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Posts Tagged ‘“Poetry”,’

I’m Squinting

With my glasses lost again

But I know enough to be struggling to see

God,but will I ever stop the drink

Once and for all?

 

Today I saw a Belfast man

Marching the road

Collarete on in the sun

The traditional

Tribal triumph

Seen in his swagger and away of shoulders.

 

But this is Spain

And the collarete was Instead ONCE

(Organización National de Ciegos España)

Tickets

Orange and yellow tickets to be sold

Their luck tacked to his waistcoat.

His swagger and away

Sadly as a result of the twisted racking cracking

Of his body’s being.

It spent moving

His spine choked frame in the ways of his days

Him I squinting saw

Not him then

Thran

With the self blinded

Hurray of the Cyclops.

 

Last time at home

A fella:

Brother to one in the company

Complained to the slow barman

-I’ll get you done!

But the bar was packed

And the barman

(Who I too, thought slow)

Was having none of his old craic.

 

-Get me done?

He hollered

-Get me done?

-You can fuck off,

Yer barred!

 

Old Belfast bashing

Hard man against the new.

The silence of naked fear

That such a statement

might once have entailed

Bloody death or at least a beating

Was gone

The bouncer gleefully bounced the

Soul scarred, jail tattooed poor twerp

Drinkless

Out into the night.

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Hello,

I avoid getting involved in round robin memes as it feels oxymoronic for a blog that celebrates the absurd and nonsensical to explain itself in anyway.

However, I was invited by the wonderful Kathryn Grid at art colored glasses to talk about my writing. This is a different story. Because Kathryn is wonderful. Plain and simple. She has a clarity of thought and writing style that explains why this blogging lark is so enjoyable. Whether it be poetry, art, photography or beautifully written pieces about modern-day life I always find her insights enjoyable.

I am late with this exercise, partly because I was in heavy training for a half marathon, partly because the PC required the brawny yet caring hands of Trevor the ‘puter repair man (scuppering a few sausageifications I might add) but mostly due to inertia.

So apologies Kathryn for missing your deadline!

The rules of the process are that I answer four questions about how I write and nominate three others.

What am I working on at the moment?

I am putting the finishing touches to a set of stories all written on trains and have finally prepared the skeleton for a novel which will consume me for years to come.

I am also through Gingerfightback seeking to get “Nonsense with a purpose” included into the political lexicon of Britain in time for the General Election in 2015.

How does my work differ from others of its genre?

No idea.

I concentrate on writing good stories with engaging characters that makes the reader want to get to the end of the story.

Why do I write what I do?

It is the way my brain works. I have an aversion to long windedness. Flowery writing drives me potty. Cherish words – don’t waste them.

How does my writing process work?

Notepad and pen. Always scribbling. Arrows and balloons. Get the narrative and then characterisation (my handwriting is so abysmal that the transfer to the screen is a slow and expletive laden process). Once I am happy with the structure, rewrite the thing. Remove excessive words. Rewrite. Third or fourth draft I might be happy with. Probably not so rewrite with the aim of removing more words.

I am a morning person.

And now, I nominate these three writers to participate in a Writing Process Blog Meme:

I nominated the people below because;

  • I have enjoyed reading their work
  • They hail from the British Isles
  • Their work covers adult and children’s literature and also poetry

Jackie @ http://barbedwords.wordpress.com/

Holly Anne @ http://hollyannegetspoetic.wordpress.com

JD @http://jdgallagher.wordpress.com

If you accept my nomination, please write an article prompted by the following four questions and post it on your blog sometime in the future. You’ll also nominate three writers of your choice to post their articles on their blogs again at sometime in the future. The four questions are;

What am I working on at the moment?

How does my work differ from others of its genre?

Why do I write what I do?

How does my writing process work?

Don’t worry if you don’t want to do it!

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I went to sleep in the stranger’s bed
And woke needing to pee.
Not knowing where the light was
Nor wanting to wake her.
Well,
Wanting to wake her…but.

Through the curtains
Could see the stars
Sow stars
Sow that light across this universe
This brief moment of time
Across the darkness
Light my way
Be my light
Don’t let me stumble.

But she wakes
And as she watches my return
Know now
This means more to me
Than the light
Of our one lonely star.

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‘Is anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest’s ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller’s head:
And he smote upon the door a second time;
Is there anybody there?’ he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
Well, that’s what you get for booking on line when you’re pissed.

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spermwithaperm Hi Everyone!

Been a while!

Two Words!

Tight Underpants!

As hot as hell in here while he wore that thong.

Then it all changed yesterday!

Boxers!

Aaaahh the sheer relief of a dangling pair of knackers. (Go the whole hog and make kilts compulsory – let ‘em sway fellas!)

Oh well time to get back in the saddle. Giddy Up!

As Tennyson may have written, “Into the Valley of Death, rode the 40 million…….”

Right……Ready Or Not…..Here I Come!

sperm_wiggle

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I’ve given up the shore for Hills

These Hills

At twilight the Lough glows yet red

Clutching the last of the Sun

I’ve given up The Shore for these hills

Hills yellow with furze

Coconut smelling

And birdsong trilling out

Below ribbons of streetlights

Show colour, a friendlier yellow

It’s the mounds that have it tho’

Dusky mounds of fecund blossom

Falling away making this

Spring’s snowline of bushes

Broad brushstrokes

 

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London 1802. Apologies to W. Wordsworth.
Milton! thou should’st be living at this hour:
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Ooh. I’m all worked up.
I need a shower.

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Shifting over in the bed.
Waking at
My usual time to wake
Minutes before the alarm sounds.
I laugh at the lonely
Silliness,
Of my being pleased
That I can turn on the other lamp with a toe
My left big toe.
It has taken these years
To shift from having
Had
A
‘My side of the bed’
But I navigate around
These various double beds
Painters long since slipped
Still a deep sleeper
But wandering now
From clinging to the
Ribbing at the side
Of a queen-sized mattress
In the company of
Her
Her of splendid isolation
To now
To all the kingdoms
And beyond
As there’s no one there to wake to.
If there were to be
It’d be a pretty pass
To wake a sleeping lover with a big toe in her gob
(Still?
….horses for courses…)
As I swing to turn on their lamp
I can imagine lights being put out for less.

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Hello,
Hermione Moist, the latest muse to pen an ode or two for GFB, outlines her appreciation of the great Welsh poet, drinker, shagger and slip-on wearer Dylan “The Rhyme Master” Thomas with a reworking of his classic 2012 poem Under Milk  Wood.
Udder Milk Wood (Apologies to Dylan Thomas)

It is Spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobble streets silent and the hunched, courters’-and- rabbits’ wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishing boat-bobbing sea. The houses are blind as moles (though moles see fine to-night in the snouting, velvet dingles) or blind as Captain Cat there in the muffled middle by the pump and the town clock, the shops in mourning, the Welfare Hall in widows’ weeds. And all the people of the lulled and dumbfound town are sleeping now.

Well, I don’t think we’ll be bothering with Wales this year.

What do you think Arthur dear?

Dunno love, never bin.

Is that Welfare Hall a Premier Inn?

It’s mentioned here in the novel

Apparently it’s a fucking hovel

And all  the pubs playing Tom Jones’ singles.

You’ll never get me near velvet dingles.

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My fingers are stiff and sore with the cold
There are no smells from the pines
The winter sun shining through
Carries thoughts of warmth
The resins not warmed enough to ooze
I’d have to carry this pack much further south for such heat now
My shoulders hurt.
My poor fingers
Better get on
Winter brrr…

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