Monday 30 June 2014

Future Boulevard


Future Boulevard

The seasons pass above me down this lane,
And time walks forward, guiding future-blind
Poor souls like me to wakefulness again;
The pope is praying, cats are singing, kind

And gentle chess players offer up to me
Their kings; but from them all I stray; the leaves
Of yesterday are swimming backstroke, free
To take a pocketful of time like thieves.

Just looking back, the seasons mix and change:
The spring follows the autumn, winter calls
And beckons at my back, and just ahead,
The crown of summer’s heat is left arranged
Upon my memories. The E.R. walls
Are trees, and winter states that I am dead.


Source - http://lookslikegooddesign.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/10/la9.jpg

Painted by Leonid Afremov

Friday 27 June 2014

I See No God Up Here


I See No God Up Here – an Ekphrastic poem

If I take a moment from my capsule;
If I float beyond it, hands open
To the stars, I can’t breathe
Through the tears.
If I could sew a net of suns,
I’d use it to catch gods, and
Rope them in like fish,
Bodies flashing mirrors in
Eternal obsidian nights straight
Across the Milky Way.

But from my shallow island
Contained within my helmet,
I can’t help but call back to earth:

“I See No God Up Here…”



Source -  http://i.imgur.com/XqMYrIw.jpg

Submitted by /u/ZedOreo - http://www.reddit.com/user/ZedOreo

Thursday 26 June 2014

The Saalfeld Perfume Vials

The Saalfeld Perfume Vials – Found texts


The one thing I’ll remember till the day
I die is when the saalfeld perfume vials
Came up. When you recover stuff worthwhile,
It’s wet, it’s rusty, rotten and decayed.

The smell it gives is alien, fetid death,
The kind of death you’ve never seen or felt.
The lab is, therefore, quite unpleasant breath
From ancient ocean wrecks, that we must smell.

And then, somebody opens up this satchel,
And out comes fluttering the scent of heaven.
It’s all these flowers and fruity things, it’s just
Completely overwhelming; and we’re baffled.
Instead, the room that was dead things just seconds
Ago - for those few minutes, for those few minutes-

The ship was alive again.



The original text, scripted from a documentary

The one thing I’ll remember about Titanic artefacts till the day I die is when the saalfeld perfume vials came up.

When you recover stuff from the Titanic, it’s wet, it’s rusty and it’s rotten. And the smell that comes off it is perfectly alien, perfectly fetid, you know it’s a kind of death you have never experienced. And so the lab is kind of unpleasant. And then, all of a sudden, somebody opens up this satchel, this leather satchel, and out comes the fragrance of heaven. It’s all these flowers and fruity flavors and it’s delicious. It’s the most wonderful thing you’ve ever had. It was just a complete overwhelming experience. It was like all of a sudden the fragrance of heaven kind of goes through the room. So, instead of being surrounded by all of these dead things, for those few minutes, for those few minutes, the ship was alive again.


Source:

Wednesday 25 June 2014

Update

Hey guys,

Just a little update - basically, I'm still trying to figure out where everything's gonna go - I don't like the messiness of original content mixed with analysis, and I'm still in between moving out of my family home and getting a job and all that jazz.

SO.

I'm making another blog - I'll leave everything here that's currently here, but from now on, analysis of existing poets will be posted HERE.

I don't know if there are even regular readers here, but just in case there are, then feel free to scoot on over there for a gander. The next poet/poem I'll be looking at will be William Butler Yeats, probably 'The Song of the Happy Shepard'; though no-doubt I'll end up talking about 'He Who Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven' as well, as that's my FAVOURITE poem of all time.

So... yeah. Thanks for reading, and visiting my blog!

Tuesday 24 June 2014

John Donne, and A Valediction Forbidding Mourning

A Valediction Forbidding Mourning


AS virtuous men pass mildly away,
    And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
    "Now his breath goes," and some say, "No." 

                
So let us melt, and make no noise,                                       5 
    No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move ; 
'Twere profanation of our joys  
    To tell the laity our love. 


Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears; 
    Men reckon what it did, and meant;                              10 
But trepidation of the spheres,  
    Though greater far, is innocent. 


Dull sublunary lovers' love  
    —Whose soul is sense—cannot admit
Of absence, 'cause it doth remove                                     15 
    The thing which elemented it. 


But we by a love so much refined, 
    That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assurèd of the mind,
    Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss.          
               20

Our two souls therefore, which are one, 
    Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
    Like gold to aery thinness beat. 


If they be two, they are two so                                          25 
    As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show  
    To move, but doth, if th' other do. 


And though it in the centre sit,  
    Yet, when the other far doth roam,                                30 
It leans, and hearkens after it,  
    And grows erect, as that comes home. 


Such wilt thou be to me, who must, 
    Like th' other foot, obliquely run; 
Thy firmness makes my circle just,                                    35 
    And makes me end where I begun.  




About John Donne

John Donne was born in 1572 to a recusant Catholic family (meaning a family that did not attend Anglican practices). At the time, practicing Catholicism was illegal in England. Though his family faced much persecution, John Donne managed to achieve a private education, going on to study at Cambridge – However, he failed to get a degree due to his Catholicism. Later in life, after questioning his faith, he became a Protestant – He fought in the Anglo-Spanish war, and upon returning, he began an illustrious career as chief secretary to Lord Keeper of the Great Seal, Sir Thomas Egerton. However, this did not last; four years later, he displeased Egerton and married his niece, Anne More, ending his diplomatic career. For several years, Donne struggled to cope with his ever-growing family (His wife had no fewer than 12 children). However, from 1610, Donne’s life took a turn for the better – he received patronage from Sir Robert Drury, and eventually became the Dean of St Pauls, a lucrative and prominent position within the church of England. He remained in this position until he died in 1631.
In John Donne’s poetry, we must address a key concept – that of Christian joy. Adam Potkay captures this important theme when discussing Donne’s work by stating;
‘… within the Protestant “pluriverse” of souls each striving for God and struggling against Satan or fallen human nature, joy serves as a countervailing, centripetal force, a sign and surety of adhesion to God and neighbour.’[i] Donne believed that joy was something biblical, a connection to the divine that actively opposed the forces of evil, and Satan. He actively condemned joylessness, and struggled in his famous sermons to draw people away from joyless lives. However, today John Donne is perhaps best known for being one of the first Metaphysical Poets – This group of independent writers was defined by dealing with topics such as love and religion, as well as using ingenious metaphors, or ‘conceits’, to great effect. John Donne’s most famous example is his use of a Flea to discuss sexual relations between two people in The Flea;
Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is;
It suck’d me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be.
This kind of imagery is extremely evocative, and was particularly effective during the sixteenth- and seventeenth centuries for pushing people’s understanding of language beyond their limits. Conceits broke new ground; as Helen Gardner states, ‘A conceit is a comparison whose ingenuity is more striking than its justness’[ii] – meaning that their denotative meaning was not immediately indicative of their connotative meaning. Basically, they used unusual and unconventional metaphors to challenge people to think about their source material.

Looking at 'A Valediction Forbidding Mourning'

