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Post by Deleted on Jun 2, 2010 11:13:31 GMT -5
I wrote this poem when I was twenty-one years old and had recently started travelling regularly to London from my country home.
London Jag
Shall I get drunk or lay myself a china doll, Or drive an expensive car down the M4? The repeating rifle juke box stutter of synthetic chicks Coddled in savoury lust, a rich gravy, Draws down the scarlet shutter of heaven and hell.
Apparently this chick has done it again; That's two abortions in a row. I don't know: She's certainly taking time relentlessly by the forelocks, Stripping the decks for mutual satisfaction.
But it was not for this that I came here, To this forsaken half-world dream city, Nor was it to kiss with my bloodless lips The rain-shattered, pigeon spattered base of the Cenotaph. Hugging my treasure closely to me, I have come in black dishonoured greed With an aloof indifference to lordly yield my stammering sway Over the bricks and debris of this city choked for lack of light, And bearing in its hand the tortured anguish of sick joy.
My hands are gloved as if to reassure, My hands are gloved to hide their breaking point, And friends that I used to know are striking attitudes, The brittle posturings of a self-styled lifestyle; They call it living a world of heroes.
And there are the places where people live, In faded rooms where the walls drip water, Bulge with an excess of surface damp And live three to a room and no one cares. And there are the places where people die, Huddled in shabby overcoats away from the cold, Munching their hoarded hunks of barren bread, And dying alone and no one cares.
And there are the mirrors of nightmare, That stare at your faces when you can no longer hide, And the coy whimsy of such austere detachment cloys at last, Recognition dawning with the sudden knowledge that we Belong on the other side of the nightmare, Are denizens of the mirror image, A grotesque caricature of our own self-parody.
And here, in this strange black city where tradition Requires that even revolt should observe convention, Conform to the norm, preserve decorum, I slyly wink at the girl in the tight black dress at the inadequate corner. But here the exhausted harlot calls a halt, this time; Her cigarettes have given out at last.
It is a mere few hours journey back Out of the strange exhilaration of this ignorant city, This barren furnace stoked on imitation coal, Kept fat on the bone of memory, living on past glories, Although some prefer a nostalgia of the future. Here, in the fumbled jigsaw of the high rise building None of the pieces fit, the reason being The design itself too obviously preordained. It left no scope for humans in the pattern.
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Post by fretslider on Jun 2, 2010 12:10:44 GMT -5
Have you ever considered having any of your work published, Mike? You should.
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Post by Deleted on Jun 3, 2010 11:19:21 GMT -5
Well, Fret, it is nice of you to say that but not really.
I began writing poetry as a teenager because I found that it made me appear more attractive to the opposite sex. I was also asked by male friends to write love poems to girls that they wished to impress.
Although I first wrote poetry at around 14, it was not until I was around 19 that I began writing it seriously. I continued to write it until I was about 32 when the pressure of work, other types of writing and other aspects of life made it nothing more than an occasional hobby.
I have probably written around a dozen or so poems over the last 20 years.
I will dig out one I wrote in 1979 which I think you might enjoy. It is a political poem about the murder - miscalled 'execution' - of prostitutes by the Iranian Revolutionary Guards.
It tries to write the piece from the point of view of the murdered women.
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Post by Deleted on Jun 15, 2010 17:49:54 GMT -5
Here's the Iranian poem I promised. I wrote it in a fit of anger at the news that the Iranian Revolutionary Guards had executed a number of prostitutes by firing squad. Here's the poem:
For the prostitutes killed by the Iranian Revolutionary Guard
The blood was warm it was our blood the earth was dry we warmed it with our blood until our lives grew cold
slumped in a posture we would rather not have chosen but choice was not permitted us since even the strongest imagination can't keep out bullets pumped into a heart
we stood against a wall of stone and we who had only wanted to be kind found suffering gave us all the answers but asked no questions
and when the bullets blew away our breath and smashed our bones and splintered our cells we wanted to ask the lonely men what need of theirs we could have supplied
our voices narrowed to a scream as bullets kissed us raped our soft warm flesh we never knew such abstract hate before that grew like a cancer inside us
and now that the earth itself is levelled donw to the sharp report of rifles our flesh is nuzzled by the bullet's love our bodies flung to the floor and what does it mean this frozen sexless murder of our sex in the loving sun's bright rays we could have lain for ever with his heat
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Post by beth on Jun 16, 2010 6:19:44 GMT -5
That's very impressive, Mike. Thanks for posting - I enjoyed reading it and expect to come back and read it again. I agree with Fret ... you could easily publish.
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Post by Wonder Woman on Jun 16, 2010 8:56:29 GMT -5
Here's one from my back-to-school days. School
I married a man with a guitar in his hand who got me with songs he was playin’ now he brings in the loot in a three piece suit and I’m back in school - but he’s payin’.
