Monthly Archives: October 2013

Lou Reed is dead

I heard of Lou Reed’s death sitting
under a shelf with English dictionaries
Nailed under a cheap Man Ray postcard
And random Chinese symbols on the wall

On a facebook screen timeline reaching
to the more than immediate future
in a vain but certainly lucrative quest
as if wearing the attires of a cyber rock star

Ironically enough (for me)
The song playing was I am a dead man
By unknown artist – no capitals
And the house was empty – apart from me
As unexpected

I heard of Lou Reed’s death sitting
In an echo of Seamus Heaney
In an echo of a friend’s unknown relative
In an echo of past things sitting
Very past us

I am very humbled, dear Facebook
By your attention to my every need
But when I sent a message to my girlfriend
reading I want to write a poem about something

I did not ask for such magnitude

Blitz Poem – Through the gut

So I found this thanks to Bastet on her blog – a form named Blitz Poetry. Here is her piece which sparked my interest. She provided a source explaining what a Blitz Poem was and I thought I’d give it a go.
Continue reading

A meek defense …

A meek defense in favour of the non-gifted non-artistic non-metaphorical ordinary respectable people.

When the poet says he’d sculpt and shape
and sharpen palaces out of rain and morning dew,
What he really means is : I believe

in the stability endowed by possessing multiple estates,
and of course

It brings to mind this longing for a pervasive bourgeois-ristocracy sense of idleness
well-suited to his craft and trade – Poetry garden parties
soaked in groundward empyrean hydroxygen
You can see them from here.

Whereas, when I say
I wouldn’t mind the charge of a deserted country manor
(maybe built out of mother-of-pearl moontears …)
I simply point out a slight social hingelessness
which might not do full justice to my utility
to the Kingdom

For I too produce words,
sometimes in lofty amounts, depending on the needs of the patrons,
And it just seems fair to me that
part of my wager should be aesthetic as well.

If anything, my demand is merely metaphysical :
Why and/or How are they entitled to grow their own beauty
While I wait here still,
my lot not yet delivered ?

Upon Listening To The First Solo In No Twilight …

Cake short and sweet Wednesday write-in #61 –
Upon Listening To The First Solo In No Twilight Within The Courts Of The Sun

No more brown coke with my fried bean to cup

No more binary synthetic harmony

No more processed elephant banter chit-chat

No more care for your surface black eye-rimmed eyeballs

No more menthol-laden ether tether dangling from the above sky

No more appointed love in appointed love-books

No more circumstance poetry

No more houses ogling at the bedroom windows of the other houses during ogling hours

No more labels for traumas under glass

No more silent time around exposed bodies

No more diagonal relief between heart beat-important patterns

(No more heart beat-important patterns)

No more time for addressing endings or give way to absence

No more impedance on the horizon

I apparently got hooked on that weekly writing challenge … Here are the prompts : Menthol, Fried, Secret, Blind Date, Chit-chat. Hope you enjoy it. The link for Cake short and sweet can be found on the right in the blogs I follow (ctrl+F helps in any case)
The song mentioned in the title is a great piece of chaotic rock by Steven Wilson and can be found here

Poetry is not a medium for self-expression

Another external post about poetry which is more than worth reading.
And while you’re at it, follow Poetry Monthly, there might be some exciting news posted … later :3

Predictive Poetry – Sarah Grace Logan

Predictive Poetry.

I am much too lazy to try to summarize the whys and hows of this post, so you’ll just have to read it to know why I judged it share-worthy.

Step into my suspense web.

(It’s one more tool in our arse-nal against writer’s block, if you needed any reason to really check it out)

Thanks Sarah for this inspiring piece of writing :)

The storm warning me …

The storm warning me of some ethereal particle quarrel
Is the background music around which my insomnia tiptoes
afraid of missing a beat

The screen radiates Dickinson in cold light
I read aloud in slow, careful speech
as the performance should last a bit longer

(Dickinson seems to gently show the way forward
to the hours – I found that Pound scares them away
and H.D. has a nullifying effect – I plan further experiments.)

I -according to plan- should last a bit longer
If only to keep company to my symphonious thunderstorm outside
I will read – aloud (it matters) until it curls in to a stop.

“And I dropped down, and down –
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing – then -”

I turn to the thought of you perching over my bed
Thinking I might get some rest when you give me a look – however slight
A condition nightly denied.

Written for Cake.shortandsweet’s Wednesday Write-in challenge number 60. The prompts were : storm warning / insomnia / turn / stop / performance.
I advise every writer to check them out, it’s both challenging and refreshing. Link can be found on the right.

The Wake

Thus, I am summoned to the court of the Dream Lord
To witness the endbeat of my best friend’s passing
– the last vertical (and therefore : immediate) pulse allowed before the surrender of our
responsibilities to the river and its rhythm.

I am, in that instance, a child.

The long black coat over my shoulders is not of my choosing,
But maybe a homage to the dead – mine
and the ones to come
And the rest.

There are words :
Family, friends, various encounters,
Sometimes none,
But the speaker – vertical – then fills the silence with silence. It matters.
I stay low : in this dream, I shall be a mute child
In grown-up clothes.

There is no body, but we stand around a pool of light
which can be nothing but what passes for a grave in dreams
(I do not dream often,
But I know as much about death as any other
And there is a boat set into motion on a somewhat familiar water plane,
And tears running perpendicular to it
And solemn faces
– I rest my case.)

They stay,
And I stay, and either
They go, or I.
It is probably them.

Awakening ensued- recalled to life
The stars as steadfast here than there
The morning dew manifestly oblivious to its implications.

I ate what I could, looked up,
And flew away to deliver my daily load of supposedly bad omens to family,
friends, various encounters,
and others.

Vastly prompted by the rereading of books nine and ten of Sandman by Neil Gaiman.


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