In 'A Valediction Forbidding Mourning', Donne uses this and much more to talk about the dangers and irrationality of loss, grief and joylessness. The title itself is enough to tell us that – Valediction essentially means ‘farewell’, and so the title reads ‘A Farewell Forbidding Mourning’. This ties in to the context of the piece, as it was written to his wife before departing for continental Europe around 1611-12. However, it’s clear that his themes stretch beyond departing on a journey, as the piece begins by referring to the death of ‘virtuous men’. He wants us to understand that these men were loved by friends and family. And yet, whilst some say, ‘… ‘Now his breath goes,’ and some say ‘No.’’, Donne suggests that we ‘melt, and make no noise’; that it is ‘profanation of our joys/ to tell the laity our love.’ He wishes for us to move directly against the concept of mourning by breaking the traditions of a funeral. He refers to the workings of the universe, to the ‘Moving of th’ earth’ and man’s ‘trepidation of the spheres’, as an innocent yet harmful speculation – whilst ‘Men reckon what it did’, they will eventually find no answer to their questions. Here, spheres may be referring to something spiritual as opposed to literal, such as the afterlife, or heaven; however, either way the meaning is much the same. People consider loss on a scale that is beyond their understanding, ergo: why has this happened?
Once we move into the fourth stanza, the main theme of the poem becomes apparent; Donne isn’t just referring to the loss of a friend or relative. He’s talking about the loss of a lover, or a loved partner. He talks about the irrationality of love, and it’s blinding sense of ‘logic’; ‘sublunary lovers’ love/ - Whose soul is sense – cannot admit/ Of absence’. These lines are particularly significant because, in them, he identifies a paradox; lover’s rationality is subjective. Between two lovers, their feelings and experiences are alive and earthly (aka – sublunary, meaning belonging to this world, normally as opposed to a spiritual one). Their souls, made of ‘sense’, cannot adjust to absence as the act of acceptance would kill that feeling. He’s referring to moving on, and the need to put something behind you; ‘cannot admit/ Absence, ‘cause it doth remove/ The thing which elemented it.’ It’s a double-edged sword: on one hand, the loss of this love is a raw and open wound; on the other, moving on risks the chance of betraying yourself.
Donne reinforces this idea in the next stanza, suggesting that this conviction leads us to ‘Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss.’ This is a reference to the wilful negligence of a lover in mourning, and the active pursuit of ignoring emotions and rational responses – specifically, he talks about the senses. The next stanza opens up the theme of joyfulness for the first time, as opposed to his position on joylessness. He talks of an ‘expansion’, as opposed to a ‘breach’, referring to the two souls still being one, ‘Though I must go’ – here he acknowledges a physical separation, whilst alluding to a spiritual connection. They don’t halve; instead, they expand, ‘Like gold to aery thinness beat.’ Essentially, it’s similar to dissolution; whilst they spread far apart, the solution is the same. A drop of wine in a glass of water spreads, and remains connected.
The last three stanzas of the poem, my favourite part, essentially embodies the Metaphysical conceit, or extended metaphor, that poets like Donne were so brilliant at crafting. He compares the two separated souls to needles on a compass; ‘If they be two, they are two so/ As stiff twin compasses are two’. The implications of this image are so ingenious, that just considering it brings the reader to several inherent truths about the irrationality of joylessness. By their very nature, the needles of a compass can never meet; ‘Thy soul, the fix’d foot, makes no show/ To move, but doth, if th’ other do.’ The act of pursuing lost love is the futile act of the two hands of a compass attempting to meet. He still considers the two liked at the centre; ‘Yet, when the other far doth roam,/ It leans, and hearkens after it,/ And grows erect, as that comes home.’ There’s a yearning feeling, something which is transcribed as a physical force – the act of grief is a force of nature, a primal sadness.
At the end of the poem, Donne brings the subject matter back to his wife, the recipient of the poem, ‘who must,/ Like th’ other foot, obliquely run’. Here, the title of the poem comes back to us, and we’re reminded that this is his own farewell to his wife, forbidding mourning. He reminds her, however, that whilst in death they may never physically be together, the force of their love can retain joyfulness even after death; ‘Thy firmness makes my circle just,/ And makes me end where I begun.’ Here, in the last lines, he brings the poem full circle by referring to his own beginnings. He reminds her – and by extension, us the readers – that in our memories, the true life of love will always be found.




[i] Adam Potkay, ‘Spenser, Donne, and the Theology of Joy’, Studies in English Literature, 1500-1900, 46.1 (2006) p.43
[ii] Helen Gardner, The Metaphysical Poets (England: Oxford University Press, 1961) p. xxiii

Monday 23 June 2014

Hourglass

Hourglass


What’s your name, young man?
Ah, John – a good strong name. And,
How old are you? Take my hand.
I swear time inches away in grains of sand.

