tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86578781504525635362011-07-08T03:52:32.587+01:00'...for the numbers that Petrach flowed in'click here tohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00006049603317150490noreply@blogger.comBlogger511100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8657878150452563536.post-28193129185349323942010-05-18T15:54:00.004+01:002010-05-18T15:58:53.386+01:00

The word presentIf the government absolutely have to make cuts, I suggest culling the adverb. We don't absolutely need it, absolutely.

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Divine Inspiration <!--[if gte mso 9]> Normal 0 0 1 55 315 2 1 386 11.768 <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]> 0 0 0 <![endif]--> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0

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New sonnet...the first for ages. Using my favourite rhyme scheme ABAB BCBC CDCD EE.

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Brian On a late summer's day when the iron earthroasts and the grass wilts and waves in the breeze,the garden bees plunder for all their worthand blackbirds tweet among the turning leaves.A cat shelters, shaded under a treegreen eyes winking to a close as he sleeps,paws folded neat in front, his whiskers freehe wiles away the midday heat and keepsclose his company in a hushed black heap.And the

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Writing through the readers' eyesThis post is an extract from an email conversation I had with Henry Stead, which came about as a response to my poem Flight to the Imagination. Some of the early exchanges can be found at the foot of that poem. It got a bit silly to keep posting comments, and I thought this one was blogworthy.When we write poetry, perhaps our primary concern should be how each

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Let that be a lessonI finished Romeo and Juliet over xmas. Really loved the ending, set in the Capulet tomb. I wasn't expecting Paris to die; his was quite an unnecessary death which emphasises the sense of wastage.Romeo has developed a long way by the time we see him trying to break into the tomb with a crowbar. I'm struck by the contrast with Paris, who by the final scene is starting to fill

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Flight to the ImaginationWings, curling over warming zephyrsHave won; I cannot rhyme on earthSo leap to flood my new-waxed feathersIn updrafts, rise with all my worthCanyon high, and rake the ancient raysIn a strafing glide across the sky.Just the sound of wind, the haze,The earth a misty emerald eye.And here, flecked with tigered forest swathes,There, creased by flowing silver tractsFlung

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Choice CutsAgainst the odds I made it to the Francis Bacon exhibition at the Tate Britain this morning.His work is immediate, bold and casts a brutal eye over the human form. The vast majority of paintings contain figures, very often transformed beyond recognition into a gory mess.It’s the faces that are most striking. Skulls protrude; teeth jut out at grotesque angles; sometimes, figures have a

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Arden fastOn the basis of James Fenton's recommendation (in An Introduction to English Poetry, Penguin 2003), I've switched to the Arden version of Shakespeare's plays, from Penguin. A brief glance through has confirmed that the notes on the text are quality and the introduction, albeit a little overfed, is good scholarship.And, crucially, the textual notes are printed on the same page as the

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Any last words?Baz Luhrman had his cake and ate it. In the closing scene of his film Romeo + Juliet he engineers a compromise between two dramatic conventions. In the play, Shakespeare makes no specific allowance for Juliet to communicate with Romeo after she has woken from her drug-induced sleep, moments after Romeo knocks back the fatal poison. In most productions, Romeo is already dead by the

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This is a sonnet by Ashley Hickson-Lovence also published on www.Londonpoetrysystems.com in the 'page poems' section.This is the first time I've featured someone else's work on my blog. Since it is a sonnet and also of the 'Shakesperian' variety, I thought it was a good way to start. Expect more poets in the future.The Master - Ashley Hickson-Lovence

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Xmas madnessBeen a busy, tired week so no blogs. Have kept up with the R&J though. Would like to post about S's anthropomorphisms but it might have to wait for when I'm not cheekily tapping away in the office.Also got my hands on a copy of the Baz Luhrmann film version, which, to be honest, I thought was fantastic at the time. I'll watch it Sunday after most of the xmas party mess is done with.I

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Nip and tuckPicked up a newish little book today called 'An Introduction to English Poetry' by James Fenton. Look inside it here.So far lots of good points, and a few excellent ones. Fenton is pretty big on formal structure, which is surprising for a book published in 2003, and actually quite refreshing.I should restate that - it'd be more accurate to say that he's not a fan of those poets who

