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...
Tuesday, 12 October 2010
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...
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