Output list





PilgermannBM's (Pilgermann on UKA) UKArchive
23 Archived submissions found.
Title
The Poem of Everything - The Secund Deimension (posted on: 29-09-14)
"From the large jug, drink the wine of Unity, So that from your heart you can wash away the futility of life's grief." (واجه شمس‌‌الدین محمد حافظ شیرازی‎): 1317 - 1390.

The Secund Deimension Switching Channels Summer time and the living's been easy Mama's good looking and……         -Shit! There's another, just now, another         -one's just gone in. Holy Smoke! Just…. 1: Slowed down seem almost majestic, guided with purpose intent on driving through and past the watching eye, a fixed intent intention.      -Donde estas? Estas bien? Si, si      -Calma, mama! Estamos en Londres. 2: We must break:              Still to a bone sharp child. Suddenly dried, frozen the drought recedes, its thin space filled birthing novas in the after draft.         -It's been a tough year for the markets.         -This should see their premiums rocket. 3: Cut to faces, scatter, scan back, back. Back! Focus. There. The terror! – blind, corralled, driven – Freeze! Track. Tighten. Frame her. More. Move closer.         -The whole side's collapsing! It's gone!         -The north is coming down. It's down! 4,5,6: When mourning passes into eve And all that was is is was And all who were living now dead And all now living who will die In ruins shored up by ruins The eye witness to the moment Shifting back through the moment Begins to separate the separate Voices, creates its is from the many are:         The colourless union quickly fades,         The pain, that shared grain, gains colour,         Pulls on those old distinctive shades,         And one sorrow rises drowning         Logic, fed on cabled confectionery –         It's us and them, man, us and them,         Those tea towels, man, us and them –         Shrieks! The intellect is seized, stops. The world's virgin ruptured, Usurped by Satan's hidden axis – Did you see them, men and women? Just bones rattling on the road, Thin wraps against the cold, hungry Eyes desperate echoed in steel - Breeds beginning Napoleonic legions, Will stop at nothing now, Pulling out all the stops To lynch these princes of darkness. 7, 8: There is no other moment than the moment of the I Of the I's Each separate separated Caught in that moment That moment coloured welded into an eye That stuffed eye that eye and nothing but the eye That one hollow eye. Humpty Dumpty sits on a wall Trying to figure out if he's going to fall. The night strings out its long black hair And Schuster says 'We've reached the end. Put your hands together. We have another millionaire! Today, tomorrow, I remain your good friend.' Somewhere in that hollow eye another I. 9: From the heart of darkness cries is: ''The horror! The horror!'' 10: Turn the fucking thing off! Go out and get a life. Try ''the Life of Monty Python'' Now I hear that's a real scream
Archived comments for The Poem of Everything - The Secund Deimension
Slovitt on 29-09-2014
The Poem of Everything - The Secund Deimension
you're never easy. observations from a quick read (i'll be back), more of your juxtapositions, good ear for street speech and effective use of it, wide range of references, in "4,5,6" 2nd line, was IS is WAS/ (italics). ambitious, B.

Author's Reply:

Supratik on 01-10-2014
The Poem of Everything - The Secund Deimension
Good, involving, engaging. There are multiple references in this poem with word play in most every line. A poem cleverly written stimulates the brain. Terror seems to be the pre-occupation here; "the Life of Monty Python" is very deftly placed!


I think 'what the thing' would have been okay!




A poem worth reading!









I was surprised to see 'Humpty Dumpty' sitting here. Well he appears in my poem that's in queue! The context there is direct and quite different from the one who's sitting here and contemplating / apprehending his fall.

Author's Reply:
Thanks for reading. This is the second of a five part poem, and the themes are consistent and flow one from the other. "Terror" is only one of the themes and not the major one. Not too sure about your comment "what the thing" unless it refers to the word "fucking". That has been used deliberately and is in context with the structure of the poem. There is nothing wrong in using such terms - Chaucer is rich with this language.

Glad you enjoyed this. Hope you will enjoy the other parts as well.

Slovitt on 01-10-2014
The Poem of Everything - The Secund Deimension
B. We move from the ease of the summer to the news and rocket attacks. continuing in "1" with slow-mo rockets
and then a break and the child and then the split screen "it's been a tough year for the markets.", and so your juxtaposition accurately mimicking life. "3" cut back to faces, terror, and push, push harder for the best shots. and a dramatic update "collapsing...gone." "4,5,6" and all who were living (are) now dead/and all (who are) now living will die/

"beginning to separate the separate/voices, create its IS for the many ARE"

and as you go on you might look at lines 10-17 in the next stanza which are a dead spot for me, but then there's the strong urgency of the colloquial "it's us and them, man, us and them,/those tea towels, man, us and them"


perhaps cut "the world's virgin ruptured/usurped by Satan's hidden axis/ starting instead with "Did you see them, men and women?"/



"7,8" perhaps cut some, anything, of the "I", which'd be more effective if more tersely handled. a lot of power in epigrams, other short utterances.





and the world goes on, Humpty-Dumpty ridiculous, mundane "we have another millionaire"

"10" as breughel pointed out in musee de beaux artes, well look the poem by auden up if you don't know it. the world goes on, each consumed by their own activity, some of it trivial, some dire, but frequently simultaneous and how else could it be.


a good poem. Swep

Author's Reply:
S, many thanks for the feedback.

I wrote this in 3 sittings, and very little to no revision. I will look at your suggestions for tightening up.

"The world's virgin ruptured/Usurped by Satan's hidden axis" flows onto "Breeds beginning Napoleonic legions" with the middle lines a description of the true face and situation of the battle against the hidden axis.

Auden is a poet I turn to often. As he says we all have somewhere to go to. I am off to feed the chickens.

B


Deliverance (posted on: 26-09-14)
Catching the last post.

Part 1: How did I die? I still don't know. All I know is that I'm dead, I've now got wings and sitting right up here at the Big Chief's right hand. But that still doesn't make up for that moment when my arse was dragged burning all the way here. It wasn't an angel I saw when I looked up into the lights; all I saw was his face, fucking face in my face, this man, no way can I think of him as an angel; he certainly didn't look like an angel and he certainly did not behave like an angel. At that time he was just another man; it was just another moment. Part 2: I saw him that morning. A man with a stamp on his forehead standing at the station. Hadn't seen him before. He looked me up and down, dog's body piece of meat look. I had that feeling, fox and headlight, caught. Went past quick stepping. Had been expecting piss stench, mix of shit and sweat; but honey and cinnamon, monsoon rain and curry houses. Stopped. Stood. Turned. He was there. 'Get the fuck outta here,' my eyes glared. 'You're the letter.' He stared at me. 'I've been waiting for you.' I looked past him. No help from the drizzle of people planted on the platform. Lost, heads down, hidden behind their newspapers. 'Hey, I'm talking to you.' The tone was urgent. ''I need to deliver you by tomorrow.' He didn't have a Bible (as far as I remember he had no holy texts about his person). Faint loony look that all people wear, slightly perplexed 'I'm a human being too'; but behind was steel, bars extending out towards me. I stepped back, put my hand into my left trouser pocket – always kept change for these beggar moments, a habit from my backpacking days – and came up with a two pound coin. 'You're already paid for.' The tone was even. 'I have the stamp ready.' His eyes were beginning to hurt me. Where the hell was the train? I tried to look past him searching for its lights. 'You are due for delivery,' he said. 'Piss off,'' I hissed, praying I would see the fucking train round the corner of the builder's yard. Silence. No, no silence; there was the ticking of the platform clock. Tick tick Tick tick Silence. No, no silence; there was the stiff susurration of the people around him; there was the rustle of newspapers; there was the scraping of feet; there was the noise of his blood. I felt the sting of sweat in my eyes. The sun's beginning to burn me. No breeze. Dry lips licked drier. Breath hissing, grating. 'Just let me in,' he stands in front of me his mouth an open envelope. Bending towards me now gummy lips moving like a fly trap. The clock clanged. Another page fell – 9:47. Still another 3 minutes. Look for the train lights, I told myself, trying to breathe. I always look for the lights. Start to move up the platform when I see them. Towards the front, always seats there. The light; that's the signal that the 9:50 is coming. Past the wood yard, behind the riggings. Always. Switched on. Lights at the front. A single bright lamp. As sure as sure can be. Shimmered the distance. Honey and hot rain swell gathering. The air juddered. The rails were shuddering, the tremor transmitted through the concrete into me. Across the rails on the other platform the mad woman of Cricklewood had suddenly appeared in the shelter. Shit, I thought, maybe I should take up residence in a madhouse, the inhabitants were obviously walking free. She muttered, words indistinguishable from the creaking iron. 'You and me,' I thought I heard,' you and me, you and me.' The train was approaching; the light had pinged on past the tall drilling rig in the builder's yard. Then he was in front of me, planted in my eyes, filling my horizon. I looked around him. Behind him her. Her sharp teeth bared and hissed across the tracks; 'I can see my honey baby, I can see my baby honey.' She pulled a fan from her loose string bag and opened its black wing. A dark eddy pushed across at me and there were claws at my eyes, a brute force across my chest. 'Did you hear the words at your grandmother's funeral?' she seems to be saying. The other crazy is close to me, almost kissing me. His teeth bite at my throat. Blood, a red pulse at the back of my eyes, thunders. Clouds break threatening night. He leans closer eyes glittering, light sharp in the depths. Beyond him her glowing cigarette tip beckons. Moving now the platform waiting for the stillness of the train stopped. The anticipation. The quivering moving into me. I am moving, being moved, pulled into the light, the tip of her light, the point of his eyes, the caw of his mouth. I feel his hand at my back and then I am lifted                  I am floating I hear the mad woman laughing. It's the sound of shrill banana leaves, coconuts broken shelled. An agony, agonies of fire burst through me. I see the train lamp pass above me. I see the man's face breaks into me. A thought begins, Get the .! Is ended by his shout, DE – that's all I hear …….Sparks bright then dull. Part 3: That's all I remember. I've replayed the moment time and again and I still can't see when it happened (fat lot of good it does to be an angel). I was at the enquiry, as a silent observer of course, but that didn't really clear up things. The policeman opened his notebook, cleared his throat and looked across at the man, the same crazy fucker I'd seen with the stamp on his forehead, and proceeded to say: ''The witness (nodding at the now stampless man, who, now, I must say looked pretty sane to me) who is a born again Christian (which is more than you can say for me), stated that the deceased (of course he could not nod in my direction) was behaving in an erratic fashion, and was clearly agitated (wouldn't you be with a crazy shite breathing down your neck?), muttering something about being late and needing to be somewhere (which was as far away from the crazy as possible – a bit ironic, isn't it, considering the distance between us now). The witness also clearly remembered the subject moving erratically along the platform, as if he were trying to get away from something (see my previous comment). And that was when, according to the witness, he slipped and fell (all I saw was his fucking face exploding above me. The bastard! I think that's what I was thinking, but what could I do? I was already dead) just as the train passed by. ''And, the witness remembers the deceased shouting 'Delivered! I've been delivered!''' Delivered? I ask Him. Yes, He says, you've been delivered so you can begin again. I look to see if He's joking. It's only then that I recognise His face.
Archived comments for Deliverance
Slovitt on 26-09-2014
Deliverance
B., and so your ending was coming, was always coming, and your story completed for all of that. lots of energy, fast paced narrative, woven into a credible whole. good take on "delivered." beyond that, i guess it's the hindu influence "so you can begin again." transmigration has always seemed as incredible to me as the leaps christianity asks one to take. the face "His face." good poem. Swep

Author's Reply:
There are times when the ending is welcomed and the "new" life embraced.


Raindrops on a window pane (posted on: 22-09-14)
watching raindrops

You wait,     separate,     fall precipitous. Stop: coalesce,     breaking I's.
Archived comments for Raindrops on a window pane
ifyouplease on 22-09-2014
Raindrops on a pane
nice!

Author's Reply:
The beauty is in how they roll down, trails separating and then come together - a perfect union.

Bozzz on 22-09-2014
Raindrops on a pane
Not a betting person then? Raindrops used to be everybody's friend, but since the winter floods they have become Mother Nature's paratroops. Neat... David

Author's Reply:
Only bet when I have enough data. "The rain in Spain....falls mainly in Kent". Blue skies today, a bit chilly and the children's footprints webbed into the grass. Maybe I'll put a fiver on it being sunny for the rest of the week.

Slovitt on 23-09-2014
Raindrops on a window pane
B., moments, fluid. minimalist. Swep

Author's Reply:
It was raining, the children were at school and I sat at the window looking at my reflection. I must have been there 30 minutes when the rain lashed onto the glass and I watched as the drops gathered, fell and the came together.

Fluid moments indeed.

stormwolf on 26-09-2014
Raindrops on a window pane
I agree with Swep.
Minimalist. Not easy to achieve with meaning.

When done skilfully, as here, the whole small poem comes alive. The title set the scene, the content was distilled to perfection.

Alison x


Author's Reply:

stormwolf on 26-09-2014
Raindrops on a window pane
I agree with Swep.
Minimalist. Not easy to achieve with meaning.

When done skilfully, as here, the whole small poem comes alive. The title set the scene, the content was distilled to perfection.

Alison x


Author's Reply:
Alison, thanks for reading.

Trying to follow Swep's advice - the fewer the words the better.

B


Lust Lost Lest (posted on: 19-09-14)
After the pain and the shock of giving birth onto a bit of lust.....

Into each the other    in each other         Lost Sweat, smell musk tongued and         Teased Inclined spaces, angles pleasing and         Pleasurable Inspiring touch and taste, the lingering         Sentence Circling the hill around the hot         Button Guarding your mouth, both sentient         Willing Admitting boundaries opened borders. I have been here before: in         Dreams Lusted lost in entangling limbs,         Shadows Sleep laden, waking one, the other         Into the climax.
Archived comments for Lust Lost Lest
Slovitt on 19-09-2014
Lust Lost Lest
B., been out most of the afternoon. yes, you create very well that merging, that overlapping, bodies shared, needs shared, needs one, each waking the other, perhaps become one, if and only then, at the climax. "circling the hill around/the hot button," graphic and sensuous. good poem. Swep

Author's Reply:
Swep,

I wanted this grounded, touching the real, while leaving enough for the reader to build out in their own imagination.

B

Gothicman on 20-09-2014
Lust Lost Lest
Very sensuous and close up, Pilgermann. Like the layout as such caresses and intimate touches are separate sensations, makes you think more about each line as entities. How did you get the indents? Enjoyed....Gothicman

Author's Reply:
Gothic,

Glad you enjoyed. The indents were a pain. I copy and paste from Word and all the formatting is lost. Have to play around with moving the words with the spacebar and the reviewing until their is a close enough semblance to what I wrote.

I wanted to reader to digest and enter the flow, to pause and feel. Part of the Hunger series.

B

ifyouplease on 21-09-2014
Lust Lost Lest
"As the Adjective is lost in the sentence,
So I am lost in your eyes, ears, nose and throat—
You have enchanted me with a single kiss
Which can never be undone
Until the destruction of language."

Kenneth Koch
Permanently

your poem is equally good. great stuff!

Author's Reply:
Nic,

We are lost, loose ourselves in the sentence, but rise up triumphant because we are the words which matter. You have an eye which is sharper than any mirror.

B


Accomplishment (posted on: 15-09-14)
For my children - their birth and the cut of flesh from flesh - both of them by caesarean section.

All morning the sentence burns and I Am bare Bone unflowered by flesh. What is pure? The child's cry? The pivot of my tongue Translucent in a Chinese kiln? The edge of the axe. Echoes drop and turn, the woods Ring with the stroke, And my white skull wells in tears. Day crawls down the wall. Sun's noise dies In a pit of rock. The crowd darkens the ceiling, Throws dead Flowers onto the edge, And the fat jug smiling From its empty udders hands Me two children. My blood achieves the rose – I fold them petalled to my sides. I am Come into mine own.
Archived comments for Accomplishment
Mikeverdi on 15-09-2014
Accomplishment
Bare bones poetry at its best 'day crawls down the wall'
Love it.
Mike

Author's Reply:
Mike,

Appreciate your comments. When you are spread out on an operating table, stomach being cut open there is little left but bare boned poetry to keep the mind occupied!

PS. I have started to read more of your life story.