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Beautifully rendered horrorJust got back from watching the animated film 'Waltz with Bashir', about the Israeli assault on Lebanon in 1982, directed by Ari Folman.Other names to remember are David Polonskey and Yoni Goodman, art director/illustrator and director of animation, respectively.I like interesting visuals in films, aka 300, Sin City, Waking Life and so on, and this promised some war,

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Work in progressWings, curling over warming zephyrsHave won; I cannot rhyme on earthSo leap to flood my new-waxed feathersIn updrafts, rise with all my worthCanyon high, and rake the ancient raysIn a strafing glide across the sky.Just the sound of wind, the hazeThe earth, a misty emerald eyeAnd here, flecked with tigered forest swathesThere, creased by flowing silver tractsFlung thundering from

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Poor old RomeoYes. At a crucial juncture in Romeo and Juliet. Tybalt, the Capulet, just killed Mercutio dishonourably, leading Romeo, fired with righteous anger, to weigh in and balance the ledger by filleting Tybalt.I know what happens in this play, after years of cultural absorption, even though I've never read it. But now I see how finely balanced the situation is. The play's disastrous

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Tales from... TedI've been reading Ted Hughes' Tales from Ovid, to be precise, the story of Narcissus, the beautiful boy doomed to fall in love with his own reflection.A passage stood out for me, when poor Narcissus laments his impossible love:'Who are you? Come out. Come upOnto the land. I never saw beautyTo compare with yours. Oh why do you alwaysDodge away at the last momentAnd leave me with

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Plays of Shakespeare I have decided that I need to read Shakespeare. So, I'm going to try to read all the plays before my 27th birthday.. Yes, it's a big undertaking. I feel quite excited right now, like I'm about to leave on a journey - I'll send you postcards.... And post them up here. As I travel, I'll publish my impressions of what I'm feeling and reading, and generally, anything that jumps

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http://www.bardweb.net/plays/timeline.html

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new orderThis is the first post of a new set. I'll try to update regularly and post some poems up. The old posts need to all be formatted so they look pretty. I don't have the time straight away, and, let's be honest, it's boring. So when I get round to it, I get round to it.In the meantime. I've been trying to get my head around 'sprung rhythm' which was championed by English poet Gerald Manley

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london poetry systems 01Outside on Columbia Road, Thursday evening unfolds over East London. Inside the depths of the Fleapit, the launch party of London Poetry Systems is just getting underway…The LED of a video camera glows conspicuously in the dimness. Someone leaps from the audience, a guy with a perma-smile. He bounds onto the stage and welcomes us warmly to the show. "We've never done this

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Assault on 69 Cropley Street – For anyone who’s made the leapFollow me over the moonlit wallLocked out nearer dawn than midnight,We beat against the door, there’s no-one homeHoist your leg up, watch the fall,A rusty bicycle, a smoky treeQuiet! Beware the sudden window lightHush dear Sir, we’re just your dream of laughterNow go, let your legs hang free,Catch my bag, I hope I closed the zipsMy turn

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The answer is ‘yes’.I will take that path that widens as I visualise itPainted in a jolly – or is it bloody? – redBeset on either sideBy Confusion’s white mistOvercast by crumbling towers of self-doubt…Then the wind starts up.Chicken wire waves uncoil in great lashesAnd the road becomes a causewayOf scratched and spilt rocks.Eaten by the waves, it thins and thins untilI tiptoe along a lumpy

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the Ballard of MacCharlie - for StuartTraveller to the dusky Highland –How quiet your castle keeps in night and day.Lonely Englishman away,Awake, I say! And hear London’s demand,That drum-rolls high over the Pennines –Grumbles grey under a Northern sky,Leaps the Weir and Tyneside –And tip-toes through the maze of muted mines.Hear the words of this scribe,Blown with the bittern ‘cross misty

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Someone whispers softly in the darkness of a warm and Sleepless nightStirring under covers in the silenceCicadas quiet tonight no chicker-chick chicker-chickSally in the yard paces patter-pit patter-pitShackle rattles, shackle rattles clack-clickCandle flickers and curtains lift Tired minds DriftBack to drowse and door cracks hissThud of knocking shutters missedEnter dreams the strains of