The classes I’m takin’ here round the lake have only been a few it’s my first year but it’s become clear exactly what I’m not gonna do.
I grew up with a mother who adds like no other she understands that B equals J a’course Q equals B but I just don’t see so I won’t be a math wiz someday.
Now I’ve got a teacher who’s latest feature is poetry filled with wrath enough I say just take it away it’s depressing -- but at least it ain’t math.
By the lake I hike on down to psych gladly leaving those poems behind swishing round in my brain like an odd refrain ‘til I wonder if I’m losing my mind.
My dad is a man with a hammer in hand so I tried the drafting course but the angles were straight and I couldn’t create so I left that with little remorse.
I much prefer art where I break things apart and put them wherever I will with pencil or paint and no restraint whole pages of nonsense I fill.
Since I’m in college acquiring knowledge my kids are so proud of me “hey mom” they say in a soft silly way “when you grow up what d’you wanna be?”
Oddly enough when I started this stuff I was sure what I’d be when all through for when I began I had a definite plan now - I haven’t a clue ! Lynne Marien March, 1996
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Post by Wonder Woman on Jun 16, 2010 8:56:53 GMT -5
Mike, I agree with the others ~ you are quite gifted.
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Post by Deleted on Jun 16, 2010 9:01:56 GMT -5
Thank you. Perhaps if I had tried to publish my work when I was young I might have been successful. Now that I am almost 52 I don't think it has quite the same appeal to editors!
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Post by beth on Jun 16, 2010 13:03:19 GMT -5
Thank you. Perhaps if I had tried to publish my work when I was young I might have been successful. Now that I am almost 52 I don't think it has quite the same appeal to editors! Mike, I can't imagine that being the case. I'd think the opposite would apply. The age that most often troubles publishers is erratic youth. You'd only need to send a few of yours out to magazines. What do you have to lose? I'm sure Lin has a list of names and addresses. If not, I can round them up for you.
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Post by beth on Jun 16, 2010 20:59:10 GMT -5
Here's one from my back-to-school days. School
I married a man with a guitar in his hand who got me with songs he was playin’ now he brings in the loot in a three piece suit and I’m back in school - but he’s payin’.
The classes I’m takin’ here round the lake have only been a few it’s my first year but it’s become clear exactly what I’m not gonna do.
I grew up with a mother who adds like no other she understands that B equals J a’course Q equals B but I just don’t see so I won’t be a math wiz someday.
Now I’ve got a teacher who’s latest feature is poetry filled with wrath enough I say just take it away it’s depressing -- but at least it ain’t math.
By the lake I hike on down to psych gladly leaving those poems behind swishing round in my brain like an odd refrain ‘til I wonder if I’m losing my mind.
My dad is a man with a hammer in hand so I tried the drafting course but the angles were straight and I couldn’t create so I left that with little remorse.
I much prefer art where I break things apart and put them wherever I will with pencil or paint and no restraint whole pages of nonsense I fill.
Since I’m in college acquiring knowledge my kids are so proud of me “hey mom” they say in a soft silly way “when you grow up what d’you wanna be?”
Oddly enough when I started this stuff I was sure what I’d be when all through for when I began I had a definite plan now - I haven’t a clue ! Lynne Marien March, 1996 Thanks for this one, Lynne. I enjoyed it very much . i went back and finished school with 2 young children, too, so I can kind of relate.
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Post by Deleted on Jun 17, 2010 18:45:06 GMT -5
Here's one of my pieces written in a lighter tone of voice. I wrote it when I was in my middle twenties and was mixing with some ladies with rather unusual occupations and hobbies!
Muscular Women
Juicy Lucy hits out with the best, The finest goddam women wrest ler now outside captivity: I gaze in awe to see her muscled body.
She always won her fights in playground days, Never played fair, always pulled hair, Clawed, kicked, punched, scratched, did all the worst she could Till now no one can touch her, she's so good,
Juicy Lucy weighs some eighteen stone: If she sits down on you, you're on your own. Take it from me, she swings a forearm smash As easily as the lead, and pockets cash.
She's the queen of every wrestling ring, The one who breaks your arm for the least thing, Female McManus. Who needs Artemis When Juicy Lucy brings masochistic bliss?
Rough-house Rachel never stirs it up: She doesn't need to now she's reached the top. Don't ask our Rachel if she's read your book: Just watch for her left hook.
Don't talk to Rachel about government: If you're in luck, she'll let you pay her rent. Just don't forget - she's got to be the boss, So watch for her right cross.
She's come up the hard way, and wields a glove As sensuously as bodies twine in love. Now she's the boxing champion of the world: I love you, Rachel! You're my true dream girl!
Winsome Winnie plays at wing three quarter: When she plays rugby, it's more like mass slaughter. The field of play is littered with her tackles: Her boots and arms bite deeper than mere shackles.