Slovitt on 15-09-2014
Accomplishment
B., a heightened state of mind. ecstatic as in the religious sense. no waste, the poem works its way steadily down the page with an inevitability, and the image is of your eyes shining as you welcome your daughters to the world. Swep

Author's Reply:
Swep, the pain diminishes, its memory fades, but love grows.


Bozzz on 16-09-2014
Accomplishment
Being a poet means one is forced into expressing pain that to many is just an everyday irritation. The feeling of being gutted is so strong - a fine poem, as it does hurt the reader too. I am sure the result will more than alleviate the past pain.....David

Author's Reply:
David, the moment I set eyes on the slimy wrinkled bundle of flesh coated in blood and the remains of the sac, that moment was one of pure love. It is a feeling akin to the burst of the rose, of sheer being. Not that I want to go through it again - 2 is enough!

Thanks for reading

Gothicman on 16-09-2014
Accomplishment
Beautifully crafted poem, Pilgermann, skillfully achieved, and for me, poetry at its best, superb development and economy of description. Gothicman.

Author's Reply:
Gothic,

Appreciate your comments. Still developing my craft as a writer - poetry is a sideline to the prose.

B

ifyouplease on 18-09-2014
Accomplishment
very good and strong, somewhere between surrealism and pragmatic hypersensitivity.

Author's Reply:


I move desiring you (posted on: 12-09-14)
A love poem for hym and herr

Born of water into water My tracks are traced with that water Born of the mountain, the red rock In whose shade my heavy jug now rests. I've travelled far to quench my thirst, My clay parched by roads dead and cursed, Crossed countries sanded, rivers killed, Driven by the heart, moved by my thirst For you: All I am is built on love For you: My hunger a sign of love For you: I move desiring you. I will not wait until that instant When dying I'll say I've never drunk your blood, eaten of your dewtopped flesh - the slope and mould, wine and bread divine. I move desiring you, your I, your truth.
Archived comments for I move desiring you
Bozzz on 12-09-2014
I move desiring you
To me, the intentions of a mountaineer made beautifully clear in fluid form. Maybe I am wrong about that, but it could have been my brother's thoughts too - though he was no poet, but too keen as a mountaineer for his own good. I enjoyed this piece, the juxtaposed rhythms. Thank you....David.


Author's Reply:
David, we are all mountaineers each of with a different peak to climb. This Red rock is the mountain in Coconino forest. Fascinating place with associations to Apache mythology - and it does ferment (and I use that in its literal meaning) a religious feeling which I have tried to express.

Slovitt on 12-09-2014
I move desiring you
B. your poems are so word driven, that i have to get my bearings and think what i think. there's always the evidence of a fine mind at work, about a business she understands. thinking in words and illuminating dark corner by dark corner. and there's always the duality of the speaking intelligence, and the obsession back to your poems 10 years ago, for a transformative love, relationship. you insist on this goal to the point that i think religious transformation process, though it's not that. not quite.

there is a drive, and a hunger, to be one with a love, to give oneself over to, and now i'm thinking there is a religious fervor here, if not religious. again, a good poem.

Swep

Author's Reply:
S, I am a word and words are all that I have. My doctoral thesis is on the federation of identity and I am returning to the theme of "love" and the "I" as it is unfinished business. We are in the process of continual transformation and growth. The gap between now and then - 10 years ago - is a memory stuck in the synapses. There is a hunger to move past, but there is much about the beauty of love which I still have to explore, which haunts me and wants expression.

Gothicman on 12-09-2014
I move desiring you
The problem for me on reading this Pilgermann, is that it feels like I'm reading a poem and that is it's merits. It certainly is a declaration of love, with religious undertones, and reflects the title well, being only desire for someone written by someone relishing, but also suffering for being in that desiring state. For the recipient, other than as a Holy confession, it would be devouring, stifling, love on demand, too intellectualized, which of course never works except in Shakespeare plays! But, I'm a great believer in the idea that feelings of well-being can be obtained from romanticized daydreaming and rehearsed dramas, which sometimes even become prophetic reality, so in this sense your poem works even if a bit overdramatic and vulgar in its unashamed intensity! Otherwise interesting phrasings and enjoyed. Gothicman.

Author's Reply:
Gothic, You are right; this borders on Holy confession and is meant to. The intensity mirrors the total immersion into the rock as the fingers and the toes drive upwards to the peak. There is nothing else at that moment but the sense of being one - totally divine.

Mikeverdi on 13-09-2014
I move desiring you
There are times when total understanding escapes me (as it does here) however, this does not stop me from enjoying fine writing. My enjoyment comes from admiring the structure and phrases you bring, and from the thinking it brings out in me; as I try and unravel the meaning. thanks for posting.
Mike

Author's Reply:
Mike, We are but a string of words plucked and placed. To take that which is but a spark in the brain, to cup and fan until there is a flame, that is the work ahead. I love the words, the flock and flight, the migration onto the page.

I am experimenting with structure and rhyme, and I hope you'll continue to enjoy.


this word and this word (posted on: 05-09-14)
An exploration of hunger. Part of a series - part 1.

This word dined last night at Nobu Tonight it's Zuma (before Harrods on the right). Thin paps full of nothing A rounded belly distends from this word. This word started with a Dawhinnie Saying ''A Chateau Lafitte, '68, for later?'' Dust and drought have dried the throat of this word. This word sucks on a cigar, orders cappuccino And comments on the chocolate pudding: ''Call the police. This should be illegal!'' The chill night comes curling its noose, chokes              The breath of this word. This word and this word? This word is              and                  this word was.
Archived comments for this word and this word
Slovitt on 05-09-2014
this word and this word
B., tried to comment earlier and did such a poor job that i deleted it. rampant sinus infection. i'll try for a more substantive comment later today. swep

Author's Reply:

Slovitt on 05-09-2014
this word and this word
B., juxtaposes privilege and need, even suffering "distended belly". scotch and lafitte later, not so for "this word" of the second stanza. cappucino, chocolate pudding, "this should be illegal." fine foods, corny jokes, antoinette's spiritual son. "this word" IS, and "this word" WAS. tu fu, at the walls of the forbidden palace, hundreds, even thousands in penury, said it was an open wound that allowed him no rest. did my best with your poem, finely written, concrete details, you know of what you speak. swep

Author's Reply:
Swep, I worked for a charity a while back - atoning for my sins. The team was invited to a fund raising dinner and this poem is my reflection on the people in the place, and on the background to why we were raising the money. This is the first in a series of poems exploring the theme of hunger. We are all from the same seed, but the difference between "this word" and "this word" is far from being bridged. To watch a mother trying to feed her dying child from dry breasts; death levels us all but the suffering leaves its traces deep.

Bozzz on 06-09-2014
this word and this word
Hi Pilger, to me this poem is fascinating, but it does need background to help the reader. Interesting that my own piece lower down the list also chooses hunger as the subject - great minds. In friendship ...David

Author's Reply:
Bozzz, Will try and provide more background to my posts from now on. Hunger is a fascinating subject and well worth two heads coming at it. Will check out your post.

Gothicman on 06-09-2014
this word and this word
Hunger, coming and going? Interesting form of theme messaging and layout, but perhaps too cryptic as single poem? Gothicman





P.S. Without reading your update and explanations to Slovitt and though fairly good at deciphering at least basic messaging given an info or title clue, i.e. given half a chance, this was a little too vague to appreciate what otherwise feels like what would be a fine piece of writing, became too esoteric on its own I fear, but only MHO!

Author's Reply:
Gothic, it was a strange evening. Champagne and caviar being downed as if there was no tomorrow and the screens showing images from around the world of starving and dying people. The poem "switches channels" - and I will be extending that thematic in another poem.

Ionicus on 06-09-2014
this word and this word
Between 'this word' and 'this word' there is a chasm that will never be bridged regardless of the good intentions with which we know the road to hell are paved. In fact the gap seems to widen year after year. Whilst I appreciate your concern I fail to understand your comment that by working for a charity you were 'atoning' for your sins. It seems to imply that you were responsible for the parlous state of the world.

Author's Reply:
Luigi, "my sins" are not connected to the parlous state of the world. I am guilty of many things but that....no....well partially!
As Bozzz suggested I will start to set the scene in the intro where the structure is experimental.

stormwolf on 07-09-2014
this word and this word
Hi Pilgerman

Yes, I got the meaning straight away and it makes me sick to the pit of my belly. To think that there are institutions such as the Vatican that could feed and clothe the whole world but are so far away from the teachings of the person they are meant to be founded on as to be a sick joke,
The top 1% care nothing for the starving and suffering millions that's why unless we have a cataclysmic change nothing will change.


The change is now in full swing but who among us will be around to welcome in the Age of Enlightenment?
I can think of the words missing in your powerful poem but I will try to remain polite.
The people who organise all those posh charity dinners to assuage what little conscience they have are just as bad. It's not done for genuine concern half the time but for another chance to indulge themselves and their chums.

A bit like Obama attending fundraisers in between golf matches, as his ISIS funded savages saw off someone else's head.
Alison x
Enjoyed reading btw 😜


Author's Reply:
Alison,
Glad you enjoyed the poem. I wanted to set out the contrast without letting my self show in the poem, but the passion crept in as the scale of the waste and the wasting just grew.

B

Supratik on 07-09-2014
this word and this word
Enjoyed the comments and re-read the poem and understood (I think) the context. Listen to the comment from India: the world has similar lots everywhere. Much enjoyed.

Author's Reply:
Supratik, the poem is set in Knightsbridge and the details are specific to and identify a certain set. Those same sets abound across the world. The intention is there, but it's the staying power and the will which are lacking.

Mikeverdi on 08-09-2014
this word and this word
I've come back to this after seeing the comments; pleased I did. It all makes sense now; unlike the food fights over dinner while the pictures fade in shame. Sorry not to have 'got it' first time. I don't use ratings as a rule but...
Mike

Author's Reply:
Mike,
Glad you came back! It's not my intention to make my poems "difficult". I will certainly try to provide a background to any future submissions. Thank you for the rating.


The Poem of Everything - The First Deimension (posted on: 29-08-14)
''Myself, I have a pilgrimage to make to the One dwelling in me. They offer lambs; I offer my breath and my blood.'' Husayn Ibn Mansur Al Hallaj: 857-922 ''From my solitude I come: To my solitude I return.'' Lope De Vega

The First Deimension Master, noman, everyman, wombman Ghostman, whispers furled till the waking hour when the flower runs its curled stalk creeping from the ground to the thin sun strong in the low day, new sky young coloured still by the old, memories anchoring to the past, this present this coming,             Opens the crescent To the eye, the stretched horizon Circled and circling the red, rooftops Burnt to gold, windows awake to the kiss. Sea swerve past the shore, thin water flanks Backward move the scree, rounding edge By edge the earth, its swell, the wrack; The moon tide pulling at the depths, This day signed begins:                      Beginning Spring,      budding tints this eye and that, Reaches past the curve this hour, colours The latitude brothers, sisters The same spring sprung signatures. No visible disorder clouds come breezed. What plays? She wanted to get back early, Left the party, started to walk; Didn't have the fare; could've asked, We'd have given her a lift But it's just around the corner, A right, another, a left, you're there: There they found her stomach Ripped open, bottles crushed into her eyes. ''We're investigating the significance of chrysanthemums placed by the victim's head. We haven't ruled out the possibility of links to a cult of some sort, an underground sect. We're appealing to the public to come forward with any details to help in solving this terrible crime. Our prayers go out to the parents and family of this young woman in this their time of sorrow.'' Change the record: abstract ecstasies follow. "If I could be with you         I would be nowhere else Every shadow bears the mark of you,         Every moment is a reflection of you. Every moment is you and you are         in every moment that is Babe, we can dream,         Dreaming is free.'' Before the boorish Neopolitan crowd Maria bent, bouqueted the radishes, acknowledged proud the brutish louts: 'I have pleased you well with myself.' Stomach swollen, corded suddenly spits Splits; riding eddies, the rip and turns, Fourth coiled beasts, part u is me fission. In credible currencies the barter burns: The child, is just, is slapped quiet, bundled into the back. They drive to the hotel, enter by a back way. Waiting the buyer there. Just off the plane, travelled half way across the globe, he says. 'This is prime steak,' the driver tells him,' very good stuff.' Turns the child showing every which way. 'See,' he says, 'been plucked pure, just for you, for you man.' Smiles all around. Whisper in signs, strike a bargain, shake then leave. In the room he begins. When begins the scream takes a sock, stuffs silent the mouth then wiping his brow ties tighter the ties. Syntax denied the whurld takes flight Plantied by the night Saturn phades Cullours shreaded degrailed Cascades The preyer ghost wite kite white bright The scream jumping the gap synapse Lands to brand each gene a bastard From high the first a startling relapse Grace grounded blood gels no longer heard The tongue that taught love. Sea skin shimmering river runs Still feeding without bounds dry noons. 'Teeth pushed through, were stuck to his lips. Mouth puffed up, perforated with sores, blood crusted his face, his sides, had soaked the pillows. Terminally ill, they said. Better he die. Was left without food and water. Fourteen days. Just drugs they gave him, keep him quiet, and he such a talker. Wouldn't look at me no more. That's how I knew things weren't well, he wasn't right.' The report concluded: A deliberate policy of liquid and food denial was adopted In all those cases judged, within strict guidelines prescribed, As hopeless. Drugs were administered To ease the suffering until they died. ''No comment.'' I an empty house, uncrowded Bricks failing, mortar denied, Incomplete, uncapped, wounded Architecture unrendered. Burnt butts prayers wither on the vine (Pilgermann BM © 2007-2014)
Archived comments for The Poem of Everything - The First Deimension
Slovitt on 29-08-2014
The Poem of Everything
B., okay, been through your poem three times, the third with notepad and pen. impressive pace, one never idles, your charged language and the precisely described moments your speaker shares, drives the whole. you seem to be trying to reconcile the world of human beings, the beauties with the atrocities, and both regarded unflinchingly.



"...new sky young

Coloured still by the old, memories

anchoring to the past, this present

this coming,"



and so we are off.



"No visible disorder clouds come breezed. What plays?"



your odd, stilted syntax above, and elsewhere, reads absolutely appropriate in the world of your poem, your assessment, your journey of reconciliation.



"She wanted to get back early,..."

"Ripped open, bottles crushed into her eyes."



and so, a refusal to mourn, or to only mourn,


"Change the record: abstract ecstasies follow,"



doing what you can, your speech, because the whole poem is your speech,


"If I could be with you

I would be nowhere else"



"Every moment is you and you are

In every moment that is"



and so Maria, a new player?



"Stomach swollen..."

"When begins the scream...

stuffs silent the mouth."



and then another horror



"Teeth pushed through...and he such a talker...Wouldn't look at me no more."



different syntaxes, spellings, creates different speakers though all facets of the one, you.



being unable to see but a few lines in this box, i may have repeated myself.



your speaker is brave, and here and elsewhere talks of how beautiful the world is, and it is, but when we say the world we say the vast collection of people scattered across every landmass. you set out to say a lot, and did, and reconciled it in a simple, and beautiful way. Swep

Author's Reply:

Slovitt on 29-08-2014
The Poem of Everything
B., came back to say that your speaker has shared out the horrors she's seen among several aspects of herself, sometimes barely differentiated, as a way of the burden not being too much for any one of her selves. the tragedies are given their due, one must seek, and recognize the beauties (daughters), and emphasize them. one gets to be wondrous as long as a blind eye isn't turned to events. there's that reconciliation again.

a final thought, there's the important business of the poet as witness, the poem the chronicle, the statement. Swep

Author's Reply:
Swep, You are beginning to read me like no other. I wanted to create a voice, the different aspects of a voice, as one is not sufficient to record all. There is such a beauty in the sun rise and the play of light across the skin of the sea and the eye of the poet, the birth of a day. Then there is the horror that lurks behind every eye, every door, horrors that can be switched past like tv channels. I wanted to record it all, let the world wash over me.

I tried to keep my distance and let the poem play itself out, and I think I succeeded. This is the first part - there are 2 more, which are just as experimental, but you'll see a tilt towards the exploration of beauty (Umberto Eco must take the blame). I am sure that you will.........