John – Good strong name. And
Name of my father.
I swear time inches away in grains of sand,
Doesn’t it my sweet Arthur?

The name of my father,
John – Passed down through generations,
Hasn’t it my sweet Arthur?
What? John? Who’s John?

John – gone now for generations, and
At last it comes to this.
What? John? Who’s John?
I’m scared, and lost, and weary.

At last we come to this.
How old are you? Take my hand.
I’m scared, and lost, and weary.
What’s your name, young man?

Sunday 22 June 2014

Glimmer, Shine and Gold

Glimmer, shine and gold.

A ring, a clip, and thirty coins; He cocked
His head and peered with eyes of liquid black
Towards the baker’s window; left unlocked.
He swooped from tree to tree with bric-a-brac
Embroided on his back in feathers long
And thick. He landed on the windowsill
And lifted up the latch to break in. Wrong
As this may be, he would not rest until
He’d won his prize of glimmer, shine and gold.
With deft footsteps he leapt and crept forward
To take this loot away; not to be sold
But to be swift and make a gift this horde.

And later, far above a field of Rye,
Three things were made a wedding gift for darling lady Magpie.

Friday 20 June 2014

My hands

When my hands weren't enough for you

Counting down on broken fingers;
Five, four, three, two, one.
The dance begins; it begins with
One. A single step, whirling around
Within the walls of a city
In June.
The next set of footsteps crash
Against your own, and the dance changes from
Tango to waltz.

And as more feet come to compete
In these streets, toes meet at the centre;
Our graceful sweeps are left incomplete.
Our hands mistreat one another, repeat
Old steps, but offbeat and fleeting.

If three makes a crowd, then we all
Must feel pretty cramped in here.
We get battered along the way;
Some of us fall,
Some of us flourish,
Most of us get a little bit broken.
I count down on my broken fingers;
Five, Four, Three-
                                                -Two, One.

Our palms lock together, and we leave through the main gate,

                                Dancing a nifty little foxtrot on our cobblestones.

Tuesday 17 June 2014

To The Fearful.

To The Fearful.


It’s a turn of phrase; a curiosity
that's burning out, smoky tendrils rising,
stinging our eyes. It’s in a fixed-up place
                                                                                                          that we first met,
                this broken mirror and I.

So, counting backwards from ten, I became
less than a shadow; I was unborn into a pre-life,
and things were wholly forgotten
                                                                                to me
                                                                                                                today.

Help us A
silent echo across the lines
across divided fields rivers trees and
shores mountains and sunsets and summer
breezes Our eases that please us
are out of our                    Pocket-Jesus
our non-believing retrieving of a compass
point facing straight back that
leaves
Us

We’re out in the road,
                                                                                sails caught in the branches of our
                                                                                                                      last trees.

It’s a turn of phrase; a curiosity
that burnt out and out and out and out and out-
standing delays in our sense of comedic timing
have left us together,

this broken mirror and I.

Sunday 15 June 2014

Frank O'Hara, and childhood in his poetry

Childhood in Frank O'Hara's poetry


'There I could never be a boy,
though I rode like a god when the horse reared.
At a cry from mother, I fell to my knees!'
Frank O'Hara, ‘Poem (There I could never be a boy)’

Frank O'Hara is perhaps best imagined as the cosmopolitan; the critic, the party-goer, the curator. He was an enthusiastic student of the arts. His deep passion for media and artistic portrayal is something that can be found deeply rooted in his poetry, and there’s no denying his adoration of the city of New York that saturates his work. However, Frank was not born into that lifestyle: He grew up in the small town of Grafton, Massachusetts, to parents Russell and Katherine O'Hara; populated by around 6000 people, Grafton was far-removed from the glamour of the big city. He was the oldest sibling, out of his brother John (or Phil) and his sister Maureen, and he attended St Paul’s Catholic grade school from 1932-1940. His family owned and managed a farm, and were well-respected in the community. Despite a frosty relationship with his family at the time of his death, he was often considered his mother’s child during his time before joining the navy. Family life for young Frank O'Hara (aka., Francis) was good; for example, when writing home during one point of his deployment, he wrote (without any sense of sarcasm), ‘Blondie will always be a symbol of our family life to me[i] (alluding to the film). So where does this rural background come in to Frank O’Hara’s poetry? Does it possess any kind of levity? What of his sexual identity, or his literary genius? Where does this upbringing show in the city-poet's work?