She storms in, twenty stone, a hulking brute: Men find her off the field shy, even cute. At every line-out Winnie wins the ball, And keeps possession, handing off them all.
Winsome Winnie plays her rugby hard, But never gets herself booked, never barred. She's far too subtle for the obvious ploys, She sorts the women out from the mere boys.
Karate Kate's the chopper of them all: She doesn't just break bricks, she smashes walls. I saw her once demolishing a house: She just played cat and mouse.
Karate Kate's the mummy of the lot: Just watch her menu for karate chops. She'll cut you down to size if you walk tall, For she's the Amazon to end them all.
She's got no worries about income tax: If tax inspectors come, she breaks their backs! Take it from me, keep on the right side of her, Or else you'll be a mess, I confidently aver.
Cunning Clare is still the best at tennis. If you play her, that backhand is a menace, But don't forget her forehand, passing shot, Lob, vollery, drop-shot, smash: she's got the lot.
She tells me tennis has become a racket: I think one day I'll pack it In, she says: Then serves a crushing ace.
Cunning Clare's the mistress of the court But always does exactly what she ought. No gamespersonship from her: she lets her strength And power and speed and skill find the ball's length.
As her opponents rush in vain endeavour To pick up her returns or serves, she never Gives it a moment's thought, but with one smash Hammers the ball and pockets all the cash.
Judo Judy throws with effortless Ease every man wos takes her one, unless She's in a good ood, when she's feeling tender, Or else in need of sex - or maybe gender.
She's the mistress of the combinations, As men and women fall, she feels elation. It gives her a sense of power which she lacks To see them sprawling headlong on their backs.
Judo Judy has a gentle nature, Her heart is full of love for every creature, Except when both are rolling on the mat: Then she just knocks them flat.
She knows the throws to land you on your nose, While she springs lithely back upon her toes. I love you, Judy! Judo's mattress queen, And only turned nineteen.
Angel Alice knows the way to treat Those that she doesn't like: no one can beat Her Bogart greeting 'ego, superego, id, oh What the hell! What I mean is - aikido!'
Angel Alice knows her aikido So well she'd freeze the nose of an Eskimo Who'd just been having a good rub, Or a port drinker who'd been down the pub.
These women, these enchantresses of faery, Live in the palace of dreams, that's light and airy. If I could have the lot, I'd gladly do it (Though I've a strong suspicion I'd soon rue it!)
If I could choose just three out of these mates That would be great; I'd go for Rough-house Rachel, Cunning Clare, And Judo Judy. That's about all square.
But if just two of these divine goddesses Should be permitted me, then I confesses It would be Rachel, and it would be Judy To complement me in a contrasting moody.
If only one, Judy's the one I'd go for: I know her tender heart would strike a blow for Each man she loved, and she is capable, For she's pure woman, submission and two falls!
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Post by Deleted on Jun 17, 2010 18:50:23 GMT -5
And this is a country song (unfortunately I can't read music or play an instrument so can't score the piece but I'll post the words anyway.
There's a true story behind this; at the age of 24 I fell in love with a 25-year old Californian singer and guitarist who was one of the most beautiful ladies I have ever met but had a heart of pure ice. She achieved enough success to have a couple of LPs out and to appear on radio and we had a brief fling before she went off with my (FORMER!) best friend!
I wrote this song out of anger and despair.
My cellophane wrapper brunette (A country song)
My cellophane wrapper brunette, No I ain't done with singing you yet; I gave you my heart and you tore it apart, My cellophane wrapper brunette. (Chorus)
You went for the night life, The glitter and glam; Instead of the right life You went for the sham. And now I see you've turned into a star, Your face on LP covers, yes you've gone far, While me I'm just nothing, just no one at all: I turn my clown's face to the wall.
(Chorus)
You aimed for the top, While me I just prop Up the bars in my sorrow Until my tomorrow, And maybe my time it won't come at all, And I'll just be left here my face to the wall, But you took the best years of my heart and my soul: Now nothing is left but the hole.
(Chorus)
When was I unkind, Though I might have been blind Since I was on fire With burning desire? I reached out to touch you but you were not there, And all that I held in my arms was the air, And you looked through me then with a smile and a stare, But I was cast down in despair.
(Chorus)
And yes I know better now, My lesson's been learnt; In the fires of regret now My fingers got burnt. I remember the kiss you left on my mouth Before you set off to conquer the south. You were just a bit older and quite a bit colder Than me with my dream fantasy.
My cellophane wrapper brunette, No I ain't done with singing you yet; I gave you my heart and you tore it apart, My cellophane wrapper brunette.
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Post by beth on Jun 18, 2010 17:47:25 GMT -5
Great lyrics, Mike. If you have a keyboard and can peck out what you think the tune should be like, get someone to tell you which notes (in order) - post them and I'm sure some of us could come up with a reasonable version. Several of us read music. What do you say?