Mikeverdi on 30-08-2014
The Poem of Everything
I am truly fascinated by your words, I will need to read again and maybe again; to get to grips with it all. The comments are a great help. Not my normal read I will confess 🙂
Mike

Author's Reply:
Mike, The best way to read this is to just let the words wash over you the first time around. The next reading should pull out the the different voices, the styles and the themes.
Thanks for reading.


Her Father's Passing (posted on: 22-08-14)
Mary's flight back to her father's bedside

Her mother calls: ''Come quickly, tonight.'' Mary pauses; the taxi lights turn, burn Arcing past through the dotted window. A raindrop breaks, cuts through her ghosted face. She opens shaking: takes flight, chasing Earth's curve, her father's face setting. Stars fade in her wake, distant deaths Coming nearer, beams planing past Forms without form, splinters of the first; She's carried in their wake, barely awake, Step by step, tracing the burst back Into the belly, that moment when She was spun from the flesh dying, now dead. Undead she looks upon him shrouded, Hears the crying, ''He will not rise again.'' Driving the women from the room she weeps, His shadow finally touching hers. (@BM Pilgermann 2014)
Archived comments for Her Father's Passing
Slovitt on 22-08-2014
Her Fathers Passing
B. read your poem 4 or 5 times, and think i finally got in rhythm with the line-by-line of the story. charged emotion, charged urgency. am inclined to really like your last 5 lines or so, the last line itself very powerful, that all said some lines in the last couple of stanzas i don't follow clearly. good poem. Swep

Author's Reply:
Swep, tried to capture the turmoil and the conflict. The journey mirrors the "Big Bang", links her birth to the first explosion, the act copulation, and then the growing realisation of the distance between her and her father, which is only now being bridged and closed - the dying light of a distant star reaching her finally, too late.

stormwolf on 23-08-2014
Her Fathers Passing
Hello there,
I see you are posting after a break.
Like Swep I read it several times and although it can be hard to get it all it revealed itself to me bit by bit.
Some poems need to be digested like this and they can be all the stronger for it. I may be reading it wrongly ( does that really matter?) but what I got was the overwhelming sense of urgency, coupled with the kind of unreality one experiences in times of great stress.
The arcing window very much the present but coupled with the ghostly face...suggesting a state of shock.
Then to me at least, she is consumed by the hugeness of everything, life, death, meaning in life. It is all coming home to her that she is in the middle of such a time. Maybe also that she was his seed and now the cycle is completing.

The last five lines made it for me. The separation of the last line superb.
I think the poem moved me greatly as in so many ways I could identify with it having made a 100 mile dash to my dying father...then after six months oh his refusal to discuss what we both knew was coming...my intense experience sitting with his dead body, 'his shadow finally touching mine.'
A wonderful if slightly abstract poem at times.

Alison x

Author's Reply:
Alison, It was a long break.
You have read the poem very well. This was a dash across a few thousand miles, hence the curve of the earth and the comparision of her father to the setting sun. It was a desperate flight and more than enough time to realise how deep the bond was and could have been. Only his shadow remained, the rest was cold.

Gothicman on 23-08-2014
Her Fathers Passing
I think this is such inspiring poetry; her sullen reflection on hearing the news in the night window awaiting the taxi, her race to him, bombarded with old family thoughts right back to her birth, the daughter meeting her dying father now dead, and when alone, unrushed now, realizing what the loss really means. Very skilled poetry and poignant read.

Thanks! Gothicman.

Author's Reply:
Gothicman, the intention was to take her back to the point of her conception, to tie it to the birth of the universe. She is pulled back to her source, passing the dying light of stars, back to her own dead "sun". We realise too late what is important, and only the memories, the shadows of what was real remain.

Thank you for reading the intent of my in intention.

BM

Mikeverdi on 23-08-2014
Her Fathers Passing
It's all been said, I was deeply moved by the words; thanks for posting this.
Mike

Author's Reply:
Mike,
Many thanks for reading.

Ionicus on 23-08-2014
Her Fathers Passing
A nicely executed emotive poem, describing Mary's turmoil at hearing the news of her father dying and her anguished urgency to reach him before his demise only to be met by women lamenting the passing.
Well done on the 'nib'.

Author's Reply:
Ionicus,

I am glad you stopped by. It is hard to describe the complex emotions brought on by the death of someone close. I thought that I might have gone overboard by linking this to the dying stars and the birth of the universe, but it was the right thing to do.

Thank you.

BM

stormwolf on 23-08-2014
Her Fathers Passing
Hello again

Thanks so much for the explanation. I think we, as poets, have also to remember the readers and so need to continually look with dispassionate eyes to see if what WE feel so intensely, comes over and how much?
I feel that you left the reader a wee bit behind here and maybe with a tiny bit of that in mind could change the poem.
So many almost 'rubber stamp' their work...but if others cannot follow it, we do ourselves (and our work) an injustice.

I truly feel that with a small bit of stepping outside to the reader's side and altering the poem accordingly you will make it far more accessible to so many more.

Those of us who write a lot of poetry can think our poems do not matter...but they do.
Powerful poem
Alison x



Author's Reply:

Bozzz on 26-08-2014
Her Fathers Passing
The love and loyalty that brings mankind thousands of miles to a deathbed is an amazing feat of technology in itself. To bring a poet to creating great poem is the greater one. The "Well I tried" may be some help in relieving guilt but is no compensation for not being able to say 'good bye' at the time. Thank you for sharing. David

Author's Reply:


Xenoglossy (posted on: 13-06-05)
poem

Xenoglossy

 

A knock at the door.

I turn,

Dust, caught, swirls in the light,

The fury of your entrance.

 

You're wearing that dress bought last week –

Your first salary check. You, the model,

I the mirror, waltzed past Harrods

(too tatty) and into Nicols,

Then Gap, Lewis and Monsoon.

 

Deep indigo pulled you: you entered

The Oxfam on Gloucester Road,

Fingered raw silk, pronounced, It's new!

I knew the shape and form were you.

 

Flesh is gold, swims with curve and fold,

Carrying dreams, your eyes tell, fluid streams

Your lips will pull; the world stops, spins

Only you, emerging only you.

 

I, bewitched, watch myself being unrolled.  

 

 @BM Pilgermann 2005


Archived comments for Xenoglossy
LenchenElf on 2005-06-17 02:21:07
Re: Xenoglossy
A lovely piece, thanks for sharing it 🙂
all the best
LE

Author's Reply:

Slovitt on 2005-06-27 12:40:37
Re: Xenoglossy
B.: The only word out of place in this extremely sensual moment is 'fury'. Evocative of 'Your green stretches, turns to blue', your poem has concrete details that set it in the world, and then creates a world within a world especially in the fourth stanza
which reads beautifully, both visually and musically

Flesh is gold, swims with curve and fold,
Carrying dreams, your eyes tell, fluid streams
Your lips will pull; the world stops, spins
Only you, emerging only you.

And then the poetess, interwoven through the poem, '...watch myself being unrolled.'

A very good poem, a very nice piece. Swep

Author's Reply:


Tempting Fate (posted on: 10-06-05)
a poem

Tempting Fate

 


Frantic particles Pilgermann spins


An axis horizontal, vertical rarely.


Sober hides the spirit disgusted


But nature ditheistic dictates


And rolling I orbits the world


Musing: I must be the truth of this.


 


Engineers, architects, all highly prized


Probe beneath her animal eyes (Friendly


But too close in her narrow, unkempt skull)


Puzzled, perplexed at her construction


They wonder how such shambling passions


Can roam unquestioned such exquisite circuits.


 


''Tell me where my fingertips, where my eyes?''


Witness to her limits not he is


Nowhere, Pilgermann, my son, everywhere.


''I am the Absolute, its opposite too!''


She curls herself within the ripe red skin


And hangs too delicious not to eat.


Archived comments for Tempting Fate
tai on 2005-06-10 15:09:33
Re: Tempting Fate
What a bloody brilliant poem. My head is now spinning and I feel sick. Wow! How do ya do that then?

Much admiration

Tai

Author's Reply:

Slovitt on 2005-06-10 22:25:44
Re: Tempting Fate
B: You are a smart girl. And this is a poem that abundantly demostrates that fact. As you've said, 'solipsistic', yes. You've styled yourself as distant, and bright, and, though you've been brilliantly sensuous, only now sensuously accessible, 'She curls herself within the ripe red skin/And hangs too delicious not to eat.' This is pretty good. Swep


Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-06-11 09:44:45
Re: Tempting Fate
Tai,

A glass of elderflower wine and a diet of carrots and humous!

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-06-11 09:45:47
Re: Tempting Fate
Gothic,

A totally self obsessed poem. My particles need some order imposed on them.



Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-06-11 09:48:26
Re: Tempting Fate
Swep, the world can either be conquered through brute force, or through sensuality.

She's curled herself, but the question remains; will the ripe red skin be unpeeled by another?

Author's Reply:

AnthonyEvans on 2005-06-11 15:16:28
Re: Tempting Fate
pilgermann, i like this but must confess that neither my prose-like brain nor my collins shorter are quite up to it. liked very much the end half of the final stanza. best wishes, anthony.

Author's Reply:

Kat on 2005-06-13 00:56:52
Re: Tempting Fate
A very fine poem to mull over, muse over, again and again - enjoyed! All the best.

Kat 🙂

Author's Reply:


AOAB - Chapter 2 - Section 10 (posted on: 08-04-05)
This is still chapter 2 - but have now progressed to section 10.

Let me explain about the chapter numbering. Chapter 1 is the last chapter in the book, and that is where the book logically starts, as Indy realises, with a little prodding from his grandfather's ghost, that he is nothing without memories. The literal beginning is thus chapter 2, where he begins his story telling.



10

            At about the time Ken and I started working in Wembley Colin, an associate I'd known through the building trade, took over two nightclubs in Soho. He asked me whether I'd like to run them for him. I'd been thinking of moving away from Ken, and this seemed to be the ideal opportunity to branch into my own domains. I phoned Yusuf, a Pakistani I'd met while trying to drum up business for the company. He ran a Health shop in Cricklewood, and I entered his shop offering expert monthly accounting. He'd laughed and said there was nothing a Pakistani did not know about accounting and countered by offering his skills to invest my money in his shop and the under-counter trading that he managed. He and I become close friends; he had the contacts to make the joints a success, and, more importantly he possessed a tongue so skilled in bullshit that I could see money flowing into future plans which littered my head. We'll be equal partners, I told him, and I could hear him flicking through his numbers. He needed a few days to think it over, he said, phone around and check out the scene. I knew he wouldn't refuse. Two days later he accepted, and then I accepted, and I took Azurra to inspect the new additions to my business empire; one of them was near Soho Square, a long corridor with a stage the size of a large table used for Jazz sessions; the other, larger, spreading to two floors being used as a meeting place for fetishists, on those nights when it was not performing as a glorified brothel, was a mile up Oxford Street in a small road lined with clothes' designer's studios. Upon reflection that was the reason I accepted, my dick stirred by the mannequins who paraded through the street, their lean bones crying out to be fucked.


            -Wow! Azurra exclaimed as Colin showed us around. This is going to be great. Can I be a bartender? Can I?


            -You can be whatever you want, I replied. That was the reply I made as we lay together the first night of our marriage. We lay silent, not touching, separated, me by the fear that she would rebuff me, and her, well, that she will answer herself. I lay listening to the sounds of the party downstairs, trying to fade them out, have just Azurra's breathing hold me. That summer I spent chasing her, following her through the London streets, chasing that shadow which never fully revealed itself to me, driven on by the light that rose in the depths of her eyes whenever I stood in front of her, always anticipating the moment, and yet, on this night, which, as I climbed the stairs, my cousins had confidently told me  - go to work on that babe, they winked - would be the best of my life, I was like a board. Even the Elder whispered that this night would lay the foundations for the future; how you play, he told me, will shape the mistress into clay, play her right, play her like I have done with mine, look for the struts and pull them tight, tune them true to the feel, the nail, the lip. I walked past the advice. I wanted this woman, had wanted to enter her so completely that I was willing to take on her skin and look out through her eyes. This was the woman who'd watered my lust, had greened herself into my heart until all that could be heard in my pulse was the song of her, the breath of a nightingale unforced by the thorn. Yet, breathing with her rhythm, rising with her rise, falling with her fall I could not move. She hardly breathed, I was suffocating. The day's length was heavy on me, and I knew the weight on her pressed greater. I felt tired. I knew she was as tired as I was. The day had been long. And the sight of her weeping as she left her father's house left me depressed. Nothing I said on the journey back seemed to console her. Her sister tried to comfort her, but even that failed. I knew she was close to her father; I saw that every time I went back to her house; it was obvious she was his favourite, his words, his eyes painting her, building her into the woman I could not keep away from. I had taken that picture, had seen her step out from it. I thought my eyes contained the light to allow her to continue growing. Yet here we were, silent, unmoving. Between was the echo of her father, the shadow of his voice. When I made to touch her arm, sliding my hand slowly to her side, she flinched. I ached. I waited. My penis stretched, arced painful. I lay silent waiting for her breathing to lighten. Then I told her:


            -Let's get out of here. We can climb down from this window.


            -You're mad, she whispered moving slightly into the trench created by my body. They'll see us. They expect us to stay here all night.


            -And they'll check the sheets for blood in the morning, I laughed.


            -No!


            I sensed her stiffen and said, I'm joking. But we need to get away from this noise. I need some silence.


            -Go to sleep then.


            -I can't, and I need to show you something.


            -I've seen dicks before, she retorted.


            I said nothing.


            -I'm sorry, she whispered then turned her head towards me her eyes bright coals. Your father frightens me, she said. He's not like mine.


            I knew what she meant. They were not from the same tree. I knew problems lay ahead but I pushed the thought aside. Will you come with me? I whispered.


            Her hand gripped mine. You won't let him hurt me? Promise! I want to grow with you but I need my own space. I don't want him colouring my space. Promise! Her voice was urgent and I knew my father's public mask had not deceived her.


            I snaked my arms around her waist. I was going to show you Rochester castle, I said losing myself in her perfume. That's where I wanted to take you. The most beautiful building you can imagine, especially at night, and especially tonight. It's full moon, I explained and she moved closer. My arms will be like its walls, I continued warming to my theme, warming to her heat. The space within is all yours. I'll try to keep the weathers away, keep you dry. You can be whatever you want and I'll keep you within me.


             Keep me, she said swooping to kiss me. Show me the castle.


            We dressed and slipped from the house. I remembered the glow in her eyes that night and that same glow was there now as we stood with Colin surveying this new kingdom whose gates he was now opening.


             -Can I? She looked from me to him and back. That same light, yet much more intense, sparked in those moments after we lay panting, having explored every crevice, licked every orifice and penetrated all of the twenty-one erogenous centres. I looked from her to Colin. 


            -You can do whatever you want, he assured her, laughing at her excitement. All I want is to stay in Portsmouth, receive my weekly cheques from Indy, and, generally, just stay out of the way. You two do whatever you think fit.


            Colin was an engineer by trade, had made some serious money in the building trade, and now lived on Hayling Island in a house that looked across the bay, its garden touching the beach, and connecting him with the rest of England. His recently acquired wife, a golden haired woman in her forties, cared for his needs and he seldom had the need to step outside his house. But here he was, the lure of money bright on his stooped shoulders, his white head spun gold by the lights. He'd acquired, well to be accurate he'd been sold, the venture into the nightclub business as a sure-fire return. Just put in the proper management and the right publicity, they told him, and he could look forward to expanding his ailing building projects, those architectures he himself had designed and now stood unfinished monuments – he was eager to cap the buildings, to open new plans, follow new lines. The clubs would be the road to end his dreaming.


            -Look after them, Indy. Appoint new staff, keep the same sods if you must. But, he looked me in the eye, make these buggers pay. You run them, fill them. Call me every week. Tell me how good they're doing.


            So Azurra and I found themselves the willing curators, for that was the only word to describe our position, of two nightclubs.


            After work we drove from her office to Soho Square where, it seemed, after endlessly circling the park , we would eventually pull into a parking space, walk hand in hand to the first, Coolie Brown's, inspect the bar, go down into the cellar, check the stock and the state of the kitchens and then accompanied by the manager, a Polish man that Yusuf had appointed, go to the other and make sure everything was in readiness for the night ahead.