As it turns out, he regularly alluded to his childhood throughout various examples of his poetry, in different manners and with different attitudes. Perhaps the most obvious example of his allusion to his childhood can be found in his poem, 'Ode to Michael Goldberg ('s Birth and Other Births)'. In this candid piece, he extracts the segments of the child, Francis O'Hara, from the perspective of the adult poet, Frank - This has the effect of bringing us into his own perspective as both adult and adolescent, whilst showing us what aspects of his childhood later cultivated into adulthood. Throughout the poem, his wandering, musing voice casually recalls senses and memories to expose to us things like his awakening sexuality; his referral to, '... the twitching odor of hay...' being a possible reference to his first sexual experience with a stable boy
[ii]. Interestingly, whilst he generally removed himself from the responsibilities surrounding the farm and it's management, he is drawn to that first experience and the masculinity of that lifestyle around him. Even if this is not true, it is the working-class, masculine world which he chooses to eroticise - for example, referring to the remarks made by the Whitney Brothers - as opposed to the more educated lifestyle he had learnt from his aunts (the life of the arts, and literature). In other poems, too, he specifically refers to this idea of sexual awakening; in 'Ave Maria', he suggests that mothers that send children to the cinema might find their children thanking them, '... for their first sexual experience/ which only cost you a quarter/ and didn't upset the peaceful home...' Here, there's also the possibility that O'Hara was quite aware of his homosexuality at a younger age; more, that he had the maturity to recognise his own vulnerability being gay, and the difficulties he would face because of this. There is the chance that, like in so much of his poetry, he is being semi-autobiographical.

In another poem,Poem (There I could never be a boy)’, Frank approaches the subject of his childhood in a different manner than in 'Ode to Michael Goldberg'; with the mentality of the poet. From the very first line, we get the impression that he felt that his own personality - his own passion and drive - prevented him from enjoying a normal childhood. Similarly, he refers to his mother in this poem, and the conflict she elicited from him with regards to his creativity: He discusses his uncontainable creative drive through an extended metaphor that flows throughout the piece, 'though I bloomed on the back of a frightened black mare...', later writing, 'All these things are tragic/ when a mother watches!/... I knew her, but I could not be a boy...'. However, here it is difficult to imagine that he's doing anything other than looking back in hindsight through tinted shades. There are plenty of examples of Francis the child being decidedly boyish, from his childhood love of music (which he shared with his father AND mother) to his references of childish antics in 'Ode to Michael Goldberg', '... in bushes playing tag, being called in, walk-/ing up onto the porch crying bitterly because it wasn't a/ veranda'. He even emphasises his youth by referring to a time before he was aware of sexuality as a part of himself, when, 'I wasn't proud of my penis yet, how did I know how to act?' Here, he actually refers to a specific LACK of awareness of the poet in him; instead, he is ONLY the boy.

Lastly, in his poetry, he regularly refers to his influences from literature, art and film - even beyond his childhood. However, specifically in pieces such as 'Autobiographia Literaria', we gain some insight into how important these influences were. Again, he refers to a solitary childhood - something which we have to consider with a pinch of incredulity (Gooch refers to a relevant collection of friends that O'Hara spent time with throughout his childhood [iii]) - however, he concludes the poem with, 'And here I am, the/ centre of all beauty!/ writing these poems!/ Imagine!'. This poem was written whilst he was still studying at Harvard in 1949-50, and is the first piece that dealt with his childhood. This is relevant because of how he chose to emphasise his desire to write and be a part of the educated, creative community he was so influenced by. He was an exceptionally bright child: His aunt Margaret helped him to develop a love of reading into an insatiable desire to learn - being a librarian, it was she who plied him with the works of Dickens, Washington Irving, and many others [iv]. In 'Ave Maria', his appreciation of films is immediately obvious, 'Mothers of America/ let your kids go to the movies!' Here, movies is more than just it's literal interpretation; he uses them as a conduit for experiencing life in general. This is apparent in the closing lines of the piece, where he states that the children of parents who don't allow their children to get out of the house and experience things eventually, '... grow old and blind in front of the TV set/ seeing/ movies you wouldn't let them see when they were young'. This alludes to his own childhood, where his aunt Lizzie introduced him to the world of film. He became a firm believer in the importance of film as a medium; something which he would never release.

