Output list
micawber's (nomenklatura on UKA) UKArchive
504 Archived submissions found.
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Tell Me A Story (posted on: 20-11-15) "God-derel" Tell me a story, tell me a tale, tell me the one about a man inside a whale. Tell me a story, tell me again, tell me the one about a god who loves men. Tell me a story, tell me a yarn, tell me the one about ''Religion doesn't harm''. Tell me a story, Tell me a myth, tell me the one about a god to deal with. Tell me a story, tell me a joke, tell me the one about the God you liars wrote. Tell me a story, tell me a lie, tell me the one about a god up in the sky. Archived comments for Tell Me A Story franciman on 20-11-2015 Tell Me A Story Bitter, biting and blasphemous. Oh how we desperate humans have been cozened and convinced. I so admire this Ewan. cheers, Jim Author's Reply: Mikeverdi on 20-11-2015 Tell Me A Story So good, I can only echo Jim words, great writing. Mike Author's Reply: gwirionedd on 21-11-2015 Tell Me A Story Ah, but apparently it's only Christianity that harms, only Christianity that is bigoted, stupid, illogical, hysterical and dangerous. A certain other religion is totally fine, it's a religion of peace, and anyone who says otherwise is a racist, according to the """left wing""" nowadays. Author's Reply: Ah no, Ah Chi, they are all bollocks. About another "holy" book Tks for reading... |
| Walking (posted on: 20-11-15) Walk on by, if it's not your thing... Walking, talking, keeping time, failing the rhythm, losing the rhyme. Kissing, missing, wasting words, wishing for sunshine, hearing the birds. Waiting, hating, counting ways, pining for loving, yearning for days. Drinking, thinking, trying hard, crying, dying, playing the card. Walking, talking, feeling fine, laughing for pleasure, because you're mine. Archived comments for Walking Mikeverdi on 20-11-2015 Walking I'm pleased to say I know these feelings, no need for explanation with this one Ewan 😊 Mike Author's Reply: franciman on 20-11-2015 Walking Can you hear the Jive talking? Really picturesque. Love the rhythm too. Really nice piece. cheers, Jim Author's Reply: pommer on 20-11-2015 Walking Enjoyed reading this lovely well rhymed and rhythmic peice. Well done Ewan, Peter. Author's Reply: |
| Some Advice from Johnny Stompanato (posted on: 13-11-15) what it is... Never keep a switchblade in your pocket, always have a roscoe in your hand, better keep a billfold in your jacket, roll with sucker punches when they land. Do not take a taxi south of Main Street, never tip the bell-boy in the Grand, drink the canuck bourbon in the ''Backbeat'', drink it 'til you don't know how to stand. Listen to the wise-guys on the corner, nothing goes the way you ever planned, drop a dime and you won't get no quarter, a stoolie ain't no paisan, understand? Archived comments for Some Advice from Johnny Stompanato gwirionedd on 13-11-2015 Some Advice from Johnny Stompanato No idea who or what you're talking about, but I like the rhythms and rhymes. Also had to smile at "drink it 'til you don't know how to stand"... Author's Reply: Tanks fuh readin', Goombah. Ionicus on 14-11-2015 Some Advice from Johnny Stompanato Think Mafia, Ah Chi. A good advice from one of his exponents. Author's Reply: Mafia! Dey ain't no Mafia, doncha know Hoover made all dat up? We jes' look aftuh da fam'ly! Unnerstan'? Ta for reading! |
| Hermetic (posted on: 13-11-15) The other Mr D... Listen between. You'll hear what is unsaid. Whispers will follow, and should remain unheard. Secrets abound, they'll change, become rumours. Slander will gather and should repeat gossip. Tenets emerge, we'll know they are truthful. Listen... Stand where the water drips from the eaves, close to the window hear books' turned leaves. The ancient's finger traces the lines, whispering lips chant Hebrew rhymes. Wizard, warlock, the virgin's spy, listen, boy, listen, catch me a lie. The good Doctor's eye is fixed on the head of a pin, counting, pondering the mystery within. The serpents entwine the wingéd stake, the ouroboros circle will never break. Serpent, adder, Cleopatra's asp, the snake's significance beyond his grasp. Look below you will see what is above. Answers will follow and should become proven. Secrets revealed, will change, become knowledge. Belief will harden, and must become dogma. Schisms erupt, we'll know them for heresy. Look... Peer through the incense into the gloom, are there others, invisible, in the room? A scuttling movement across the floor, the alchemist glances toward the door. Lizard, dragon or sirenidae? Salamander evades the alchemist's eye. First day as last is pure nonsense, tail to the mouth as coincidence. The old man