            We always stayed at the larger, Little John's, where I stood at the door, welcomed the guests while she served behind the bar, held court among the bottles; I had never seen her so happy, her face radiant as she chatted and filled and refilled the glasses. Even at the door I could hear her cockney voice chiding the men who tried to chat her up - I knew she would never be unfaithful. She was the charm that kept them coming back to the bar, kept the till busy and Colin happy. It was her infectious laugh, the easy manner that drew the men to her, the way she moved, those 'dog' eyes that kept the tills ticking over.


            We enjoyed ourselves, the tiredness as we drove home in the early morning quickly shed at the prospect of the next evening. We slept deep, bodies curled about and walled within each other. The noise of the day was left at the door.


 


1733 words


Archived comments for AOAB - Chapter 2 - Section 10
Slovitt on 2005-04-09 01:03:37
Re: AOAB - Chapter 2 - Section 10
B: I've read this through twice, and the lines are strong and supple, springy, the musculature of a swimmer and not a weightlifter. And there is grace in the understatement, in the emotionally revealing passages that teach us in bits about Indy and Azurra. 'He asked me (if)(whether) I'd like to run them for him.' And the reader is drawn into the story and the first stirrings of that which stirs beneath the surface throughout, 'Upon reflection that was the reason I accepted, my dick stirred by the mannequins who paraded through the streets,their lean bones crying out to be fucked.'
And then a nice transition to '...the first night of our marriage.' And Indy's obsession 'I wanted this woman, had wanted to enter her so completely that I was willing to take on her skin and look out through her eyes.' I have known that moment, its intensity, its reality. '...all that could be heard in my pulse was the song of her.' And on down, he has something for her also, 'I thought my eyes contained the light to allow her to continue growing.' I do believe I'd go for 'cock' instead of 'My penis stretched, arced painful.' Or even the earlier used 'dick', though 'dick' seems more juvenile. In any case 'penis' makes me think of various animal phalluses. Proceeding, a bit of honesty from Azurra who says 'I've seen dicks before'. Not to be naive, Indy didn't want to hear that. And then the two are moving in-and-out of each other, are sensitive enough to do so, 'You be whatever you want and I'll keep you within me.'
And then a bit of warmth, of unselfconscious affection, 'Keep on, she said swooping to kiss me.' A more intimate moment though they had earlier 'lay panting,having explored every crevice, licked every orifice, and penetrated all of the twenty-one erogeneous centers.' So Azurra and I found (themselves) (ourselves) the willing curators...'/ Your last stanza is just right, and cleanly closes off this section 'We slept deep, bodies curled about and walled within each other. The noise of the day was left at the door.' Substantial progress in the internals of Indy and Azurra's romance. We're set up for what comes next. All in all, pretty damn fine writing. Swep

Author's Reply:

AnthonyEvans on 2005-04-10 17:23:43
Re: AOAB - Chapter 2 - Section 10
well, pilgermann, i'm certainly not going to try and follow a comment like swep's! but just dropped by the comment box to let you know that i am still reading. thought this seemed less bitty than the previous installment. i think you should put your whole title up (Autobiography of a Bastard) which is a good strong title rather than AOAB - Chapter 2 - Section 10 which sounds like some kind of gov't report! best wishes, anthony.

Author's Reply:


The autobiography of a Bastard - The Beginning of Alli (posted on: 25-03-05)
Sections 8 and 9 of the second chapter - The Chrysanthemum Field, subchapter "The Beginning of Alli"

8

Alli made her presence felt immediately.


Her perfume, even at this distance in time, was different to that of the others, was altogether more sensual, had the allure of the rarest orchid, an iciness contradicted by its subtle heat. She looked like the phalaenopsis that sits now on my window, the buds straining to be kissed by the diluted morning sun, exploding as the light penetrates into the blood greening in their thin stems. But this is on hindsight - at that time she was just one of the women who I saw through the haze of that dreamy summer. Every time I look at these flowers I am reminded of her mouth, the soft curve of her – Is there a cure for the past? I think not and even though I do not want to have her memories rise they are everywhere around me, moved into my present by my present - the swirling dust of the bedroom shot through with her name, the shadows filled with her laughter - and I need those memories to tell this story. This story is about her, a portrait of her and also all those other women who have built me with themselves. But let me continue with her.


She had a look about her of one who was used to getting her own way.


In the mornings she was the first in the building; the door had always been shut when I arrived before, but now the lights would be on, the heating turned on, the rooms warm as I entered and the dank desperate smell of the place hidden under the mask of her perfume. And she? She would be seated at her desk, throned, the room having been reorganised and she, with her furniture, now occupied one whole wall, the head just looking up as I passed, just a cursory glance.


For a week, maybe two, that was all that happened, a glance, a look, no more, nothing to stay the eye, have it linger.


The next time I looked, really looked, was when she came wanting to use my laptop; 'to write some letters,' she explained - all the other computers were in use (looking through the glass I saw the truncated heads of the women, eyes fixed onto their screens) and these letters were urgent, and she knew that one of my 'duties was to help in the smooth functioning of the office.' I did not recall letter writing being listed in my contract, but I stayed silent. Sitting in the office, the door closed, blinds down, the reports were highly confidential, she told me, I spent five minutes explaining the basics of the word-processing software on the machine. She leant over my shoulder as I did so, and I smelt her, turning noticed her fully for the first time. Her eyes were grey-green, specks of yellow floating in them, the hair the gold of sunset, her nose sharp, the skin on the bridge slightly peeling, the lips full. I knew she had not slept for days. There were the faintest of circles beneath her eyes. And she looked old, worn out, thin lines cracking the skin - this woman could hold no attraction for me, I thought, but already the pressure of her breath upon my neck was forcing me to breathe carefully.


-Show me how to print these letters.


The smell of mints was carried to me on her imperative breath. She came into the office with a bag of them every morning. Every time I passed her office she was popping another into her mouth. In fact, I'd never seen her eating anything else in the office. And now her breath was beating onto my face.


I tried to ignore it but behind it was her heat, and that burnt me. I was surprised. It was similar to the heat of Delhi in high summer, a burning furnace. Stripped the soul bare, leaving the flesh smoking in its wake. I felt the first knock on the bars surrounding my heart, but I concentrated on the screen. My fingers stretched across the keyboard like spindly threads. Behind me I sensed her smile.


-I want them perfect, she said. Must be the right font, the right weight, the right spacing.


Wave after wave of her susurration hit the side of my face. My cheeks were burning. I looked straight at the screen. She was looking into me – I wanted to turn and return her look but instead I fixed my eyes on the letter.


I sent the job to the printer convinced I had captured her needs.


-That doesn' look right, she laughed retrieving the paper and holding it up for me; a gabble of mischievous letters stared back at me, a script scrambled by the barrier between the laptop and the hammer.


I tried again. Showed her the preview. It looked perfect. She said it was perfect. But that bastard printer would not obey, refused to print as she wanted the letters to look.


-It's just a matter of the set-up, I told her not wanting my skills to be questioned and she nodded in agreement the yellow flecks in her eyes dancing before an unseen storm.


Once more, then again, and again. She stood at my back touching me without touching me; it was her breathing, her perfume, her shadow, the rustle of her clothes that crept into me and nested beneath my brow. I spent over an hour printing the letters to her satisfaction, a small voice in my head telling me that I should leave, let her complete the job by herself, that I was entering a space belonging to Scylla, but there was nothing urgent requiring my attention elsewhere, nothing that could not be put aside for another hour and besides she was just a woman, I told myself, just another ghostly body in an office full of ghostly bodies. There could not be any harm in staying for an hour in that closed office.


9

That night, on the way home, I was waiting at a set of traffic lights on Farringdon Road, had just passed the Guardian building, when the scent of her breath once more assailed me; I remembered the heat of her closeness, the sudden touch of mint and sweat. The flowering was so vivid that I turned expecting her next to me. Cars blossomed and died. An impatient honking broke through her perfume. The lights were green and obviously I had been stationery for a millisecond too long. I moved past, hurriedly opening the windows; my wife would be waiting outside her office and I wanted nothing of Alli in the car, nothing to bend the straight road I saw ahead of me.


Even then a sense of guilt ran through me, scurried inside my stomach when I saw my wife standing at the door of her office; she was indistinguishable from the grey stone, a thin line only I could have recognised, the other cars speeding past without notice. The lights in her office were still on and I could see the figures of her colleagues scrabbling behind the counters finishing the day's reckoning.


In the four years of my marriage no other woman had stepped into my eyes. There had been women into whose eyes I had stepped – colleagues aghast at my indifference later castigated me for not taking up the chances to indulge myself - and I, blissfully ignorant, had let my image dry in the moist breasts. Watching Azurra, as I waited to swing the car onto her side of the road, I felt guilty that I had allowed another to creep into the space reserved for her, almost as if the first creaking of the door leading to another world was weighing on my mind.


I loved her, I loved her, I told myself as she walked over to the car; I loved this woman and no other. I love you, I voiced to the figure; I love you.


She was looking over me, passed around me. I doubt if she noticed the soundless whisper of my love; the song of an out-of season bird.


I stepped out and walking quickly to her side opened the door and watched her slither into the seat. My hands had wanted to touch her, but they stopped short. Straightening I waited for my ghosts to disperse.


Our eyes still had not met. I watched her close her eyes. I heard her breath soften. I waited for her scent to bring her into me. I waited.


-Are we going home? Her voice carried the tiredness of the day. It was tinged with the colours of autumn.


To alleviate my guilt I stopped at a Chinese restaurant in Greenwich, one we'd discovered in our continuing quest for the perfect take-away, ordered a plate of spare ribs- the first time it had been laid in front of us the size and the quantity truly astounding, the second time slightly less so, but still it held an attraction and continued to do so - and sipping the house white wine discussed our respective days while waiting for the inevitable chicken curry with cashew nuts, special fried rice and the deep fried beef, succulent strips coated with honey that never failed to relax us.


She talked about the cashing up she had done, how she was ten pounds short, and how she suspected it had been the black woman she had served two days ago. The woman had gone away laughing, looking back as if expecting to be called back. There was no honesty left in the world, Azurra said. If it had been her she would have given the money back. I listened. Each day was yesterday; each day was tomorrow. I wanted to be here now and by listening to the animated voice I was. I watched.


Her eyes were brown and yellow, a startling colour - her father called them 'dog eyes'. Much of her face had been inherited from her father, especially the large Italian nose, and I could see his influence in the way she moved and talked, a masculinity barely tamed by her femininity, yet possessing the same unfettered joy for living. I watched her as she finished her food and leant across the table to maraud into my plate; so she had entered into my life, ravenous, a hunger that burst the umbilical tying me to my twin and my mother. This woman lived in my heart; there had been no room for any one else; her blood was the river I took my oxygen from. Yet as her hand reached for a honeyed rib I saw another's face spring into the plate, the glazed meat suddenly transformed into the reclined form of Alli; she lay there in the bowl, glistening with oil and fat, her flesh rippled by my eye whispering to be held. My hand rose involuntarily. It fell back. I bit my lip to keep from crying out. I watched, bizarrely fascinated, as Azurra reached out and took up a piece, broke off a portion of Alli's breast, the honey, dripping from it, rising with it, still attached to the plate, pulling my eyes up the shining thread, past her mouth, past the sharp teeth, the tongue, the throat, the white bone, into Alli, the shore whose soft voice was surfing into me, bringing me the scent of spices from a strange land. Voices circled looking for dead meat inside my head; I looked at my hands and could no longer see where I ended and she began, where they, the they, began, there were so many shadows cutting the light from my eyes. Then Azurra was touching me, I felt her reaching into my dry well, telling me we must be leaving, her eyes still hungry, the sharp glitters promising.


I shook my head clear and left Alli half-eaten in the restaurant, her minty breath forgotten in the chill of the evening, by the urgency of Azurra's fingers.


I held her close all night, lay awake until I heard her breathing soften, felt her heat increase and soften into me, and burning I lay with her till the early hours of lightening when sleep finally closed my eyes.


Archived comments for The autobiography of a Bastard - The Beginning of Alli
Slovitt on 2005-03-28 03:00:28
Re: The autobiography of a Bastard - The Beginning of Alli
Pilgermann: I will only say that I had almost finished a comment that was so lengthy that it would have worn you out to have read it, and then I by some trick, or mis-hit of the keyboard, lost it.
I've got some kind of semi-official supper now imminent and so will have to wait until tomorrow to try again, but maybe by then I will have the whole of the novel, or novella. This section is strong, and I am glad to find very strong lines, and also lines that can be revised, sometimes, if only subtly eg. how about cutting 'who was', early in the text, to read 'She had the look about her of one used to getting her own way.'/ and again how about cutting 'that was all that' and replacing it with 'nothing else', to read 'For a week, maybe two, nothing else happened, a glance, a look, no more, nothing to stay the eyes, have it linger.'/(I hate passive verbs). I do like '...the pressure of her breath on my neck was forcing me to breath carefully.'/, though again, I hate 'her imperative breath' and 'wave after wave of her susurration hit my face.' Then again, the other way, the 'song of an out-of-season bird' is good though 'It was tinged with the colors of autumn' rings false. Almost all of this is very good, and good enough that it can be worked on, and that's interesting. You have continued very sensually what is essentialy a sensual narrative, and you have drawn in psychological elements, though it throbs throughout. Swep

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-04-07 17:26:24
Re: The autobiography of a Bastard - The Beginning of Alli
Swep,
I'm cutting even as I read your comments.

P

Author's Reply:


Reflections sitting on the beach in Ifni (posted on: 25-03-05)
Dark waters, strong currents and dry sand seeping into the cracks

Reflections sitting on the beach in Ifni

 

I have watched the motion of the sea,

Mornings as I emerge from dreams,

Sunsets as the calls rise to prayer,

The unending surges riding

Past the sculptured rocks batteried

In the bay, and still I dare not name

The force which drives the motion,

Preferring, in, what some call, my dulled age

Simply to see and be, hiding

In the dark light of my parasol.


Archived comments for Reflections sitting on the beach in Ifni
Apolloneia on 2005-03-25 08:47:39
Re: Reflections sitting in the beach in Ifni
Pilgermann this is certainly a great write and I love the thoughts and feelings in this, especially : and still I dare not name the force that drives the motion, perferring ... simply to see and be, hiding in the dark light of my parasol.

Author's Reply:

Slovitt on 2005-03-25 13:59:04
Re: Reflections sitting in the beach in Ifni
Pilgermann: Now this is pretty fine, with a delicacy of atmosphere, and rhythms that mime the sea. And the visual to conclude the poem, and the associations attendant it, make for an intriguing, and full experience. Again, very nice. Swep

Author's Reply:

Kat on 2005-03-25 14:12:16
Re: Reflections sitting in the beach in Ifni
I enjoyed this, especially those very fine last 2 lines.

Kat 🙂

Author's Reply:

AnthonyEvans on 2005-03-25 18:30:28
Re: Reflections sitting in the beach in Ifni
i enjoyed this reflective piece, pilgermann, could half-see you there hidden within the dark-light of your parasol. happy easter, anthony.

Author's Reply:

teifii on 2005-03-26 12:03:53
Re: Reflections sitting in the beach in Ifni
Lovely, atmospheric jewel of a poem. Especially loved the last two lines -- there 'dark light' is perfect.
Daff

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-03-26 12:44:54
Re: Reflections sitting in the beach in Ifni
The beach is off limits to single women, and I have to brave the cat calls and whistles of the men who line the cliffs above the beach and that is why the 'hiding'.

Thanks for the rating

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-03-26 12:46:48
Re: Reflections sitting in the beach in Ifni
During the winter months the sea races whiteshod onto the beach, the rhythm an ecstasy of another heart. I tried to capture that blood in these lines.

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-03-26 12:47:36
Re: Reflections sitting in the beach in Ifni
Thank you kat.

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-03-26 12:49:02
Re: Reflections sitting in the beach in Ifni
Tony,
I thought you were strictly a prose man! Even in december ifni has a sun that burns. And I dare not show my face when it is that strong (too many memories)

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-03-26 12:50:04
Re: Reflections sitting in the beach in Ifni
Thank you,
I'm glad you noiticed the Thomas allusion. He has influenced me much in both prose and poetry.


Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-03-26 12:51:51
Re: Reflections sitting in the beach in Ifni
Daff,
Thank you.