Frank O'Hara rarely liked to talk about his childhood in later years. His friend, painter Jane Freilicher, suggested that he always exuded this feeling that he was, ‘… very much on his own.’[v] However, whilst it perhaps wasn't as clear-cut as he might imply from his New York apartment conversations with his mother over the phone, nor as he might suggest in his letter to his brother, in which he states, 'As you know I don't give a fuck for families', Frank O'Hara retained some of that relationship with his mother, albeit shrouded in distaste. He traces his own sexual identity through his time spent in the navy, and Harvard, and New York, all the way to the smell of hay; a lifeline to his youth, and it remains there. Overall, Frank O'Hara may have chosen to distance himself from his childhood - However, whilst he had drifted away from his rural beginnings and family ties by the 1960s, Frank O'Hara never chose to completely shake his childhood experience. 





[i] Brad Gooch, City Poet: The Life and Times of Frank O’Hara (New York: Alfred A. Knopf Inc., 1993) p. 13
[ii] Brad Gooch, p. 51
[iii] Brad Gooch, p. 43 - 46
[iv] Brad Gooch, p. 33
[v] Brad Gooch, p. 12


Notes - Hey guys, I hope that you liked this piece - sorry it's out at the skin of my teeth on Sunday night, but here it is regardless! Enjoy!

Poems: 
Ode to Michael Goldberg ('s Birth and Other Births) - search contents
Ave Maria
Poem (There I Could Never be a Boy) - search contents
Autobiographia Literaria

Friday 13 June 2014

Crow's Couplets


Crow’s Couplets

I followed feathers home today; they fell
Into a line, from tip to tip, that swells
With each migrating memory; across
The sea they fly away, each one my loss.

I’m picking feathers from my teeth today;
I stayed behind, they moved on, but I stayed,
And now I’m having trouble speaking out
Without then choking on a thought or doubt.

Behind me, stretch these feathers in a line;
And from my skin sprout black wings, up my spine,
And out my shoulders, feeling colder; free
And flocking thoughts come back at last to me.

Upon my tombstone sits a crow, who said;
'No name. Below the soil. Forgotten. Dead.'



Source - http://www.reddit.com/r/Heavymind/comments/27papw/release_by_me_pen_and_ink/

The drawing is called 'Release'

The artist is u/cheeseboyhalpert, and his account is here: http://www.reddit.com/user/cheeseboyhalpert

(This one is a more thought-out poem than the last one, which was lazy. I'll leave them both up, though)

Tuesday 10 June 2014

Feathers


Feathers

My waking hours are filled with rustling wings,
With feathers carrying my thoughts from me,
They go so far away from me to be
Pieces of something, bits of greater things;
And each small segment of my memories
Migrates across the sea, to sunny shores
That I’m too black and white to understand.
Please take the time to get in line, demand
A redress of the things we used pay for.
And when the trail stretches, measure it
With crows wings, placed from end to end, a train
Of thought, the ticket paid with copper pennies,
A train that left the station in a dream.


The shadow of our plans is scattered in the wind.