sketches a glyphic figure the sight of his monad gives him vigour. A letter, a missive from a friend? A riddle, a puzzle to comprehend. Archived comments for Hermetic stormwolf on 14-11-2015 Hermetic Very mysterious and abit beyond me. I think I get it but maybe not. So many ancient mysteries are now out in the open. Things occult and from closed societies now openly discussed. So many lies spouted and disinformation abounds. I sometimes look back fondly on how simple my life was when I just believed all I had been told. Alison x Author's Reply: John Dee was an alchemist and astronomer - in fact he was Elizabeth I's court astronomer - he believed some very strange things, may have been a Rosicrucian and many other things. Although I hold no brief for his beliefs, he was an interesting figure none the less. Ta for reading. Mikeverdi on 15-11-2015 Hermetic It's not unusual for me to spend time reading between your lines Ewan, always rewarding. I will return to this one. I love the catch of words, the mystery woven. As always well written, won't pretend I've got it yet, doesn't stop my enjoyment. Mike Author's Reply: Well, Mike I'll admit that there are some people's work on here and other sites that I'll never get, but that doesn't stop me reading. A turn of phrase or an image is often enough to make any poem worthwhile. Hope you're feeling well Ewan |
| Slow Light (posted on: 06-11-15) Not Dylan! Pay attention! Haha. Science vs Religion... Which would you choose? Quantum magic, photon miracles for telluric buffoons hiding eyes when confronted with mysteries more fearsome than any bat and broomstick witch. What kind of brake could slow light? If the speed of light is constant, how is intertangling possible? Mumbo jumbo, cheapjack conjuring for imbecile students' widened eyes when ''watching'' experiments more awesome than any cat and poisoned box. What kind of thing is slow light? If the speed of thought is instant is misunderstanding possible? Slowing substance, rigid particles for scattergun theories, guileful lies from sick-brained theocrats more fearsome than any gun or nuclear bomb. BBC News Slow Light Archived comments for Slow Light Mikeverdi on 06-11-2015 Slow Light Bugger, it's never easy reading you...but never boring either. I read the article, interesting and a little disturbing. I wasn't happy with the messing about with stuff, I just wonder if one day we will bring things we can't control to our lives. Great thought provoking writing Ewan. Mike Author's Reply: gwirionedd on 06-11-2015 Slow Light I choose both... Scientology...... Author's Reply: You and Tom Cruise both. Hahaha... Scientology skewered... here stormwolf on 07-11-2015 Slow Light What really bothers me is the mad scientists who are tampering with things beyond their ken at CERN. I feel it's morally indefensible to be tinkering with things that can affect the whole of humanity in a very negative way. I am all for experimenting if they want to learn more about how the universe works but not at the risk of endangering others. A thought provoking poem Alison x Author's Reply: |
| Hurricane (posted on: 02-11-15) Dylan title. Again a starting point, nothing to do with the content of the song You came in like a hurricane, blew down my life, like an old rotted tree. I was a spinning weather vane: couldn't tell a candle from a knife. I felt like Cain, I felt like brooding, seething Cain. You came in like a Hurricane, blew out a flame, that had slowly burned me. I was a happy, drooling fool: couldn't tell the candle from a game. We felt the rain, We felt the calming, loving rain. Archived comments for Hurricane gwirionedd on 02-11-2015 Hurricane I think I might know exactly how you feel here... Actually, the poem reminded me immediately of this: Ich kam rein wie 'ne Abrissbirne Ich schlug niemals so hart in Liebe Alles ich wollte war deine Mauer zu brechen Alles du jemals tatst war mich zu zertrümmern Ja, du zertrümmertest mich Author's Reply: Mikeverdi on 02-11-2015 Hurricane Can't fault the effort or the writing, just, you seem to be on a mission to somewhere I don't have a map for😊 Mike Author's Reply: |