Author's Reply:

Emerald on 2005-03-27 13:01:13
Re: Reflections sitting in the beach in Ifni
Enjoyed this reflective and thoughtful piece.

Emma:-)

Author's Reply:

shangri-la on 2005-03-27 18:46:56
Re: Reflections sitting in the beach in Ifni
Brilliant! I thoroughly enjoyed the relaxing feeling of solitude in this very well written piece.

Author's Reply:

Abel on 2005-03-29 17:28:40
Re: Reflections sitting in the beach in Ifni
Absolutely superb.

Ward

Author's Reply:

Ionicus on 2005-04-01 21:36:13
Re: Reflections sitting in the beach in Ifni
Beautifully written. I enjoyed reading this thoughtful poem. Top drawer, top marks.

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-04-07 17:28:19
Re: Reflections sitting on the beach in Ifni
Thanks from under the rim of my parasol

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-04-07 17:40:02
Re: Reflections sitting on the beach in Ifni
Thank you Emma.

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-04-07 17:41:25
Re: Reflections sitting on the beach in Ifni
The beach was deserted and I was the only one unhinged enough to brave the elements.

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-04-07 17:43:20
Re: Reflections sitting on the beach in Ifni
Io,
Ifni occasionally brings out the poet in me.

Author's Reply:


In a handful of poetry (posted on: 18-03-05)
yet another poem



In a handful of poetry
A word opens, rising, ripening
A bright pear stitched into a tree,
Stitched into a garden waiting

For its awakening, the hand of the child,
Its yearning arching, its reaching
Past and through the mother, look now wild;
She, the child within her branching,

Looks without their hunger facing:
Listen to the syntax of their racing
Teeth now practice skilled carpentry
On a handful of poetry.

Archived comments for In a handful of poetry
Jack_Cade on 2005-03-18 20:08:18
Re: In a handful of poetry
Some sumptuous imagery here, Pilgermann!

Author's Reply:

Kat on 2005-03-21 02:12:11
Re: In a handful of poetry
Love the title and the philosophical tone of this poem.

Cheers

Kat 🙂

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-03-21 21:36:52
Re: In a handful of poetry
Jack,
I have a feeling that the imagery has proved to be offensive given the lack of response.

Will tone down the poetry next time.

Thanks for the comments.

P


Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-03-21 21:37:44
Re: In a handful of poetry
I was playing with 'A handful of words' but that just wasn't poetical enough!

Author's Reply:

teifii on 2005-03-23 15:36:50
Re: In a handful of poetry
Beautiful imagery. I like the way it comes back to the poetry at the end after the pear and the tree. There seems to me to be something of Edith Sitwell in the imagery.
Daff

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-03-24 15:55:15
Re: In a handful of poetry
Based on Beethoven's 5th. And moving towards Stravinsky.

Author's Reply:


The Autobiography of a Bastard - Chapter 2 (posted on: 18-03-05)
Synopsis: Take one bastard, plant in him the idea that he’s a Greek hero, add the devil as his twin, garnish with a handful of women, and then simmer for two hundred pages as he tries to unravel the life which has led to him standing on a window ledge contemplating the pull of gravity. Indy is that man, and his life is literally on the brink. His parents think he’s a complete mess, his relatives refer to him as a loafer, and the women in his life call him a bastard. And Indy? He doesn’t have a clue as to what he is. To the world he’s an Indian transplanted into the UK. He’s agreed to an arranged marriage, has fallen in love with an English colleague, and managed to become embroiled with a pair of Spanish twins. Into this exotic eclectic mix pops the ghost of his grandmother offering him advice, and after her comes the devil, to remind him how to spin a yarn and hold an audience; no wonder Indy doesn’t know which side his life is buttered on. This is Indy’s story, the autobiography of a bastard, and it’s also the story of the women in his life as they all try and make sense of what it is to be alive in a time of unlove. This is another part of the novel's opening chapter, though it's really the second. The first ends the book.

This is titled "The beginning of Alli"

1

April was in full flow, its rain piercing through the dry armour of March and seeping warmth into the vein of every bud that had lain cold in the ground. And now past the ground rising come whispers of the new, new voices, unfurling….

Step back, the devil says. Stop fondling your bollocks and give us the meat. Ground yourself.

God, where do I ground this? What is my ground zero? I know it was high summer. YES, you little runt, says my bastard twin……And the living was certainly easy. As he would say, It was the height of the rutting season, but then he has never looked further than the arc of his sperm. No doubt, we'll hear from him again (he refuses to be muzzled, the rib-less freak (and he is a freak, believe you me, born from my sharp bone) – I'll have to mince his tongue one of these days) but I have a life to recapture. So, let me begin the rebuilding.

The first time I saw Alli – and I can see, now, now I've had time to squint past all the other demons, that behind her, my grandma's silhouette was folded into the shadow of a question that hinted at the state of my heart then - there was a frosted glass between us, her head turning as I walked out past the room she had invaded, temporarily, since she was redesigning the sales office with her desk at the top wall. She watched me as I strode along the corridor towards the exit. I felt her gaze upon me and I returned the look, briefly, the length just sufficient for that first impression to harden, bury itself in my memory.

I was freelancing for a promotional company in Wembley, its office in the middle of a vast, concrete estate, one of many, lining the North Circular Road as it achingly wound its slow way to the Hangar Lane roundabout. The first trip had completely defeated me, the roads a complex web, the secretary laughing as I explained on the mobile that I'd turned exactly where she'd instructed me to, the dead end in front of me not looking at all like the office she was describing.

-You should have a taken a left into the estate, then a sharp left and right, another right and you should see us straight in front of you. You did take a left past the tower block, didn't you?

-Yes, I'm sure, I almost wept into the mouthpiece; I am not in front of your building.

-It seems you're lost. Is there someone you can ask?

I could have told her I was asking someone, the useless bitch, but I kept my mouth shut; this was not the moment to release my frustrations. Through gritted teeth I told her I would find someone, and as luck would have it an old man came tottering up towards me. The poor bastard looked as if he was on his last trip, but I stopped him anyway (my grandfather used to say that those astride the grave know the way to the ends of the universe). He stood salivating for a minute before pointing vaguely and saying, These roads, they're a right mess they are, turnings everywhere, dead ends and bloody one way systems. His voice rose; Fucking developers with their fucking loopy ideas. Who needs roundabouts? Fucking shits. He was almost shouting, and I was beginning to regret having interrupted such an intellect just to ask for directions. Maybe the finer points of retarding nuclear fission would be have been a better question? But, he then continued in a calmer voice; Everyone gets lost in here, even the bloody cab drivers. What you're looking for I think is over there, just behind that building there. Try that way. His finger pointed uncertainly past the massed buildings.

He should have added 'Good luck' I thought as I tried first 'that way,' then another and then another. Finally when my head couldn't distinguish one grey façade from another I was there, and that's where it started, this story, in a grey building in a grey estate in a grey part of one of the most decrepit areas of London.

2

Ken, my business partner, and I had been working there two months, our task to install a new sales order system, when the new MD, a friend of Ken's, having swept the old company guard away, began his search for a new office manager.

Alli was a friend of Rachel, one of the saleswomen. Rachel was good at her job, her loud voice heard across the corridor in the accounts room, cajoling, beguiling, getting that most important first meeting with clients; in her first month she brought in more business than all the other sales staff combined. It was these monthly figures that filtered her into my attention. Apart from managing the computer systems I also had the task of analysing the sales returns and compiling then into numbers the MD could easily digest and her name was always at the top.

You couldn't miss Rachel. She was a big woman, a crazy scaffolding of flesh. She reminded me of an African bush woman, carrying her fat on her backside, a store of food against the lean winter. A smooth round face, hair the colour of straw, a thick throaty voice and a laugh, big and rounded like her flesh, completed the plantular package. She walked like an African too, her backside rolling crazily, threatening unilateral independence as she strode up and down the main corridor. Word around the company was that she'd lived in South Africa for a while; she certainly had that look of inbred superiority which marked the brute features of the incestuous Afrikaaner. And she also possessed an arrogance which immediately shifted her into a box, for me, marked 'Do not approach', and it wasn't hard to imagine her in the outback trekking to some remote village in the hope of finding new customers for a range of lingerie, hordes of native children opening and closing around her like fields of wheat.

3

My wife compared me to an African, not because I'm smoothly dark, or that I'm mythically endowed; there was another reason. We attended weddings, family, friends and those that we just gate-crashed. They were all Punjabi affairs, and once the religious ceremony was over, the floor cleared of the white sheets and the Guru Granth Sahib taken away, the tables laid around the perimeters of the hall the band would take the stage. They were invariably longhaired youths, invariably from Birmingham, and invariably lacked any form of rhythm, musical and otherwise, which they aptly demonstrated while they slithered about on the smoking stage in their silver leotards. But that never mattered; the bride and groom would be pulled onto the dance-floor, the rest of the party would follow, and my wife would guide me onto the dance floor, laughing at my attempts to co-ordinate my rebellious limbs.

-You dance like a broken African, she told me as she smoothly sashayed around me, the way you wave your bum. Do this, she would prompt me, take hold of my hands and together we weaved across the floor my feet tripping over themselves in a desperate effort to imitate hers.

Who was my wife? How many wives did I have? Azurra was the first. I remember her eyes and that patrician nose. Her father's nose she had inherited. But her eyes! Strange eyes they were, the eyes of night animals, of hunters. And shit, could she hunt!

At the time I started working at Wembley I'd been married for nearly four years, a space full of turmoil, constructive, I should say since I felt stronger within myself, almost complete, a state I could not have dreamt of when I met her. Let me explain; I was the younger of twins; my brother (everyone called him the Elder, though he'd emerged into the world only a few minutes before me) was the jewel in my parent's crown, a chemical engineer who'd completed his PhD, and reached the peak of his profession while I (known to all and sundry as the Yunger, despite my protests that they use my legal name) still scrabbled with words, dreamt of that one word to finally lay me open before, and connected to, Him.

-You want to be a writer? My father's voice was disbelieving. Why do you want to be a bloody writer? No money in that. What's the use of writing? You can't make money writing. No one's going to buy your fantasies. And why yours? Every fool with a pen is out there trying to write.

Was my confidence dented? No. The perfume of the words spinning within my skull rose intoxicating, birthing a syntax that could not be strangled by the dark snakes he threw at me. But there was more to come:

-Stick to something solid; a doctor, a lawyer, an accountant, or better still something in science. Just look at your twin. See how well he's doing: a PhD, paid trips all over the world, people calling him 'Sir'. He, the finger was raised to the heavens, is being pulled by a bright star. You, my shortsighted wordspit, have no focus. You need to concentrate, have a direction. Forget this flighty art crap. Science is where the money is.

I listened, never reminding him of his own efforts at journalism, the weekly columns he sent to 'The New Nation' neatly stacked in his cabinets, and which he would read, standing next to the photographs of him opening the local temple, to his friends whenever they dropped by. I listened to him never reminding him of those days when he had stood me up on the table to recite the stories, he himself had taught me, to these same friends while they drank and talked; this was not a fear on my part but rather a thought that the flower he was now trying to prune was of his own making.

Only my interest in computers and finance kept me a faded moon in the orbit of my father's ambitions – and I have to say now that all that I've done has been with his shadow hanging in the far corner of my room, a constant reminder that I was all he had wanted me to be, that I had never belonged to myself. I could have shrivelled and slept while I listened to him preach . But I did not. At the time it was my wife who gave me the focus, and the edge to deflect the barbs that daily flew my way. I listened to my father from within my skull, eyes focussed at the glittering centre of the universe that welled in her heart. I saw her bright shadow cut through the clouds my father carried with him. She was my shield, the hand that shaped my mould then and still continues to do so now. She is, was…..but back to the narrative, there will be ample time to explain.

4

Despite Rachel's efforts the sales took a dive in the first two months.

-No one's bothering, Rachel said. Have a look at the telephone bills; I'm the only one making any effort to call new people. And you can't blame them. You, Ken and your dear friend Terry are here to cut costs, you're going to lay off half these people. They know that, so why should they bother picking up the phones? They need do diddly squat when they know their time's come?

She, like us, was a freelance, the others all on fixed wages, with the odd commissions thrown in here and there. And she was right: the sales director and his assistant were sacked; they would have left anyway, the differences between their vision of the company and that of the new MD's irreconcilable. A new man was promoted from within the sales pool. But there was still something missing, a much needed cog which would have ensured the smooth running of the, now all women, sales' team.

-What's needed is an office manager, suggested Ken. There're too many women in that office. They need someone to push them, stop them chattering all the time. And it's got to be another woman. A man hasn't a chance in hell of controlling them. It's got to be one of their own.

The MD advertised for an Office Manager.

A stream of people came and went. He interviewed them all and chose no one.

5

Rachel brought in Alli.

6

I'd taken no notice of the women in the office, acknowledged their presence in the mornings with the customary 'hello', was caught up in my webbed world, my marriage, the building of the great library slowly taking shape in my dome, and of course in the more mundane, the possibilities of making money. I saw the women, I couldn't miss them, middle-aged, in their twenties, already old, faces dried channels filled with rotting powders. I saw them yet I didn't see them. They were simply there, part of moments whose significance I am only now unravelling. At the time they were simply shadows with Mona Lisa smiles co-existing with my shadow. Morning, I'd say and back came the reply: Morning.

This is not to say I didn't notice the interest in some of the eyes. I was after all only a man. Man and dick can't be separated. Stirred the muscle whenever a fuckable piece of ass went past; the eyes might not have been looking but that levered eye was certainly sniffing. There was one woman, deep purple dyed hair in her forties, very attractive but with a hunger in her eyes that pulled and repelled me with equal measure. Whenever I went into the sales office she looked up, hooked me, called me over – this new system, she said, when is it ever going to work? Will it ever be as good as the one she was used to? – and asked me to massage her shoulders, said she had heard how good I was with my hands and ooo, just there, love, just there; I felt her through her blouse, the flesh, soft with suppressed desire, trembling under my fingertips, transmitting its urgency, wave after wave of a thousand year old dry music of loneliness, the song of a dry cunt, and I told myself this passion was not for me; I stayed my distance.

I allowed the women to stay just women. I was not ready for their damage; I was still being constructed by Azurra, we were still trying to discover all of the two hundred and eleven orifices the Incas had documented. I allowed the women to remain ghosts. Our lines mingled only briefly as we walked through the corridors and having passed resumed their separateness; we touched without touching, talked without talking, were there under the same roof without being there.

Life continued: Spring began to edge the roads in green, push back the days so the Sun could warm the corpses sprouting green past the dark Winter hours; my eyes closed to everything around me I went about the business of making sure the systems were up and running, the accounting ledgers were functioning properly, the reports were producing the relevant figures and generally assuming, as usual, that I was one of the more important cogs in the organisation.

7

The MD hired Alli.


Archived comments for The Autobiography of a Bastard - Chapter 2
AnthonyEvans on 2005-03-22 20:26:30
Re: The Autobiography of a Bastard - Chapter 2
well, pilgerman, sorry this isn't getting so many reads but i note that the prose stuff is not being very much read just now. i'm coming late to this and am horrified that there are no comments to help me out, so i'm on my own. okay, here goes.

i think the basic set-up, the office, rachel, the grey buildings, etc is fine.

i think it is pretty confusing at times. i read the prologue, so i thought this was chapter one but i'm no sure (and your explanation in the intro confuses me).

at first i thought the numbers referred to chapters but now i see they are not. but i'll use those numbers as reference points.

1. as your prologue gave us a very vivid picture of the devil and our hero i don't think you need to have the devil in quite so soon here. I think you should set the scene a bit first. thus, i'd throw out a whole bunch of stuff at the beginning. i'd go from para one (april was ...) to para five (i was freelancing).

3. i'm not sure we should have this backstory so soon. i'd like to see us get to grips with a protaganist or two (indy and rachel) in the here and now. and see where the story is going, watch it unfold.

6. i'd put the azurra stuff in italics (and any other devil stuff if it pops up briefly in the body of the day-to-day stuff).

hope you can make sense of my comments and that they are of some help. all the best, anthony.