Source - http://www.reddit.com/r/Heavymind/comments/27papw/release_by_me_pen_and_ink/

The drawing is called 'Release'

The artist is u/cheeseboyhalpert, and his account is here: http://www.reddit.com/user/cheeseboyhalpert

Thursday 5 June 2014

Why people need poetry

Firstly, let me show you something I just watched - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=08ZWROqoTZo

It's a talk about why poetry is important to us, given by literary critic Stephen Burt. I won't go into too much detail on it, he explains it far better than I could - but I do want to highlight one specific aspect of the talk. He refers to a poem's ability to communicate something from within us that we didn't previously understand, how poets of every category (alive, dead, male, female, old, young, imaginary and real) have emotionally tangible links to us in the present. I believe this is absolutely true - I'd even go one further, and say these links don't even have to be conscious decisions; That W. B. Yeats, 'He Wishes For the Cloths of Heaven' could allude to my own sense of creative vulnerability, and yet to someone else's destitution simultaneously, without being aware of it; That Roland Barthes was right when he said that the author is dead; and that I myself might have inadvertently written a poem about someone else's life, whilst simply responding to a piece of art (which you might have noticed, I like doing). 

Overall, the greatest lesson I've come to understand regarding art is that there are no correct responses to it. A writer/painter/actor/etc. can put all of their skill into a single project, trying to approach a theme or question, a representation or interpretation, and come out with something entirely different - and that's absolutely okay. It is not the responsibility of the artist to make up your mind, that's your job. That can be rather daunting, especially if you're new to poetry or don't have a degree under your belt - I found it intimidating that I hadn't read much poetry, which resulted in me staying away from it for a long time. Sadly, whilst it shouldn't be, this is more often the case.

I'm getting to the point, bear with me. I want to capture that casual approach to poetry. Frank O'Hara is my favourite poet; Lunch Poems is such a brilliant embodiment of how we should look at poetry, and art in general, and he was so laid back about it! Stephen quotes him in his talk, 'If you don't enjoy poetry, bully for you.' So I'm going to start doing that - once or twice a week, I'll take a poem, and just talk about it. I'll do some research on the poet, possibly a couple of other poems by them as well to compare, and I'll just go through it. Just because it's great, not because I want to be pretentious all over your face. 

So come along, grab a coffee and a sandwich, and lets just go through some poems!

Wednesday 4 June 2014

It's in her skin


It’s in her skin

The first time was the last time you admitted it
To yourself. Picture it, for a moment;

She’s in the doorway,
Shining with sweat and drink.
It’s all over her body, glistening like the
Skin of bubbles, like gasoline on the
Tarmac ready to burn, but you just
Look at her. Her smoky shadow
Half unfurled in black crows feathers,
Falling past her shoulders, across
Her lower back. She swaggers
Out the door, and in the moments
After it closes shut behind her,
Leaving you alone in the dark,
You rub your eyes and say,
It does things to her…

You’ll remember her skin for the rest of your days,
Even in the amber cast of whiskey mornings.


Source - http://i.imgur.com/iAPEhif.jpg

The painting is called, 'She Only Loves You when she's Drunk'

Painted by u/youngluck - http://www.reddit.com/user/youngluck

Monday 2 June 2014

Her hands are busy

This one's a little different - someone replied to my previous poem, 'Let us play at fiction, you and I', so I wrote a quick response and posted it to them! Their original poem can be found here (http://www.reddit.com/r/Art/comments/26iokd/touch_acrylic_on_wood_80_x_61cm/chwrn1o), and was written by u/picpocgallery, who also painted the picture for 'Let us play at fiction, you and I'


Her hands are busy

The day we wed, our hands will clasp around
The wonders that have happened, Birdie-Wife
Of mine; we spend our days both run aground,
We spend them driving shadows from our lives.
You came into my life just like a light-
Beam, like the lightning of a midnight sky.
With edges set in razors, set like knives,
You cut the strings that tied my wings to my
Side; Oceans kept their tides, their unknown winds,
And blew my sails into squalls and storms,
And yet, you touched my cheek, and though I’d sinned
That day, the sins were good and of the norm.

A thrumming pace of words, of sights and signs,
They keep me at your side, oh Birdie-Wife of mine.