| Forever Young (posted on: 30-10-15) Dylan title... barely relevant poem... or not And we are - in triple meter, you and I - in passacaglia, street-walking troubadours playing for pennies in a hat. And we are – in subtle lyrics, you and I – in bluesy rondos, kif-smoking clarinettists playing for whiskies in a club. And we are – in power chording, you and I – in shouty anthems, lip-synching pensionistas playing for millions in the bank. Archived comments for Forever Young gwirionedd on 31-10-2015 Forever Young Is this about anyone in particular? Actually I don't know this Dylan song and my first thought was that you'd changed tack and were now doing poems based on Alphaville songs (appropriate to your 1980s German connection). Then I thought maybe it was about Dylan himself, but then who would the you be to his I? If I had to pick anyone, I would suggest the Stones. Author's Reply: Bingo! Actually, I saw Alphaville in the Metropol in '84, their "Forever Young" was the encore. The Berliners loved it, lighters aloft and bellowing out "For Effer Zhung, I vont to be For Effer...etc" Great times. Mikeverdi on 01-11-2015 Forever Young Without the explanation, I wouldn't have got this (nothing new there) having read the comments it becomes clear, and I'm pleased it has. So sorry not to have been around, I will try and keep up. Mike Author's Reply: Hey Mike, although you are missed, concentrate on feeling better, okay? Thanks for reading. Have a look at Bop Shoo Waddy ... might strike a chord with you. I thought grammar school boys suffered all this awkwardness with women because we never saw any girls, little did I know access to the female sex made no difference to the capacity to understand them! Ewan |
| Maggie's Farm (posted on: 26-10-15) Dylan title-inspired poem, again the title is only a starting point with a different (and perhaps obvious,in this case) destination It is built over now, thus it aspires to Milton Keynesian beauty. Napoleon is the mayor., so we know fracking isn't far away although Napoleon's trough is. They grow fruits under glass, or it perspires under windily flapping plastic. GMF is the watchword, and we know mutants are not here today although genetic ills are. It is principled and fine: for we believe in Charles' Darwinian misquotes, Survivors are the fittest, so we know failure does not play although the changing goalposts do. Archived comments for Maggie's Farm No comments archives found! |
| Bop Shoo Waddy (posted on: 26-10-15) Long ago in a grammar school far away... Dark. After eight. Like the mints. We had to be inside the school gates by that time. We weren't. Not that particular night, anyway. School play. G I R L S! Joint production on in the Girls' Grammar School that year. No-one ever mentioned that the number of boys at auditions trebled in alternate years, at least from 3 Alpha and above. They were my first auditions. G I R L S! They smelled different. At least the day-boys saw girls when the bell rang for the end of school, even if they were only sisters. For we boarders they might as well have been from another country. One on the other side of the world. I tell you, when Clare kissed me… When I reached the Fourth Form, change was coming. We had a Christmas Disco with the Fourth year girls from the Grammar. They arrived on a bus at 7 o'clock outside the school gates. You can imagine how it was. Nobody danced with anyone of the opposite sex. Wilson kept asking Wizzard (he looked like Roy Wood), the music master to play Black Sabbath's Paranoid. We got Bowie's Jean Genie and then it was back to David Essex and the floor was full of girls dancing with themselves, while the day-boys took the fire exit outside to the kitchens and smoked No.6. We inmates looked at the girls, whilst trying not to look like it. I caught someone's eye and Spider laughed until he coughed when I blushed. Julian actually went up to a girl and asked her to dance. It was the Rubettes. He was an expressive dancer, but the girl he was dancing with didn't roll her eyes once. They were in perfect time as all the girls, dancing or no, joined in singing 'Bop Shoo Waddy'. Clare was there, surrounded by a few girl-friends. People said she was fast. I didn't even know what that meant. I hadn't seen her since she'd kissed me on the way back from the auditions for those previous year's school play. I'd thought about her a lot. The disco was due to finish at 9.30, so Wizzard started the slow down to the smoochers with Leo Sayer's Moonlighting at about five past. There were only the girls on the dance floor, but Miss Law asked Braggart the Games Master for a dance and Hastings (Geography) dragged Mrs Willcox up so they felt less conspicuous. They moved well, the women. I looked around at the boys' faces and checked to make sure my own mouth was closed. Minnie Riperton followed and some of the day boys shuffled their feet in front of girls without exactly asking them for a dance. Clare wasn't dancing with anyone yet. I looked over at Miss Law. Her head was very close to Braggart's over by the ''drinks'' bar. Braggart walked off and out of the fire exit. He was the only master we knew smoked. The day-boy tabbers came back in. Miss Law was staring out over the dance floor. Wizzard announced the last song. I started walking towards Clare. Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I got to dance with Miss Law. I saw Clare over her shoulder and Miss Law rested her head on mine when the breathy girl's voice started saying 'big boys don't cry' over the electric piano and bass. Archived comments for Bop Shoo Waddy Nemo on 26-10-2015 Bop Shoo Waddy A good read, Ewan. It brings back memories, though my boys' grammar school didn't arrange any such fraternising. We had to go the local church hall Saturday night dance. Regards, Gerald. Author's Reply: Thanks for reading, Gerald. I think some of the younger masters and mistresses (how archaic/risque that sounds nowadays!) felt sorry for us boarders. Mikeverdi on 01-11-2015 Bop Shoo Waddy So sorry I missed this one. I never made it to Grammar School, sounds like prison 🙂 I left, sorry was asked to leave just after fourteen, I knew all about girls by then. Love the memory lane bit, the reference to NO.6 dates it well. Its great that you are posting again. The site needs you, and some of the others, to step up at the moment. Thanks for this one, I loved it. Mike Author's Reply: Thanks for reading, Mike. In some ways it was worse than some prisons. No TV in the rooms... dormitory sleeping, farts and snoring. No buggery as far as I know, some low-level bullying. By the time I'd sat my 'o' levels the wall was falling down and the writing had long been on it. I had a much better experience of state-education than many, yourself, for example, so I don't complain. In retrospect it just seems so very odd. And I still don't understand women. Thanks for reading, Mike! |
| ''If You Gotta Go...'' (posted on: 23-10-15) More Dylan title inspired stuff... the song is I picked her up, where she danced in a bar she put dollars in a thong, and I lived in my car. She said come to her place around a quarter past moon, she smiled when I said I'd see her soon. In her hold-ups and hat and a matching smile she answered the door, so I stayed for a while. Later we smoked and lied about things; remembered our fingers and which ones had rings. She's still in that bar as far as I know. She shouldn't have sung it: ''If you gotta go..." Archived comments for ''If You Gotta Go...'' Mikeverdi on 23-10-2015 If You Gotta Go... Starting to get my head around your latest posting, still not sure, they are so different. Maybe start again as my head is up my arsenal at the moment. Mike Author's Reply: Well, Mike, the Dylan song titles are only meant to be a starting point, and the lyrical content of the songs themselves are not supposed to influence the content of the poems any more than subliminally. |
| I Threw It All Away (posted on: 19-10-15) Poem using Dylan title as starting point #3 I kept it, too long, too strong to let it into the light, and even in the night I couldn't look at it, not for long. It was magnesium in the flame I was the one to blame, still I threw it all away. We made it, so long, so strong watching dust motes in the light and never once at night. You couldn't look at me, not for long. You were castling in the game, I was the one to blame, so I threw it all away. You left me, ''so long!'', so strong; switching off the landing light, as you fled into the night. I could not look for you, not for long. I stood calling out your name I was the one to blame when I threw it all away. Archived comments for I Threw It All Away gwirionedd on 20-10-2015 I Threw It All Away "To castle" is an interesting verb, Ewan. What do you mean by it exactly? Is it a reference to a chess move? That's what it sounds like. If so, is bishoping possible? Author's Reply: It's a reference to the chess move, which I have always considered a sneaky business gwirionedd on 20-10-2015 I Threw It All Away I never knew you could do that in chess. It's a bit naughty, innit? Author's Reply: teifii on 21-10-2015 I Threw It All Away Seems to have echoes of your pantoum but i like this one better. Daff Author's Reply: Andrea on 21-10-2015 I Threw It All Away 1969! He's always sounded older than he was... Author's Reply: |