Author's Reply:

teifii on 2005-03-23 15:46:31
Re: The Autobiography of a Bastard - Chapter 2
Well my appetite is whetted but I can't do it justice. Should be working. So will await the fished book. Don't get the numbers.
Daff

Author's Reply:

Slovitt on 2005-03-23 18:53:27
Re: The Autobiography of a Bastard - Chapter 2
Pilgermann: I don't have any difficulties with your 'chapter 2'. It seems pretty straightforward to me. One observation, beyond that this is very readable, would be that the energy which founds the work, and drives the work, is sexual. But then the energy at the base of any creative work is such, regardless of the art form, the scientific discipline, etc. There is a pulsing here, and it is very near the surface. I'll keep reading. Swep

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-03-24 15:59:09
Re: The Autobiography of a Bastard - Chapter 2
Just how explicit I could be? I have tempered the sexual drive until it simmers and is just sufficient to drive the narrative. I am alarmed at your eye, swep, that sweeps my carefully constructed veils aside and lays me bare. And at the same time I am grateful to have you as a critic, and dare I sayit, as friend in arms.

Pilgermann

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-03-24 16:07:30
Re: The Autobiography of a Bastard - Chapter 2
Anthony,
The book is built on two main levels:
1- the dialogue between the devil and the bastard
2 - the story as told by the bastard and the women in his life.

This piece tried to get the sense of grandiosement that the bastard carries and to deflate him.
The numbers are sections within the chapter, since it is over 50 pages long, and it serves to provide a structure for the bastard to hang his story fragments onto, and secondly chops up the narrative in moments, impressions which this book is all about.

I've been experimenting with the opening for a while and take your comments on board. Let me post another section and then see if it makes sense to keep it as it is.

Have you read 'Black Water'? You know that the woman is going to die from page one.

Thanks for the fantastic feedback.

Pilgermann



Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-03-24 16:11:24
Re: The Autobiography of a Bastard - Chapter 2
Daff,

There are 21 sections to the first chapter. To the bastard that is a magic number, the relevance revealed later in the narrative.

Pilgermann

Author's Reply:


The Autobiography of a Bastard (posted on: 11-03-05)
The opening section of novel

From the Ground Down

 


Hey, move over. It's the devil. I'd know him anywhere. He steps out, joins me on the ledge. I don't look at him, I have my eyes closed. It's him. I've lived with him all my life. My eyes are closed; I desire darkness; the light hurts me. But I can't keep it away. The sun spits at me. Fists of light pounding me, biting into me, forcing their way into my burning head.


I hear him tapping his feet. There's a pain in my hands, small tips of hot metal. Each tap is like a hammer blow. I'm trying to will it away by concentrating on the parts of me that do not hurt. It's proving difficult.


Nice view, he remarks interrupting my agony. Probably the best view in the world. And, you know…. He pauses and I feel his eyes burning on the side of my face. He doesn't complete the sentence but in a softer voice he continues, And, it's a good day for it.


For what? The words just spill out, even though I want nothing to do with the bastard.


For splatting yourself on the concrete, he laughs.


I've heard that laugh all my life. He haunts me, the bastard, is always a step behind me, treading my shadow. And now he's followed me here, into this, this moment, what was supposed to be my space.           


You are going to jump? He spells the words slowly, each letter sinking painfully into my head. I know he's willing to help. He's whistling now, trying to – he's never been able to. I remember the walks back from school, the deserted house we used to play in, pretending that we were angels while we strung up and buggered stray cats (I remember him trying to fuck me one time as well, but I turned around and smacked him one, and the look on his pug-nosed face! Hadn't been expecting that, thought I'd accept his fucking intrusion without complaint). I remember teaching him to curl his tongue, force the breath past, and to furl his lips just so; the bastard would lean into me, our bodies triangulated, until our mouths nearly touched as he tried to mimic the perfect 'O' I had achieved. All he managed, I remember, was a sound like a fridge leaking gas. The same sound now.


He nudges me. What you waiting for? Look, his voice points downwards, they're all waiting.


I open my eyes.


I'm on the window ledge, the wrong side of the glass, of course. Six floors down the ground stares up at me with the glazed look of a TV audience. I'm cold. Thin clouds obscure the Sun. A gust of wind presses against my legs. I shiver. Looking down I can see myself broken, limbs marionetted. I reach back for a handhold, touch cold glass.


I close my eyes, a grey sky gripping my throat. There's nothing but this grey sky, a darkening sky inside of me.     


AMAR! The word shouts inside my head. I cling to the glass.


What am I doing here? I remember nothing. How the fuck did I get here?


My eyes sting. The wind is whipping me.


I remember crying, no, howling, raging at the ridged ceiling, caught in a desperate moment when the world itself seems to be opening, crumbling. I remember a vacuum. I try to close myself. My grandma appears inside my head. What does she want? Her presence spooks me; she spooks me with her look. I love her but this is not the time. She's hissing fire, fanning the embers of my heart. She has that power even though she's five thousand miles away. Talk about connections! It's the groove. We share the same lines, the same songs, the same memories. I am tied to her, Flesh descended into itself, rib from rib, the soldering of human trinity, the traces of all others diminished.


That, I know, is my malady. Part of my flesh has parted and away. Tight the black sail twangs into the wind as the rib recedes. The light dribbles down my face. I feel its dampness, the red corpuscles singeing my white root.


Jump, he whispers, give them their daily thrill.


Fuck you, I want to say, leave me be, but I keep silent.


Then there's a shout.


Despite the fear of my grandma's shadow my eyes are tightly closed. Light steals past them still, patterns spark and play on the red ice. Light and shade. God's world. Gathering boundless the eye of the first. The horizon melts under the weight of the impending event. Birds shatter against the glass, a beginning sparks, promising. Yet, to me, it feels like the ending.


WHY AM I…..I pause in my thought. The howls break inside of me, the screaming colours my memory. I'd come back to the empty flat. The rooms echo behind me, seem to have been fractured, all life withered in the vacuum.


At the top of the far pillar that stands at the crossword of the North Circular and High a salted man.


EMPTINESS IS THE OPPOSITE OF LIFE. I seem to know that. I know that the empty room behind me is a reflection of me. There's no life in that room, and soon (I can feel the cells emptying, the cancer of the loneliness spreading) there will be no life in me. Not even the sound of my voice.


EMPTINESS. There is nothing to touch, to be touched by. No memories, no songs. My eyes light on nothing. My thought sparks darkness.


AMARI! I remember the howl. I remember it chasing me onto the ledge.


I remember a voice. And I want to jump. I don't know why. I feel its hands at my back.


I don't jump. There's another voice behind the first. They're both familiar, both seem to be part of me. Warm touches, soft touches, touches filtering past the pain soothing.


The clouds are being pushed away, the sky magnifies its blue through the gaps.


            The second voice, a man's, says: 'If you want to jump, Pilgermann, jump; but remember there's a time set for our deaths. It comes of its own when the jug we carry is full. Look at yours. Is it brimming? Have you filled it over the top? Stop and ask yourself, where all your moments have gone? Life, my beautiful sonlet, is about moments, impressions, and,' he pauses, almost sighs before he continues, 'there's nothing that touches as deeply as the touch of a woman.'


            The devil begins to speak, cuts past the voice, which I know is my father's; he comes tripping into my eyes, past the flashes of lightning inside of my head. Let them have it, he shouts above the thunder, fuck 'em just as they've fucked you. And then, in the midst of this storm, I hear, no, I remember another, that first voice, a woman's voice, definitely a woman's, one who has touched me, calling me. I know there was already a distance between us; I'd been in Sainsbury's (down in Hendon), in front of the cheese counter when I heard her call, the vibration betraying my heart, tying me darkly to her. I remember now. It's the voice of her; I feel its thread growing stronger, opening up its throat. I can see her shadow – again my legs tense and I see myself on the ground – and I know that she is the spark, is the key to me standing on this window ledge looking down at my death.


            My father continues: 'Whatever you do I'll be waiting. That, and there was a slight pause, is my throw and I cannot cast another die. But you are your own man, come when you feel all have deserted you. Remember not till then.'


           The devil's laughing: The fuckers! Look at their faces. I haven't seen such an eager audience for some time. He slaps me on the shoulder and I vomit uncontrollably, the long arc of undigested mix curving out and down. I hear screams from the people down at our feet. I sway, am about to fall, but he grabs hold of my collar. Not yet, he whispers, not yet, my love. Let's give them a show they'll remember.


          I have no idea what he's talking about. But it's all I can do to keep standing.


          It'll be just like old times, he says.


          Go fuck yourself, I tell him.


          That's my boy, he says. Show a bit of spine. He spits at the crowd, and they fall back from the drops. Come, let's get the show off the ground.


            A bolt of wind drives the clouds past the sun. The light strengthens, turns off the darkness, and I am lifted…… and I hear him saying, Strip yourself, let them see all the shit, hide nothing. Fuck you, I whisper falling into the warm maw opening before me.  


Archived comments for The Autobiography of a Bastard
Zydha on 2005-03-13 13:37:26
Re: The Autobiography of a Bastard
This is my second read of this, Pilgerman, and it whets one's appetite for more.

It is so easy to be drawn by negativity or the powers of evil when one is at a low ebb (like standing on a window-sill, contemplating a jump, lol) and you have caught that desolation and mental confusion so well in this. I enjoyed reading, Zydha



Author's Reply:

AnthonyEvans on 2005-03-13 18:23:05
Re: The Autobiography of a Bastard
good start, very much liked the line: 'six floors down the ground stares up at me with the glazed look of a TV audience.' best wishes, anthony.

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-03-15 12:25:33
Re: The Autobiography of a Bastard
Zydha, I will be posting more from this novel. I'm in the process of re-editing trying to get past the first ten pages - reworked to death!

Thanks

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-03-15 12:28:14
Re: The Autobiography of a Bastard
Antony,

Thanks for the comments. The devil and the bastard have this ongoing dialogue which punctures the main story. And will be posting more excerpts these coming weeks. Hope you have the time to read.



Author's Reply:

Hazy on 2005-03-15 17:37:18
Re: The Autobiography of a Bastard
Truly loved it. It has a unique style. Kinda makes you feel ashamed and want to look away, yet I had to read it twice. Looking forward to more.

Reminded me of one I wrote with the following lines...

"Don't you every wonder..."

… what makes people jump in front of trains? How many times have you stood near a platform edge and played 'chicken' in your mind, knowing you wouldn't, couldn't ever jump.

… if you'd pull the ripcord on a parachute. Or whether you'd yell 'WAY TO GO…!' on the descent instead? Choosing to die, with a euphoric smile plastered on your face.

Sometimes I hate the way these thoughts snake into my head... it's not like I'd do it, but there's definitely another voice in there at times.

Hazy x

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-03-18 20:44:41
Re: The Autobiography of a Bastard
Hazy, thanks for the read. I have posted the second instalment - would be interested in your feedback.

P

Author's Reply:

Slovitt on 2005-03-21 03:48:39
Re: The Autobiography of a Bastard
Pilgermann: Very intense, and yet measured. A lot of nuances, a lot of voices, and the reader set up for more. Very strong writing. Swep

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-03-21 21:35:35
Re: The Autobiography of a Bastard
There are two titles for this novel:
"Improvisations on the theme of unLove", but as he says 'it's really "The Autobiography of a Bastard".

We're built of memories and the voices need to be recaptured. Have you read "Everything is Illuminated"? Similar themes, different methods.



Author's Reply:

teifii on 2005-03-23 15:32:44
Re: The Autobiography of a Bastard
As I said elsewhere, I don't have time to read prose online -- and now I'll have to go and read paert 2! You write so well and I have a soft spot for devils [too much Dostoevski]
Daff

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-03-24 15:52:01
Re: The Autobiography of a Bastard
Daff,
I should mention that I am one of twins. I have a brother and he is the bastard in the title. And I feel that I know him so well that I can call this 'The Autobiography of a Bastard'. But most of all this is about sex and love, or unlove to be precise.

All the best
P

Author's Reply:

teifii on 2005-03-27 13:53:45
Re: The Autobiography of a Bastard
That sounds like a recipe for less than happy family ties.
Is your twin reading his autobiography?
Daff

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-06-08 20:37:03
Re: The Autobiography of a Bastard
Teifi,

My twin is reading this piece. He was the first to set eyes on this. But then he feels that sisters can be allowed to get away with anything. Though in this I'm getting away with reality

Author's Reply:


Dust We Play (posted on: 11-03-05)
another poem

We bear in silence plays of grey,
Imagine dazzling dress one day.
We smile, grind dust to clay,
Wear bricks and mortar, fear decay,
The fading paste, our alabaster flaking dust.

Dust we play at green,
Run hearts on suppleness of rust,
Eyes definitions, images we trust.
Orion fades, suns turn black,
We stand on tectonic crust
Scrabbling for pearls to line our lack.


Copyright ă 1986-2005 Pilgermann BM
Archived comments for Dust We Play
tai on 2005-03-13 01:35:28
Re: Dust We Play
Pilgerman. This made my stummack churn. I love it. The last three lines especially.

All the best

Tai

Author's Reply:

Sunken on 2005-03-13 12:22:59
Re: Dust We Play
Surprised you've not had a little more comment on this young Pilgermann. A very accomplished write that quite frankly makes me sick. Please dumb down your talent so that some of us can get a look in.

Thanks.

Take a scarf, I predict chilly north easterly winds.

s
u
n
k
e
n

Author's Reply:

Zydha on 2005-03-13 13:30:18
Re: Dust We Play
Concise comment on the superficiality of preservation, Pilgerman, as Sunky says...I too, am surprised you have not recieved more comment, an accomplished piece, Zydha

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-03-15 12:30:13
Re: Dust We Play
Tai,

I was not too sure about the string rhyming. They are forced for a particular reason, but wasn't sure of the audience reaction.

As always appreciate your eye.

P

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-03-15 12:32:32
Re: Dust We Play
Scarf tightly wrapped. The door is open; this flat has communal heating and the radiators can't be turned off. So furniture all warped and me chilled to the bone.

P

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-03-15 12:35:24
Re: Dust We Play
Zydha, The pleasure is in being read, and it's doubled when there is pleasure in the reading.

Thanks

Author's Reply:

teifii on 2005-03-23 15:23:00
Re: Dust We Play
Truly lovely. It's a favourite for me.
Daff

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-03-24 15:54:13
Re: Dust We Play
An old poem that I dusted down. As I said earlier, maths fascinates me, as does tectonic modelling. Compared to the universe we are too presumptious and that is what is destroying us.

Many thanks for the fave read.

P

Author's Reply:

teifii on 2005-03-27 13:49:21
Re: Dust We Play
Strangely enough for one who can't do numbers, left school at 16 for lack of maths school cert, [could do only algebra] I too am fascinated by mathematics. Did you know that Bertrand Russel gave as a main reason for no committing suicide - the beauty of mathematics?
Daff

Author's Reply:


Fractures (posted on: 04-03-05)
In memory of my grandmother. I left her when I was 5, having believed she was my mother and my father.



The tectonic shifts that shaped my life
Were shaped by her, by her alone.

I rose not from her, but through her son,
And yet I call her mine, mother
To the heart that still weeps, calls out
In sleep to the ghost I remember,
Etched stark by the runway lights,
Beneath the still wings of my flight,
Still, hands raised to stay my departure,
Still the fracture opening, my cry
Drowning under the dark deep grind
Of the engines firing farewell.

Her ghost now comes to me often
To heal life's fractures and soften,
And her shape is the molten rock,
Shaped and shocked into the stratum,
Which keeps, sustains love's momentum.
Archived comments for Fractures
tai on 2005-03-04 12:50:28
Re: Fractures
Fractured but not broken Pilgerman. Thank the lord for Grandmothers. Yours reminded me of mine in very many ways.

Tai

Author's Reply:

Kat on 2005-03-05 09:52:03
Re: Fractures
A beautiful poem full of love and great insight. Love your extended metaphor.

Kat 🙂

Author's Reply:

Sunken on 2005-03-06 21:41:00
Re: Fractures
Hiya Pilgermann. Yet another piece that deserves far more attention. I admire anyone who can write like this. My constant struggle with the comment box means that I may just say something totally dumb. With this in mind young Pilgermann I shall do my talking with a vote (that's if you haven't disabled it.) A truly brilliant and heartfelt tribute.

s
u
n
k
e
n

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-03-07 13:31:19
Re: Fractures
Sunken, any word from you is worth ten from any other (and no slight meant there tothe others!)