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Love SnakesLove snakes around the corners of my room,Coil and writhe, flicker like second-tickers,Stretch like smoke across smouldered carpets,Hiss like whispering, murderous gas from canistersWhen I sleep, they wriggle ‘cross my lips,And down the creases of my back,And with softly strident tongues,Riddle subtle muddles in muttered tonesDelightfully, I feel their fangs in me,Wracked with lust, I

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Love does sack the hearts of usDisguised as roaming wind it groans And grows from waft at first, to gustTill every board and rafter moansThe wise will bolt their shutter’d homeAnd listen fearful for the soundThat tells the storm has onward blown –Clement bells across the town.And there upon the tender groundThey find those with enraptured face Who dreamed to ride upon the cloudWho shouldered free

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Sonnet #3Love does sack the hearts of usDisguised as roaming wind it groansAnd grows from waft at first, to gustTill every board and rafter moansThe wise will bolt their shutter’d homeAnd listen fearful for the soundThat tells the storm has onward blown –Clement bells across the town.And there upon the tender groundThey find those with enraptured faceWho dreamed to ride upon the cloudWho

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Sonnet #4Beside a green reflective poolUpon a tree-sighed grassy gladeThere lay a liar and a foolReclining in the noontime shade.Near them stepped a pretty maid,With her handsome man in arm,Said fool: ‘their love is made,And never would the other harm’Said liar: ‘I’ve known love’s charm.In them it’s easily observed,Like the pool’s unerring calm- Its bliss is simple, never stirred.’The maid did

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Sonnet #2They said at root, our love was fleshAnd never was to blossomFruits that between us flourishedThough sweet, they took for rottenAre they so love-dry to’ve forgotten:Young hearts sleep till woke by Lust,Who roused them with a similar pattern,Before the years did grind to restNo, the early dew of love has passedFor them, who sit by ticking clockEach others’ wizzened hands do clasp,Who can

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Sonnet #1All love is strange to loversA form unseen but from afarA shape, soft to them and no otherAnd rounded oft by the heartTill midnight in the quieting parks,They may step in careless blissLove holds the gates of time ajarThen seals them with a kissBut lovers to their faults persist;He does not know the word ‘forever’She’s had his every lyric twistAnd all she hears is ‘never’Together, they

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More than the silence after a rainstormMore than the hum of a fridge in a house More like a quiet lawn as yet unseen by morning bathers The breath of a mouse or the tiny fly’s wing beat Could find it An afterthought drubbing against a steamed up window Could be let out to find it It begins when a timed question reveals everything about a

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If I gaze long at the dull bricksMaybe they too will levitateWall, house and allIf I let each flowers’ summer scarletOr summer yellow, bleed to rainbowYellow, blue, green and allIf I could catch each falling flakeOf snow and pass them back to heavenIn snowy fires that glowIf I could pluck each feather From my soul and soar in flightSoul, breath, you and allWould you be mine and whole and done?Or

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This is the space I wanted, then.To open my heart and show you the ugly, crawling,Unpigmented creatures that lurk thereFused to the bone.I know you puzzled your brain on the home trainWith the crossword.I wanted you to give me a clue,But I closed my phone, my eyes glazed over,And I guessed the space lay in the messageI would never send. I am making my space.Cleaving it from the clay shoulders of

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I heard another man todayGunned down in the Lebanon The Killers did not disguise themselves – no masks over their facesWould he have seen their quiet strideIn the wing mirror of his car?Before the window was filled with A suit jacket and teethI wonder how he looked to themFocussed in their own wayHe seemed to bend time and spaceAs if all the world had tilted downwards, sloped toward him The

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Love snakes around the corners of my room,Coil and writhe, flicker like second-tickers,Stretch like smoke across smouldered carpets,Hiss like whispering, murderous gas from canistersWhen I sleep, they wriggle ‘cross my lips,And down the creases of my back,And with softly strident tongues,Riddle subtle muddles in muttered tonesDelightfully, I feel their fangs in me,Wracked with lust, I twist in

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A symphony of sirens tear down the moonlight high street- out in the dark beyond my windowReign in speed to a swerve-then-stopBlaring over a pavementWhere a boy and his end had metThe medics had poured out; one, two, threeLeaving the doors at awkward angles Pointing back into the street - another siren, drawn by the scent perhaps, nudges nearHas to dissemble Its sound to a hooting coughAs it