| Blame It All... (posted on: 19-10-15) Cheating on the Dylan front here: it's an old one, a pantoum in fact and the title used for inspiration is one of the lines... anyway.. Simple fatal twists turn the cards and load the dice. How you will know the outcome beforehand, only mountebanks can tell. And load the dice how you will, there is still blind chance whom only mountebanks can tell from the coincidence of opportunity. There is, still, blind chance, whom we met on the road to Thebes, fleeing from the coincidence of opportunity to the arms of happenstance. We met on the road to Thebes fleeing fate and destiny's imperatives to the arms of happenstance and the caprice of Olympians. Fate and destiny's imperatives take no sides at close quarters and the caprice of Olympians does not decide the outcome. Take no sides at close quarters keep one eye on him and the knife does not decide the outcome; just a simple twist of fate. Archived comments for Blame It All... gwirionedd on 20-10-2015 Blame It All... Pantoums are buggers to write, but I think you pull this one off very well. It needs a few reads and some knowledge of Greek antiquity (which I don't have), I expect. Which is the Dylan line? I'm not a massive fan of his, so I don't know. (I think he's alright). Author's Reply: 'Blame it all on a ' teifii on 21-10-2015 Blame It All... I bet that was tricky to write, I must find out what a pantoum is. Daff Author's Reply: Andrea on 21-10-2015 Blame It All... Alas could only find this (not very good) version for you - he's hard to find on YT Author's Reply: |
| Mozambique (posted on: 16-10-15) Dylan title for poem inspiration... Some say Dylan and Levy tried to write a song that contained as many rhymes for Mozambique as possible. In fact the song doesn't contain that many. I'm afraid the poem's rhyme scheme is AAAA. If you know Shelter from the Storm, try reciting it to the rhythm. You left me in a café, my shoulders hunched in pique, I watched you leaving slowly, your legs so long and sleek, my tongue was dry and swollen, I could not even speak, I know that you are gone now, I'll head for Mozambique. You left me in the summer, your skin was polished teak, I'll find you in the autumn, before the winter bleak, you'll live with lost illusions, beside a bitter creek, and if you've gone already, I'll head for Mozambique. You'll go to Lourenço Marques, I'll miss you by a week, I'll ask at the Vila Algarve and be questioned by a Greek, he'll understand my obsession and your darkly sweet mystique, and since you're gone already, I'll die in Mozambique. Archived comments for Mozambique No comments archives found! |
One More Cup of Coffee Before You Go (posted on: 16-10-15)  First of two/several/many?? poems using Dylan song titles as a starting point Your coffee cools and the semi-skimmed makes a semi-skin, so I know you won't drink it. My finger dips in the tepid liquid in my cooling glass and I write three letters on formica. I remember conversations, two languages leading up blind and deaf alleys, the dead-end of misunderstanding in our way. We spoke about zeitgeist and whether "spirit of the age" captures the spirit of the phrase. We talked about everything, and nothing important to us, in case the moment shattered. My eyes are shining, I know: yours are not, I see your lips smiling and know you understand schadenfreude, now. Archived comments for One More Cup of Coffee Before You Go stormwolf on 16-10-2015 One More Cup of Coffee Before You Go Wow! Ewan What a 'kick ass' ending if you will pardon the phrase 😉 Very nib-worthy and extremely clever in its whole construction. So much said by innuendo and suggestion. The games people play etc I winced when reading. Bravo! Alison x Author's Reply: Mikeverdi on 16-10-2015 One More Cup of Coffee Before You Go This is so good Evan, I love the play with words. There's some great writing today and this is up there. Thanks for the read. Mike Author's Reply: Andrea on 16-10-2015 One More Cup of Coffee Before You Go Here ya go, Ewan Brilliant! Author's Reply: |
| This is Poetry? (posted on: 09-10-15) Because it was NPD, today 8 October 2015 A fourteen-liner with no punch line, you read, I write, I read , you hear. I'm a word-miner, and this is mine, my words, your time, my word, you're here - even after thirty-two words of inconsequence, your sneering dismissal is no recompense. There is wisdom in your silence, reader there is fury and sound in this scribbled noise, you gloat and mock these feeblest of ploys. Yet you read, I write, I read, you hear: a metaphor-est, the scent of burning cedar and manuscripts thrown on cooling embers, pulped trees, paper turned to ash remembers why we tried for meaning, because we need her. Archived comments for This is Poetry? Ionicus on 09-10-2015 This is Poetry? Poetry is an art not always appreciated, Ewan. No matter how brilliant a poem is it will always be 'margaritas ante porcos' to the uninitiated but we still soldier on trying to make an impression. Thanks for asking the question. Author's Reply: Bozzz on 10-10-2015 This is Poetry? I note that your words come replete with rhyme. Intended for remembrance over time? I suggest that this clever poem is not for burning: slate-roofed, not thatched. Enjoyed ...David Author's Reply: shadow on 11-10-2015 This is Poetry? Poetry? I think so. It rhymes, it has rhythm, words carefully chosen, with meaning - yep, definitely a poem. Nice one, too. Author's Reply: gwirionedd on 11-10-2015 This is Poetry? "Man who write nonsense poetry sit farting at sunset" (R Chi) Author's Reply: |