My time is hurried but I want to say how much I appreciate your reading of my subs and your comments.

P

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-03-07 13:32:56
Re: Fractures
Tai,

This is also a trubute to the masses that die when the earth decides to move, but above all it is for a remarkable woman living in an angry world.

She tamed it, and....
P

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-03-07 13:33:45
Re: Fractures
Kat,
The metaphor refused to let go.

Thanks for reading.

P


Author's Reply:

teifii on 2005-03-23 15:52:24
Re: Fractures
What a lovely tribute. Is your grandmother still alive and if so has she seen it? It's a really good poem.
Daff

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-03-24 15:41:36
Re: Fractures
Daff,

She died two years ago, but she had seen a draft of this. When people are alive the tribute is enjoying and sharing their life. This is meant to soothe the ache that I carry.

Thank you for breaking your rules and coming to this piece.

Author's Reply:


Say my name: (posted on: 04-03-05)
(exploring the uncertainty principle)

Say my name:
I am the window, the face of the eye
staring at the birds whirling past
into the clouds spreading rain, hiding
the stars, the hands that burning keep me,
falling away from the stone and the trace.

Say my name:
I am the air that breathes cold music
into the met breast of the nightingale;
Listen to the song of the candle;
Lose yourself in the rose, that dark
Creched intelligence of the universe,

And say my name,
Tell me who I am:
You, who, have known me before I was ever spun.
Archived comments for Say my name:
tai on 2005-03-04 12:24:50
Re: Say my name:
Great poem pilgerman. Very familiar feelings within it.

All the best

Tai

Author's Reply:

Emerald on 2005-03-04 14:13:55
Re: Say my name:
Absolutely beautiful - I really wish I had written this poem, definitely a favourite for me

Emma:-)

Author's Reply:

Kat on 2005-03-05 09:43:57
Re: Say my name:
A lovely poem Pilgermann.

Kat 🙂

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-03-07 13:35:25
Re: Say my name:
Inspired by a broken mirror. Not so broken that it could not point me to all that I would normally miss.

Love

P

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-03-07 13:36:26
Re: Say my name:
Emma,

Appreciate your comments and thanks forthe fave rating. My time is stolen at this connection and I must fly.

Love

P

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-03-07 13:37:13
Re: Say my name:
Kat,

Thank you.

P

Author's Reply:

Slovitt on 2005-03-09 14:49:46
Re: Say my name:
Pilgermann: Even when your images don't make a connection they hold together, they establish a right to place, and beyond criticism. Which is one thing to say, but here, as in most of your other work, the details, the images you layer line after line, do work. I like your poem with its cosmic sense, its cold music, with 'Lose yourself in the rose, that dark/Creched intelligence of the universe,'/. And the last stanza is fine, with Pilgermann on the edge of the Void, and Caesar and Su Tung P'o, and the centuries racing by. Swep

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-03-10 15:21:08
Re: Say my name:
Swep,
You bring an insight that is always appreciated.

Pilgermann


Author's Reply:

teifii on 2005-03-23 15:19:08
Re: Say my name:
I wouldn't have found this if I hadn't been led by curiosity to your list. Mainly because pressure on time forces me to be selective, I read only the poetry. So would have missed a treat. I don't a hundred percent understand it [with the ll to literal left side of my brain] but I love the images and the sound.
Daff

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-03-24 15:44:59
Re: Say my name:
Daff,

This is a song to the string that keeps us whole. I am a mathematician by instinct and the new theories fascinate me; chaos and string especially. But the question remains unanswered.

Author's Reply:


We (posted on: 14-01-05)
Coming out of the tube on eday last summer and there was this man, a tramp from his clothes and his look, and obviously drunk, having a shit on the pavement in broad daylight! I wondered where he had come from and why this moment, and mostly I wondered about my reaction, and those of the people who were passing by, their faces twisted with disgust, anger, and also fear. This poem came out of that experience and explores the connection between that man and us..

Came around the corner: under the bridge from Kilburn tube Saw hunched, a dark mass huddled on the paving stones, People moving past, To the side stepping     Faces away turning. Could not see what it was. Coming closer – had to take the bus from by the pizza hut – The shape sharpened, took on a form:   A man. Face, hidden beneath the shocking hair, falling forward Onto the chest Squatting, trousers settled around the ankles A thin dribble of shit still attached Reaching from the floor up a strange architecture to his arse.   Marvelling at the pure construct, the stressed strands, Stepped past, breathing hardly, whispering curses. In the shelter, hidden among the faces look back: Still there,   Above him pigeons, dancers stepping through the spikes, Cooing, moving to stand crowned above his head.   Faintly the sound of sirens. He's caught, the moment etched, sharpened static starkness. Slowly lifts the head, hair slides back, Eyes open, catch: captured in that I we.
Archived comments for We
Slovitt on 2005-01-15 18:40:01
Re: We
Pilgermann: Your poem seems to bring up the point that no matter how well written something is, how true to subject, and even with the lyrical pop of your realized moment at the end, its reception is colored by the ugliness of the scene depicted. One doesn't always get to choose what comes into one's field of vision, but one does get to choose to what extent it is entertained, how long and with what focus. It is not requisite that one give full attention to every ugliness in the name of 'now' and 'real reality' and 'facing up'. It is a subjective world, and one assigns significances, gets to choose what has meaning and what is allowed to slide to the side. This guy defecating in public may have occasioned a poem, but I think it suggests that art for public consumption still has to have something in it for the reader. You are an excellent poet and I take this as an experiment as you shine your light into different corners, test the limits of what is poetic material--and isn't everything potentially the stuff of which poems can be made--well, we'll all have to decide. A good piece of writing. Swep









in it for the public.

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-01-19 18:15:30
Re: We
Swep, I am honoured to have someone of your poetic eye and sensibility read my posts. For me life is art, there are no taboo subjects and, yes, while I admit to experimenting, this poem ties me to that man as ineluctably as it does to any golden sunset and moment of pure love.
You are teaching me objectivity and I value your comments the more.

Pilgermann

Author's Reply:

teifii on 2005-03-27 14:16:51
Re: We
Isn't the whole point of the poem our tendency to shy away -- and that maybe the poet shouldn't?
I reckon it's abrave atempt at a difficult subject.
Daff

Author's Reply:


Baptist Rising (posted on: 10-01-05)
Man in a bedsit

           

Initially the cough had irritated him. It was just a cough, without any body or personality attached to it. Even now, more than a week since he'd moved into the room, he couldn't imagine a person the other side of the wall. The cough was a cough.


He lived alone in the attic, a small, low room. Entering there was a single bed, without a headboard, against the wall facing the door. Above the bed's foot the ceiling began to slope towards the outer wall, which was no more than three feet high, and punctured slightly to the left of centre by a window, one portion of which opened outward into a building yard, the other held shut by the overflow pipe from the open iron water-tank, which served the whole house, in the right corner. Behind the door was a wardrobe, one of the three drawers missing and replaced with a sheet of cardboard. Next to the bed a table and an attendant chair. The walls were bare, painted cream, already faded and flaking, further disfigured by damp stains and rotting plaster.


The cough would burst through the wall, breaking his concentration as he tried to study and echo around the room; it magnified the noise of the emptying tank into a thunderous fall of water, it exaggerated the slow sigh of the closing valve into a high whine, it accentuated the constant and frustrating drip of the leaking joints. He followed the sound from one bare wall to the other, the cream paint, already faded and flaking, further disfigured by damp stains and rotting plaster, and wondered how he could be expected to work in such dereliction? Rome sacked by the Huns, he thought, must have looked like this, the shattered landscape of his concentration.


He would wait for the cough to exhaust itself before settling down to his work again. Patiently he endured the dry, nauseating explosion. Waited trying not to scream.


Silence.


He waits. The books are inviting, waiting; but he finds them momentarily unattractive, the expectancy of the cough rising again dulling their brilliance.


Work, he tells himself; he closes his eyes, presses his temples. The two lamplights on either end of the table firmly pin the books, direct his eyes to the page. He takes a deep breath, he decorates the page, looks at the formulae, the worked examples and wings them, constructs tesseracts and watches the numbers expand hypothetically, disappearing into and out of themselves.


He's beginning to enjoy himself, his forehead glows as it does when he's totally engrossed. The room is nowhere. There is only he and the numbers. He is a number, a function a partial differential, a dilation, an expansion. He is…..DISTURBED by the damned cough: it's been waiting for him, waiting for the right moment.


The room rearranges itself once more, depressing his mathematical conjuring, is gathered and fixed firmly in his head by the cough.


Frustrated he throws himself onto the bed and lies there with a pillow over his head. The cough machine-guns the fragile shield and pecks noisily at his ears.


Then in his second week while staring at the ceiling, creating, discovering numeric relationships among the stains and the damp marks he thought he heard a voice, low barely distinguishable, but definitely a woman's voice.


He cannot be sure. The coughing had been particularly prolonged, almost exaggerated.


Could have been the traffic, though. It's a busy road. And there is the builder's yard beyond the garden. The window is open. Could have been one of the workers.


It could have been but he knows, an instinct, that it was a woman and that she was in the next room.


He listens, shuts out the commotion of the road, the yard and listens. There's only the sound of him listening, the sound of his ears straining. Maybe he'd been mistaken. He turns…


There. He's caught the voice. What had she said? She, he tells himself knowingly, congratulating himself.


The words had been faint, obscured by the wall. He was certain she'd said, O God.


Such a pathetic sentence!


When he attends his lectures the next day he inspects the women closely. He knows them. They know him. They're just women. He listens to their speech, compares the inflection of their voices with the echo of his head.


Could one of them be the woman next door? No, they're just women. He watches the movements of their mouths, the rounding and stretching of the lips, the slight tremor vibrating their throats.


O God, he imagines them saying. How? He tries it out himself. The mouth puckers, the cheeks tense then both relax.


When he said it it sounded petulant, annoyed. Is that how the woman had said it? Had she taken the name of the Lord in vain, in frustration at her condition?


Somehow he could not see her blaming God for the cough. And he could not separate the woman from the cough. One belonged to the other. One was the other. She was The Cough. He would not, could not accept a separation.


O God. He thought it'd been said in a tone of acceptance, not resignation. It had sounded pathetic, but all acceptance, he thought, a bowing to something greater, something outside of oneself, seemed pathetic, a relinquishing of freedom, a beginning of serfdom. But he was sure that she had accepted her serfdom to God, had realised she was not her own woman, that she belonged utterly to a greater she had grown, come fully into her kingdom, been dressed by, accepted into the hand of her God. Thus she had become a woman. Thus, the proof was undeniable, she was The Woman.


She grew on his every breath, with his every breath. He dressed her with his thoughts, built her into his thoughts. She was his woman.


When he entered the room throwing his briefcase into the chair, hanging his coat onto the door handle he sat, tie loosened, chin resting on his palm, his elbows digging into the flesh of his thighs, listening for the cough, unaware of the day's full throated cry spilling through the open window.


Such a tender cough, he thought when the noise pushed the wall aside; such a beautiful cough.


The cough is a flower, a blood red camellia, a hothouse flower, fragile, boldly coloured, opening its buds so he could see its dark heart, the woman and the cough one, softened by the light of the thin petals.


The cough was his flower, the flower was his woman.


Every day he heard the cough talking to him, its staccato a code meant only for him.


The cough marries him to the woman. It tells him she needs him, that she is not well, and she needs him to look after her. The Cough tells him he is her man.


Whereas before he had often felt like opening the window and bellowing, can't you take that cough to a doctor? Get it some medicine, give me some peace, now he sees himself going to the chemist's, there's one on Darnley road, and asking for cough medication.


He sees himself there, he's there; the racks of deodorants, shampoos, baby food are ranged behind; he is at the counter, the till on the left, a display of vitamins on the right.


What kind of cough? The assistant asks – it's a man, dressed in a grey suit, a white shirt and a startling, pale green tie.


The colour makes him nauseous.


- Dry? Wet? Chesty? Throaty? Choking? The assistant gives him a choice.


- Dry. Yes, it's dry.


- The man is leaning forward, a benign look on his face.


- Is it for you?


The assistant, most likely the manager, he thinks, is solicitous, caring, exactly the qualities one would expect, but can't he recognise a healthy body?


- No, it's for my wife.


Wife sounds better. Hasn't got the disparaging overtones of girlfriend - ''He is doing this for his wife, how kind, how loving''; the relationship assumed respectability, integrity.


- I am sure this will suit your wife very well.


What is it? He looks at the bottle. The usual brown concoction.


- Three times daily until the symptoms disappear.


He buys the bottle, after having asked the man to pour the medicine away. The price is still the same. He doesn't want to poison her, he'll try the placebo effect, he is thinking. Far better to be cured by faith then to be fed by chemicals.


Render unto God ….he thinks, he doesn't want to taint her flesh, turn her into junkie.


He, himself, has never been to a doctor; the only tablet he's taken is an aspirin and that only when his headaches have defied his yogic postures, his colds his positive thinking.


Back in his room he filled the bottle with a sugar solution. It stands on the table. He's confident it will work. He tells The Cough he will soon have her cured.


How can he take it to her? He wants no one to know about the relationship.


Should he knock on the door of the next house?


- Yes? – Who will answer, as far as he knows the woman never leaves her room. Probably one of the young girls, unemployed he thinks, or students, but not the woman.


- Yes? She will ask.


 - I've brought some medicine, he'll say.


What will she do? Stare at him unsure, hesitant. What's he playing at? she's thinking. He doesn't look like a rapist but what does one look like? He's certainly not a salesman.


- Medicine? she'll ask. Perhaps she thinks he's a doctor?


- For the woman with the cough, he hears himself saying.


The girl's eyes narrow.


The one who lives in the attic, the backroom, he hurries on. He can see the look in her eyes; he is a weirdo. Should she shut the door? she's thinking. He could block it with his foot. What if she calls for help? Behind her he can see the others watching TV; he can hear Charles Bronson shooting blanks in his garden. Would they hear her?


No, he shakes his head, dismisses the idea, that wouldn't do. He doesn't want to be classified as a weirdo, a potential rapist. And whoever opened the door would ask what the woman was to him. He'd have to explain. Couldn't just say: '' the cough is irritating me.'' ''Doesn't the traffic annoy you? It is a main road. What about the builder's yard? I'm surprised you can hear the cough. Piss off.''


The best thing he decides is to leave the bottle on the doorstep, wrapped, labelled, with a message for the woman.


He won't sign it. He doesn't want to see her.


On a rainy September night, when the wind was at its fiercest, huddled in his overcoat he left the bottle on the doorstep of the neighbouring house.


The cough is now The Woman. He knows she is there because of the cough.


He worked at his theories under her eyes, worked till tired he would rise, stretch himself on the bed and lying close to the wall draw The Woman, a dark presence in the next room, her warmth, her fluid movement a flowing, an enveloping, that took him into her.


A friend asked him about the cough. Does he still turn up his radio? Does he still plug his ears?


He remembers with distaste his actions, his thoughts.


Had he really told them the only way he could work was to obliterate the cough beneath the thunderous music, he who needed absolute silence to study?


Surely the wool plugs would have irritated his flesh? He tries it. His ear itches, the plug magnifies the unease, his frustration charted by the loud chatter of his heart.


He had done this to obscure the cough? He remembers more.


The cough had followed him out of the room. When he went with friends to the pub it had remained an echo in his skull. He couldn't hear the barmaid leaning over the counter saying; can I help you love?


Why was she staring at him? He checked his trousers.


His friends' conversation was interrupted; overwhelmed by bouts of such extreme coughing he glanced warily over his shoulders at the other drinkers.


He comforts himself; the greatest love is always born of antagonism. He tells The Woman he never hated her, genuine hate never conceived love.


He passes from the analysis of vectors into the illogical curves of space functions.


An actress moves into the room below, next to the kitchen. She calls herself an actress, she hasn't started in any productions, not yet, and she'll be auditioning soon.


The landlord tells him, winking, that she wants to know his name, had been asking what the man in the attic did.


- Why didn't she ask me? The student does not need an answer, he knows.


He noticed the woman. One day on the stairs. In her twenties, tall dark haired, extremely pale. She's pretty. Could be beautiful.


- You are never in?


That's not true. Recently he hasn't left his room except to attend lectures. The actress has knocked at his door, he's heard her, her soft call, Are you in? heard her descend, her door slide nosily shut, scraping over the carpet.