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Post by Deleted on Jun 25, 2010 20:03:39 GMT -5
This was written a few years after a VERY sad time in my life.
I returned to 'the scene of the crime' so to speak and this poem resulted.
Remembering those green and country days:
Orphaned farmers buried in the country, Squeezing the gems of love from hidden caves, What do you know of urban loneliness, Playing your endless games of tennis?
It's no use complaining about the future: It just won't ever turn out right. There are whole corridors of endless nights, Whole altars built of spilt grief and cold blood.
This is winter weather, though in the soil's psychology the ground believes it's harvest time; The weather of the heart knows better.
If you would grow crops in the soil plant only weeds; weeds will not wither, will survive the weather.
Have you ever desired the love of a woman, the love of a man? That is an ungathered blessing, reaped by the frost.
Have you ever desired the coolness that lies at the heart of the stone? You're too young as yet, a vine still green, not ready for death.
Love and coolness are alike a state of being set apart from normal life; we either boil with passion or freeze with frost, until death claims us when at last we rust.
Pain is a calm evasion of everything true, the hopelessness of my desire for you.
Tears are a river running out of the heart, a watery fence that says: you have to part.
If only it wasn't so necessary to dig every day in the soil! If only there was another way than this heartbreaking toil!
I stand here alone in the country: the yew tree is leaning its gentle curving arch of finality over the gravestones that lie in the church.
To cover the heart with callouses, to make the soft skin grow hard as rind, that way is always possible.
To care seems only to bring more pain; it would be such a perfect escape to carve oneself into a living statue.
All the same, we were human once, in the roots of our being. I have no desire to turn to a stalagmite, rooted endlessly into a floor of cold.
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Post by Deleted on Jun 29, 2010 9:28:13 GMT -5
This is NOT one of my better pieces. It is however a true story and I wrote it today because on a poetry board that I've recently joined I was invited to enter a contest on the subject of abuse.
This is the piece, obviously fresh from the heart and still unfinished. Raw emotion rather than careful craft but who cares?
It's called 'Dirty' because that's how I fault. Everything in this poem is true; even the name of the first boy really was Graham.
Dirty
When the three older boys came for me I knew what they wanted
Graham was the only one I knew But I knew what he was like
The other two seemed to be friends of his And co-conspirators in his deadly lust
Graham was very glad to be gay And wanted me to be that way
I was only 15 He was 18
I was only a boy They were already men
So of course three onto one Usually ends up with the bad guys winning
And it was just the same in this case
Of course I froze in fear Like any rabbit trapped in a car's headlights
And then of course I tried to fight But three onto one I lost of course
Then I was forced down on to the ground And of course it all started
They took down my trousers And then their trousers
You can guess the rest
First my mouth was violated And then my tender virgin arse Felt the brutal assault Of their cruel lust
And then they came again And somehow I survived Somehow I found an inner strength inside Not to cry or even cry out with the pain
I'm a man, I told myself I shouldn't be blubbering like a girl But deep inside the shame Cut me worse than the sting of a whip
When finally they'd had enough The three of them laughed at me And pissed on me as I lay there on the ground Like I was nothing
Somehow I stumbled home And in the privacy of my parent's place Got showered and changed
No water or clean clothes Could wash away the dirt I felt inside
I asked myself Was it MY fault for what they'd done?
I asked myself Should I kill myself?
How could I bear to go on living With all the shame and hurt I felt inside?
I couldn't tell my parents; My Mum would only say it was all my fault, My Dad would say I shouldn't have let it happen.
I couldn't tell the cops: They think that rape only happens to women, Never to men or boys.
I couldn't tell the priest Because I don't believe in God Or go to church.
I couldn't breathe a word, Not even to my friends.
I sat and brooded, Then I made my plans.
The first thing that I did Was to go down to the canal And throw myself into its muddy water. I can't swim so I knew The water's cold and dirty currents Would close in upon me, Dirty as I was, Till I became as one with its own foulness.
I hadn't checked the ground around me properly: A man must have seen me; He dived in to the canal And fished me out.
I had to pretend to be grateful When of course I wished he'd just let me die. The waters would have washed away my dirt.
I had to pretend It was all an accident; I hadn't meant To throw myself into the murky waters.
Then I got home And made new plans.
This time I chose revenge: I lay in wait for Graham And took him by surprise.
I hit and kicked him till he lay Half-dead on the ground.
I knew he wouldn't have the guts To call the cops
Over the next few weeks I tracked down his two Partners in crime And beat and kicked the hell out of them
I don't think I did wrong
But even now I still feel dirty deep inside
I'm a married man I love my wife I'm 52 years old With a son and daughter
But even now I still can't bear Even my wife Touching my violated arse
Even now
I still feel dirty
I still blame myself For being raped
How stupid am I?
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