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A symphony of sirens tear down the moonlight high street- out in the dark beyond my windowReign in speed to a swerve-then-stopBlaring over a pavementWhere a boy and his end had metThe medics had poured out; one, two, threeLeaving the doors at awkward angles Pointing back into the street - another siren, drawn by the scent perhaps, nudges nearHas to dissemble Its sound to a hooting coughAs it

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This garden by the water of illusions The duck – bobbing – is not an illusionMy thought – the duck bobbing is not an illusion,Is an illusionThe blossom heads springing to and fro,Are not an illusionsThe hammer blows on concrete were not illusions,But now, are as solid – less solid – than airSome illusions are intricately wovenFrom memorable thingsSome are echoes of memorable thingsEchoes of

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I drove up to the pumps in mid-afternoon.Circled once like a pervert,And swung in behind a dirty white saloon.I was spied in the rear-view mirror by the driver,Squinted at, determined no threat,But we had sized one another, Me and my fellow panic-buyer.Already the stench of the stuff Lavishly pricked at my nose,As the lady in the knee skirt,Emerged, slammed, sidled, seizedThen shuddered as she

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(Entry)Do the stacks seem to grasp,At smokes of cloud, as they pass?On simple, empty March-bound breeze,Hazy through the quadrille seizeDoes the winter belly-ache to burn again?Deep inside the frozen Merlin giant,Fused to the rock, undergazing Tintagel Awaiting never-thaw or executionBy modernity, mythsObscured by steel and glass mistSlowly beginning to gather around your feetDim tons of grim

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A swim of river smiles afloat A land in Winter’s icy chokeA beat of chill-light tiptoes downBetween the trees beyond the townA henge of benches wide and seeThe laughter-waving ever leavesA blind of passer-bys clip coldBeside the water’s gaping gold

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“She is the port town that sailors never leave…”1. She is the port town that sailors never leaveSlumped drunk over sodden tavern benchesThey murmur, giggle and sob into their troubled sleepShe is the cat-dark cobble way, quiet with misadventure...* * *2. Let me begin again my story before in age and wine forget,With tattered sails and battered boards, bleeding men tied to masts,Two days from

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There are about 4 poems here, so far, all written in the past month. From now on I'll to give a bit of commentary about each one. Some need more explaining more than others.I'm not sure if I should post the commentary seperately, or maybe add it on to each poem post. We'll see how I get on...

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What do I have to believe for it to be ‘over’?What is it that will make me believe thatYou are not,Never was,Mine?Make it quick.Make it a short sharp email, with one stiff kissWhen you told me you hated meThere were none, and I preferred itBut I cannot take the coolingHow I smiled vaguely at you todayAnd used some poor joke, just charming enoughFor the girls from accounts to laughBecause I am not

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Instead of staring at that girls’ tits on the bus –And her getting off, going homeAnd saying to her sister“Fuckin, what is it about men?You wear a low cut top on the bus and theyFucking perv at your tits”And her sister saying,“You’re lucky you’ve got tits”- I’d look her in eye and say“Do you live down St. John’s Crescent?”And she’d say“No, why, do I remind you of someone?”And I’d get a roguish

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Drinking a cold and crisp lager by the poolUnder blazing sun Jay, Stu and Ferg were lying lowHaving escaped, to shed T’ Big Smoke from their skinsTo kick back, see some sea, and wait for what cardLady L would deal them; let me back upA bit to explain why Ferg had no luggage‘Cept a tweed jacket, plumb trousers and tie: an ageThey waited at Gatwick for him to show at the taxi poolStu and Jay, takin

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When I was very young, you seemed very oldAs ancient as the gnarled, wrinkled trees in your gardenWith a dusting of soft, grey cotton hairGently perched on the highest boughA nest perhaps, for a wind weary bird of paradiseAs I grew, you shrank a littleMy world widened day by dayMy arms and legs insisted on exploringEvery space that was not my pram, my cot andYour petticoats become an ideal hiding

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story by James RichardsMotorists in affluent Berkhamsted started with an explosion last night as a 16-year old Council Environment Overview and Scrutiny Committee was shot dead for not paying to park.Berkhamsted also has the highest number of people being caught in a running battle in the early hours of yesterday morning because their tickets had expired. Just two days earlier, gangs of Hemel

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To whom do I have the pleasure?

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