There is no time for any other women. There is The Woman. There's already a claim on his heart.


One evening she meets him on the stairs just as he returned from college.


- I thought you were a mirage, she laughs.


The sound surprises him by its fullness, its throaty warmth.


- You must be extremely busy.


She is pretty. Very.


He stands a step lower looking up at her, taking her form into him. She returns his open stare unembarrassed. She smiles, amused by his frank gaze.


- You can't be a ghost, she says.


Why, he thinks, would you have run away?


- A ghost wouldn't stop on a stairway to look at a woman like that. Then she adds after a slight pause, a pensive purse on her lips; at least I think not.


When she speaks her body sways, emphasising her words, as if she is the words, her body is doing the talking, moving the air into sounds.


- You must be the actress?


- And you must be the mathematician.


- Now we both know what the other is.


She laughed with him, a sudden mingling, whose completeness astonished him.


Later that night she knocked at his door.


- I am in bed, he told her.


- Oh, she sounded disappointed. He wondered what she had wanted. It must have been important. It was late.


- He puts on a tracksuit and went to her room.


- Was it important?


She was pleased he could see. Her face burnt him.


- I just wanted to ask whether you had eaten. I was hungry, she went on, but didn't want to go to the shop by myself.


- Let me get a coat, he hears himself saying. He ascended quickly, came down


again wearing a jacket.


When she touches him, takes his arm he is disturbed, uneasy. He walks by her side in a turmoil.


She bought curried chips for both of them. They return, he slightly angry.


Sitting at the table in the kitchen he said, I phoned Christiene today. I knew there was something wrong. I could sense it in her voice. He wants to test her, watches the actress's face.


- Christiene? She continued to fork chips into her mouth.


- My girlfriend. I phoned her again. She 'd had her wisdom teeth out. She didn't want me to know.


- Once, the actress said spearing another chip, in Portsmouth, I shared a house with two women and a man. I noticed that my underwear was missing from the laundry basket, a pair of knickers, a bra, never much, but always something.


She is getting back at me, he thought. He was surprised. They hardly knew each other. Why had he wanted to test her?  


- One of the women told me it was the men. She'd found him wearing one of her soiled tights. My boyfriend…


Ah, he thought, now you are lying. No woman lived in a place like this unless she is alone. He left the actress saying he had early morning lectures.


The Woman next room was not alone. She had him. He followed her movements through the wall, watched her move from the rose covered bed to the window, stand there her hands trailing the ledge, her tongue peeking onto her lips, he watched her sitting in front of the mirror, brushing her hair, turning to silk the blackness of her beneath her slow, languid hands, he watched her amazed fingers, tremulous, hesitant travel the slope of her shoulder, down the precipitous curve of her belly, the flesh turned to gold, the gold a quintessence of flesh haunting him. He never fully saw her face, it was always in shadow.


The actress bought a dog, a pup of a week or less. She showed it to him, took him into her room. Her infectious laugher melted him. He watched delighted as she strove to bring the pup to heel.


- You have to watch him closely; she said over her shoulder as she bent to pick up the dog and placed him in a plastic tray.


- He's already pooped on the carpet once. I don't know what the landlord will say.


Her voice recruited him into her conspiracy. The landlord did not allow animals.


She excited him, her evanescence, her completeness, the way she gave herself wholly in her speech, her movements. He envied the pup cradled in her, lifted to be kissed.


- He's still got worms, she said. They usually do when you buy them. They're kept in a cage with other dogs, and they are rarely cleaned. she rubbed her nose against the dog's.  Do you miss your friends, eh?


The dog's tongue peered out and licked.


- He's still shy; she puts the dog on the floor.


He'd seen newborn calves struggling like that, disoriented, weak so soon after birth, their legs trembling as they gained their feet.


The actress was always in motion, she curled her legs beneath her when sitting on the couch, like a leaf, undulating, then springing, lithe, supple from fire place to table, to the wardrobe her fingers touching everything, getting to know the lines of her room.


She was always moving, the energy phosphorescent in her skin, her black eyes giving them a depth, a strength which ran her length, her long skirt swirling like those of Spanish dancers, a sensuous, challenging motion, confident yet at the same time curiously unaffected, extremely natural.


When she sat next to him on her bed he felt her heat, her perfume. She placed the pup on her thighs. He left empty. He could not bear to stay. Left. Heard her say, come down and have some tea later.


His room was desolate. The sounds from The Woman's room squeezed him. There was another voice, a man's. He heard her say; I am not like that.


The words induced in him a jealousy, a rage.


- I didn't bring you here for that. And she was answered by a coarse laugh, a shout of derision; for a cup of tea was it?


He listened shrinking as her shouts diminished, were overcome. He tried to break through the wall. When his hands hit the plaster he knew the woman was lost. But still he raged, blind he struck out. He thought he was in a cage. He was. It was a prison, his hands struck iron, bled on thick bars. He flung himself at the door, clawed at wall after wall, smashed his head against the floor. Finally exhausted he fell on stone.


- Look at the Baptist. There's a jeer,


- So he thinks he is her lover, does he? Someone spits on him, washing his ridiculous pretences with contempt.


- Thinks he owns her, the dog!


Impotent he lies in the dark, the sound of the music, flesh on flesh, crushing him to the sheets.


Then she was dancing before him, before his head laid on a platter. He could not see her face, her flesh. She was covered in veils.


He was on a table in the centre of the hall, a high, long, elaborately arched hall. Sitting in the shade of the arches the guests, watching, expecting.


The music flared, tossed its length around her body. She followed it, rising, falling, twisting with the notes a golden tattoo across her flesh.


She embraced the tune, watched it beat a caress across her veiled arms, wrap her with its sinuous, supple strength.


A veil fell. She was mocking him, mocking his pretensions.


- Look at me, she said. I will show you my face.


In the room next door the bed creaked.


Another veil fluttered down to shake his dynasty of words.


- No, he cried, no.


- Then know me!


He did not want to know her. He wanted her to remain obscured by the wall. She was the cough, defined only by the cough. She was The Woman. He had created the picture of her. He had created her pure. And now she was opening herself to the other, that bastard in her room.


He closed his eyes to shut out the sight of her emerging limbs, the silhouette of her limbs through the remaining veils.


The audience was ecstatic, wrapt by her performance. They were mostly men, leering, lustful. The women envied her, her power, her grace.


She was revealing herself, betraying his love; he could see only her, only the gold of her emerging flesh, the dance of her fingers, the amazing journey of flesh on flesh. He saw only her lines, her form take shape, evanescent, growing, becoming firmer.


- Love, he begins…


- Love, she says, is not a mathematical function; I am not an abstract number.


He looks at the other men, into their eyes, sees a woman, countless women, each different, each a woman. Each the woman.


- They do not know me, she forestalls his question. Just as you do not know me.


- You are The Woman.


- You will always be a fool, she laughs twisting out of his reach.


- O God, he says, keep her one.


Such a pathetic utterance!


She takes up his head and holds it before, her arms bent, to have it looking up into her face.


- Why do you deny me? Why do you limit me?


Limit her? He? By keeping her hidden, unknown he was giving her endless possibility; she was without limit, she was the number of infinity; he was giving her the universe.


She was changing. She was hard. Her face square.


- I am a man, she said. Look at me in my eyes.


He saw himself, his cheeks high, suddenly softened, his hair lengthened, his lips rounded, his chin smoothed.


- Become a woman, she told him and he saw that she was a man.


- Ah, my Baptist, my beautiful wife, my wonderful wife.


He grasped the bars of his prison, shouted to drown the dream.


- I believe in one, he cried.


- God's names are countless. Do you believe in only one name, discount the others as worthless, false?


The harsh rhythm from the room next door rose, stripped him.


- It will be so good to change you.


She wielded a bright magic, lifted his head onto hers and she was… What was she? Where was he?


He was looking out of her, out at the hall, at the guests and in their eyes there was no woman as before but reflections of themselves, each of them in feminine clothes, dancing, bending into and out of themselves.


She was before him.


- Let me take you, she said, let me take you like a girl.


The wall was melting. It dissolved and he saw the man labouring over the woman. She was not his. She turned toward him and she was not his.


Where was his woman? His man ran her fingers cooling his uncertainty, his adumbrancy, giving him a new form, an ever-changing form. His body was a weather beneath her hands. She took him her body muscular, heavy and he lay under her open, a flesh that had been opened, suddenly bloomed, softened become like that of a woman.


Afterwards they lay still, exhausted, their knees drawn up, their bodies fitting and he looking at the back of her head did not know whether he was looking at her or she at him.


- I created the fall, s/he said, I included you in it. Now you must fall yourself, create a fall that will gather you, bind you again yourself.


S/he did as s/he must, a woman in the dark suddenly naked, authentic flesh caught in the glow of her/his self, a starling burst as dazzling as the first.


- What must I do s/he asked, to gain your love?


- Kill the woman, s/he said, and accept the woman.


He rose, opening the door passed beyond, descending.


As he knocked on the actress's door he heard in the room above the echo: The woman is dead. Long live The Woman.


 


Word Count: 4255


 


Archived comments for Baptist Rising
sirat on 2005-01-10 15:35:07
Re: Baptist Rising
I see why you categorise this as "experimental". I admit that I didn't understand it. The beginning was conventional enough, and sustained my interest fairly well even without a strong hook in the opening passages. I found myself irritated by small technical points though, such as the continual drifting between the present and the past tense, sometimes within a single sentence, as in: " He puts on a tracksuit and went to her room". There were also times when I thought you as writer weren't really paying attention to what you were saying. The actress says for example: "I shared a house with two women and a man." and then moments later, referring to a theft: "One of the women told me it was the men." Then there were plain technical absurdities: "The actress bought a dog, a pup of a week or less". You can't even begin to wean a puppy until it's four or five weeks old. Puppies aren't normally sold until they are about two to three months old.
But I forgot about the technicalities when I got to the later part of the story (and it mercifully settled into the past tense). This extended fantasy sequence involving Salome's dance went right over my head. The mathematician, I assumed, was losing it, falling into dementia. It reminded me of the early David Lynch film "Eraserhead". Menacing and surreal.

My feeling was that the two parts of the story didn't really sit well together. The fantasy part was the more interesting, but I still had that nagging suspicion that the writer didn't quite know what he was trying to do with the material. I thought it was atmospheric and reasonably involving but finally, for me, a bit vacuuous.



Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-01-11 17:24:40
Re: Baptist Rising
Sirat, Thanks for talking the time to read and comment. If this site had a classification for Dream Writing I would have placed it there.

I wanted to see if there was any coherence between the various sequences, and it is obvious, as I read it again that there is some tightening and editing to be done.

Thank you for pointing out the bit about the puppy. I will not believe anything that any actress says to me again!

Have you read Conan Doyle? He could never rememeber names, places and his stories have Dr Watson being shot in the shoulder and then later in the leg! What do we do with these scribblers, eh?


Author's Reply:

thehaven on 2005-01-12 00:25:49
Re: Baptist Rising
I found this fascinating ..intriguing.The teses did confuse me as well but .for me ,there was a Poe like horror about the descent into "madness".

Mike

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-01-12 16:43:44
Re: Baptist Rising
Mike, I was wondering how people would read this. It is a descent into madness, but also into that inferno of total giving, surrendering to love.

Still a bit of work to be done on this piece, and appreciate your feedback.

Author's Reply:

tai on 2005-01-13 20:26:24
Re: Baptist Rising
Hi Pilgermann, The first thing I want to say is WoW! I got the picture of obsessional descent and a communion of the halves in making the whole. S/he worked well for me.

As in the beginning, she becomes he, and therefore a natural progression of emergence, when love binds the two halves of s/he souls.

Very deep indeed.

Happy New Year to you and yours.

Tai

Author's Reply:


Your green stretches, turns to blue (posted on: 07-01-05)
A love poem

(I) I look at you, The face of the one I love. I see you smile, The smile of one without reflection, All within the blue your green, Their numbers perfecting your One. (II) I look upon you, The form of the One I love. I see you smile: Your green stretches, turns to blue; Uncut, as the first, is, true. Haq! You are the One, the sum. (III) I look upon You, My words daring not to touch, to lean too close: Dare I love you? Enraptured I by the I within you I dare: Shines within you the I above I, Lives within you that I I love, And my eyes dare to unpeel the self, That which my lips would keep puttied, Fleshed in the flesh bound to the flesh, And drenched with you, my love I enter, My egg, my soul bound to your sum.
Archived comments for Your green stretches, turns to blue
tai on 2005-01-07 04:35:49
Re: Your green stretches, turns to blue
Hello Pilgermann. A love poem of epic proportions. I had to read it twice to untangle the intricate and yet delicate words, in order to understand, and as I came to the last verse for the second time, it just opened its arms to me. A wonderful embrace. Nothing to crit at all.

Excellent work

All the best writers are sensitive souls

Tai

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-01-07 07:20:52
Re: Your green stretches, turns to blue
Tai,

I fear I'm becoming too mystical. My search for love is like trying to quench a thirst. I have travelled far and finally I see the shade I have been looking for. Does that make sense? If not you'd tell me.

Pilgermann

Author's Reply:

Leila on 2005-01-07 12:12:55
Re: Your green stretches, turns to blue
A beautiful weaving of words and images...love physical and spiritual...fine work...L

Author's Reply:

chrissy on 2005-01-07 12:14:58
Re: Your green stretches, turns to blue
A sumptuous read. Like licking honey off a spoon, absolutely pleasurable.
Loved it.
chrissy

Author's Reply:

richardwatt on 2005-01-07 15:00:22
Re: Your green stretches, turns to blue
Pilgermann,
I guessed that this was a love poem to the unknown. Real people are always far more dangerous: this is where they acquire greater desirability.

Two difficulties: 'Haq!' from verse two (unsure of this); 'that I I love' in three; also in verse three there should maybe be continued the continuity of 'I look upon you' which would give the whole thing a bit more structure.

Next you must rewrite the poem to the non-mystickal One!

rickx

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-01-07 15:51:04
Re: Your green stretches, turns to blue
Leila, you have read this right. This is for her and for what she carries.

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-01-07 15:52:18
Re: Your green stretches, turns to blue
Or like licking chocolate from her fingers. This is for the love of my life, the most wonderful partner I would wish for.

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-01-07 15:57:31
Re: Your green stretches, turns to blue
'Haq' is Persian for 'The Reality' and in Arabic it means 'The Truth'.

This poem is directed at someone very physical - the mystical bit is there as I am astonished by the unatttached nature of her love for me.

On the continuity: I agree, it would flow better, and I will try to rewrite it with that in mind.

Thanks for the critique.

P

Author's Reply:

Slovitt on 2005-01-07 17:17:34
Re: Your green stretches, turns to blue
Pilgermann: This is an especially interesting piece,
a verbal structure with few concrete details. There is at the same time a sense of the poem being alive, being a living thing to house the speaking, proffering intelligence that is you the poet, like one of those disembodied essences from sci-fi, essence seeking form, a place and way to interact. There shines a strength of feeling here, one that I hope is comfortable in the physical world. Swep

Author's Reply:

Penprince on 2005-01-08 00:37:37
Re: Your green stretches, turns to blue
Pilgermann,

I have started reading you after your post AMAR...and found you a very capable poet...I like your imagery and symbolism. This poem is a transcendental work of great standard.

D

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-01-08 04:50:02
Re: Your green stretches, turns to blue
Rick,

Just for you: What do think of the changes?



Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-01-08 04:51:42
Re: Your green stretches, turns to blue
Swep,

It is beginning to feel comfortable, in fact this morning it even opened the door to the postman!

Glad you could look into this piece.

Pilgermann

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-01-08 04:53:12
Re: Your green stretches, turns to blue
Debs,

It's an honour to have you read my poor pieces. I admire your mastery of words and your honesty in critiquing.

Thanks.

Pilgermann

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2005-01-08 04:54:01
Re: Your green stretches, turns to blue
And thanks for the rating.

Author's Reply:

Nicoletta on 2005-01-08 13:18:30
Re: Your green stretches, turns to blue
A very visual poem, vivid, saturated with spiritual but I don't think 'platonic' love, the III part is the mystical part in my opinion and the best part as well. Well done Pilgermann.

Author's Reply: