capture the violence of the emotions. some things need to stream out in a fit of rage. It's what they are.
Some things are meant to last 3 years and 3 months, others 54 seconds.
Thursday, 4 March 2010
Twitter Haiku 4/3/10
Transmitters Sluggish.
Synapses bow at the sides,
filled with junk hormones.
M. Collins 2010, tweeted on http://twitter.com/ThereIsNoEnd
Synapses bow at the sides,
filled with junk hormones.
M. Collins 2010, tweeted on http://twitter.com/ThereIsNoEnd
Porphyria's Lover by Robert Browning
So for the few people that may read this blog and not actually know who I am, I am a metal vocalist for the folk metal band Northern Oak [ http://www.northernoak.co.uk/ ]. We are currently working on a new song, imagineered by our very sexy keyboard player, which did come with some lyrics that I have declined to use.
However those lyrics did remind of the fine poem that is Porphyria's Lover by Robert Browning.
http://www.sparknotes.com/poetry/browning/section1.html
From the beginning, the poem is filled with macabre life as the elements and nature are given personalities and I love the idea that a lake could be vexed.
At which point Porphyria streams into the piece like a ray of light, with golden hair, blue eyes and rosy cheeks she is the only mention of colour in the poem. Despite her turning up through the rain and warming the place up, our narrator is still moping. Presumably in part because she started the night at the 'gay feast' and also because he is convinced she does not really love him.
Now there is something that has to be said for Male logic in this sense. Not only are we bloody dense when it comes to noticing that a girl likes us, we're also more than content to sulk that our Porphyria's do not really love us, despite leaving parties and braving the elements, than appreciate what we've got and get on with it. I know I've been guilty of this form of retardation before!
This is simply an aside though as now we've reached the malevolent thought at the heart of the poem. Our narrator has finally understood that despite the constraints society has placed upon her (From pride, and vainer ties dissever) that she want to be with him. Now there are plenty of things that could be done here; give a middle finger to society and run with it, elope or leave it be and remember the romance as the page you always wish you had turned, to name but a few.
Instead the narrator chooses to grab her beautiful hair and strangle her with it and the poem suddenly bursts forth with questions about ownership. Porphyria clearly loves him, based on her actions but it is only once he has killed her that he feels he truly has her love and no longer receives any 'scorn'.
The choice of the word 'scorn' always sticks out to me, did he believe she did not think him good enough somehow? A thought that occurs to me only now is that I assumed the narrator to be a man but no gender is ever given. Perhaps Porphyria's Lover is a woman which may be why scorn came from that 'little head' and drove the lover to such a violent act.
Something that is not fully explored in the poem but has always been the next mental step for me, is the finality of the act. Now she is dead she cannot change her mind, she cannot stop loving them, the outside world cannot interject and she can never grow old. She died in the peak of her beauty, surrendering herself to the narrator. Would they ever have a more perfect moment with her? Is there some sick justification here?
The final lines are what truly capture me though,
And all night long we have not stirred, / and yet god has not said a word!
The idea that because nothing has changed, no chorus of angels' tears, no hounds of hell unleashed that somehow, there is the divine approval for their actions. That's just an epic piece of darkness.
However those lyrics did remind of the fine poem that is Porphyria's Lover by Robert Browning.
http://www.sparknotes.com/poetry/browning/section1.html
From the beginning, the poem is filled with macabre life as the elements and nature are given personalities and I love the idea that a lake could be vexed.
At which point Porphyria streams into the piece like a ray of light, with golden hair, blue eyes and rosy cheeks she is the only mention of colour in the poem. Despite her turning up through the rain and warming the place up, our narrator is still moping. Presumably in part because she started the night at the 'gay feast' and also because he is convinced she does not really love him.
Now there is something that has to be said for Male logic in this sense. Not only are we bloody dense when it comes to noticing that a girl likes us, we're also more than content to sulk that our Porphyria's do not really love us, despite leaving parties and braving the elements, than appreciate what we've got and get on with it. I know I've been guilty of this form of retardation before!
This is simply an aside though as now we've reached the malevolent thought at the heart of the poem. Our narrator has finally understood that despite the constraints society has placed upon her (From pride, and vainer ties dissever) that she want to be with him. Now there are plenty of things that could be done here; give a middle finger to society and run with it, elope or leave it be and remember the romance as the page you always wish you had turned, to name but a few.
Instead the narrator chooses to grab her beautiful hair and strangle her with it and the poem suddenly bursts forth with questions about ownership. Porphyria clearly loves him, based on her actions but it is only once he has killed her that he feels he truly has her love and no longer receives any 'scorn'.
The choice of the word 'scorn' always sticks out to me, did he believe she did not think him good enough somehow? A thought that occurs to me only now is that I assumed the narrator to be a man but no gender is ever given. Perhaps Porphyria's Lover is a woman which may be why scorn came from that 'little head' and drove the lover to such a violent act.
Something that is not fully explored in the poem but has always been the next mental step for me, is the finality of the act. Now she is dead she cannot change her mind, she cannot stop loving them, the outside world cannot interject and she can never grow old. She died in the peak of her beauty, surrendering herself to the narrator. Would they ever have a more perfect moment with her? Is there some sick justification here?
The final lines are what truly capture me though,
And all night long we have not stirred, / and yet god has not said a word!
The idea that because nothing has changed, no chorus of angels' tears, no hounds of hell unleashed that somehow, there is the divine approval for their actions. That's just an epic piece of darkness.
Wednesday, 3 March 2010
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Elliot
The first time I encountered Prufrock was in AS English Literature. To give you a measure of the sort of man I am, I did not take the AS until my A2s and I completed it as an extra module. Reason being that at AS level I did not like the books they had chosen and when I did it as extra module I was able to pick my own. This meant I could pick Frankenstein which is an excellent book and led me to the Sorrows of Young Werther which is also more than worth the read.
For all my arrogance, it worked in my favour. That was the year they buggered up the marking on the English AS andI ended up loving History more than I could have realised. Led to me dropping Biology, which I was supposed to be doing for the benefit of my future Psychology degree, to carry it on to A2. There are a number of points that I can clearly see as turning points in my life with hindsight and sixth form was one of them.
So I had the book of AS English Literature poems before me and there was Prufrock.
I absolutely hated him.
He went on far too long, he was directionless and large sections had no point to them. What the hell does yellow smoke have to do with anything!?
Although I am becoming calmer as time goes on, there is still a desperate need for me to find a point in creative works to truly appreciate them. It would not be until the first summer of my university years that I started reading the works of Philip K. Dick and I was immediately entranced by all his varied worlds and universes that are meticulously constructed to explore an idea or philosophy. They have Purpose which, for all for my inner turmoil on religion, is something I truly believe in.
So I wrote the poem off, mumbled fuck you Elliot and used two other poems for the exam which I'm struggling to find in the recesses of my mind.
In the past couple of months in an ill-fated role, for reasons I cannot explain my brain threw up memories of Prufrock. Specifically the line
"And I have known the arms already, known them all-"
So I ended up hunting the poem down on the ever fantastic internet and read the poem through, something stupid like three times in a row. Since then he's been preying on my mind, I go back to the poem and rush through it whispering to my self breathlessly along the stream of consciousness that are his lines...
The change that has occured has been in me.
As he recalls how he has known the arms, I think of all the people I have known and cared for. The girls I loved and the ones that never quite were. [I've always read it as Prufrock simply knowing and being with the girls, I've never seen him as a promiscuous type. Now the question is whether that is because I am not and would sooner shape him in my mind to be like me?]
As he measures out his life in coffee spoons, I can only resonate as I have measured out my life in tea cups and pint glasses and that hint of pure, unadulterated boredom to the line, which questions should there have been more, should I have done more?
When he explores his position in life and concludes he is no Hamlet on the greater stage, is this not the question that runs through the minds of every graduate as they enter the 'real world'?
The quality of the poem has not changed for me, I still ask what the hell does yellow smoke have to do with anything, I still think it goes on too long and I still find the ending too lacklustre, however...
I understand him now.
http://www.bartleby.com/198/1.html
For all my arrogance, it worked in my favour. That was the year they buggered up the marking on the English AS andI ended up loving History more than I could have realised. Led to me dropping Biology, which I was supposed to be doing for the benefit of my future Psychology degree, to carry it on to A2. There are a number of points that I can clearly see as turning points in my life with hindsight and sixth form was one of them.
So I had the book of AS English Literature poems before me and there was Prufrock.
I absolutely hated him.
He went on far too long, he was directionless and large sections had no point to them. What the hell does yellow smoke have to do with anything!?
Although I am becoming calmer as time goes on, there is still a desperate need for me to find a point in creative works to truly appreciate them. It would not be until the first summer of my university years that I started reading the works of Philip K. Dick and I was immediately entranced by all his varied worlds and universes that are meticulously constructed to explore an idea or philosophy. They have Purpose which, for all for my inner turmoil on religion, is something I truly believe in.
So I wrote the poem off, mumbled fuck you Elliot and used two other poems for the exam which I'm struggling to find in the recesses of my mind.
In the past couple of months in an ill-fated role, for reasons I cannot explain my brain threw up memories of Prufrock. Specifically the line
"And I have known the arms already, known them all-"
So I ended up hunting the poem down on the ever fantastic internet and read the poem through, something stupid like three times in a row. Since then he's been preying on my mind, I go back to the poem and rush through it whispering to my self breathlessly along the stream of consciousness that are his lines...
The change that has occured has been in me.
As he recalls how he has known the arms, I think of all the people I have known and cared for. The girls I loved and the ones that never quite were. [I've always read it as Prufrock simply knowing and being with the girls, I've never seen him as a promiscuous type. Now the question is whether that is because I am not and would sooner shape him in my mind to be like me?]
As he measures out his life in coffee spoons, I can only resonate as I have measured out my life in tea cups and pint glasses and that hint of pure, unadulterated boredom to the line, which questions should there have been more, should I have done more?
When he explores his position in life and concludes he is no Hamlet on the greater stage, is this not the question that runs through the minds of every graduate as they enter the 'real world'?
The quality of the poem has not changed for me, I still ask what the hell does yellow smoke have to do with anything, I still think it goes on too long and I still find the ending too lacklustre, however...
I understand him now.
http://www.bartleby.com/198/1.html
One late autumn night, the disciple awoke crying. So the master asked the disciple,
"Did you have a nightmare?"
"No."
"Did you have a sad dream?"
"No," said the disciple. "I had a sweet dream."
"Then why are you crying so sadly?"
The disciple wiped his tears away and quietly answered,
"Because the dream I had can't come true."
Taken from a Bittersweet Life http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0456912/
"Did you have a nightmare?"
"No."
"Did you have a sad dream?"
"No," said the disciple. "I had a sweet dream."
"Then why are you crying so sadly?"
The disciple wiped his tears away and quietly answered,
"Because the dream I had can't come true."
Taken from a Bittersweet Life http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0456912/
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