| If I... (posted on: 21-09-15) just another poem... If I look back, a younger self is in my slipstream, his eyes fixed on the road, careful of mis-steps, missing the flowers and the hedgerow. I should call out, a warning shout to be a tourist, whose eyes flit and flicker watchful for misses, cleaving to wonders and the beauty. I would not hear, a younger self is ever righteous, his eyes in and of the mirror, spiteful in watching, missing the lovers and their wisdom. Archived comments for If I... sweetwater on 23-09-2015 If I... I very much enjoyed reading this, love the wording and the theme, the idea of being a tourist and really looking about and properly seeing what is around you is something we all need to do. Sue. Author's Reply: deadpoet on 27-09-2015 If I... I liked this very much Ewan- you reflecting this way makes me think of my own youth. I think you got it all into this short poem. I am glad I am older now and can appreciate the "things" I may have been oblivious to at that time. Though I do think we/I felt it more than saw it-that's my opinion 🙂 Your poem actually made me , as of today, even more aware and understanding my 20+ son by reminding me of this time in life.. 🙂 Thank you! A pleasant read. Pia Author's Reply: gwirionedd on 01-10-2015 If I... I like the idea behind this, Ewan. Of warning your younger self to be more aware of his surroundings and be more careful not to miss things, like a tourist taking in the beauty and meaning of the world. I think it's still important though, to be "careful of mis-steps". "Man who gaze at mountain fall down chasm" (R Chi). Author's Reply: Wise words R Chi, wise words. |
| The Hunting of the Wren (posted on: 04-09-15) "Allusion, and obscurity, why hide the meaning so?" "By thinking,not by telling, the sages secrets know." And after the season of the witch and the sprightly, motley-ed yule, gather we all round for the hunting of the wren. We have held each other, we have sung our song, we cling to one another for now, and far too long. And after the season of the witch and the bright and polished city, gather we all round for the hunting of the wren. We have loved each other, we have held our peace, we spit at one another, and hiss like angered geese. And after the season of the witch and playing the love-struck fool, gather we all round for the hunting of the wren. Archived comments for The Hunting of the Wren gwirionedd on 04-09-2015 The Hunting of the Wren Hmmmm... Not sure what this is about... Author's Reply: The hunting of the wren is an old folk custom. It is a winter solstice, new year rite. The wren never has a chance since its leg is broken and then the bird is tied to a pole carried by the leader of men dressed in straw, who later batter the wren to death on "finding" it. Like all new year rites, it's supposed to signify, or bring about, rebirth and renewal. It's a damned savage way of doing it, starting again I mean. I'll say no more. sweetwater on 04-09-2015 The Hunting of the Wren I really liked this, to me it holds a very old ( Elizabethan? ) folk song feel, kind of Druid'ish too. Brought to mind the winter solstice. Can you tell me, is the wren you are hunting the bird or is it a metaphor? Sue. Author's Reply: See answer above... Thanks for reading Ewan |
| Butterfly Dust (posted on: 04-09-15) if you hold on too tight, all you'll be left with is... Some people use a net, swing it wildly after random-plotted flight. Some pinch their fingers; wings in pincers - even lightly - still too tight. Some encup their palm, bring it slowly under trembling lovely things. Some will let them go, soar to freedom, though losing beauty stings. Archived comments for Butterfly Dust chant_z on 04-09-2015 Butterfly Dust Very delicately worded and not a single trace of Gothic elements....:) My oh my! Very nice Author's Reply: Thanks for reading... What's wrong with the Gothic? Good enough for Poe! Hahaha. Ewan gwirionedd on 04-09-2015 Butterfly Dust Life is like a butterfly... I seem to remember that from somewhere in the mists of my childhood... Not sure where, maybe a TV sitcom... I suppose you're saying that you shouldn't grasp too tightly after happiness. The alternative would be to be like Winnie the Pooh, of course, the paragon of Taoism. Author's Reply: Butterflies, the theme tune was a Dolly Parton song. Nicholas Lyndhurst played one of the teenage boys. Wendy Craig was mum and Geoffrey (I can do lugubrious really well) Palmer, the dad. Nowt to do with the poem, which is about exactly what you said. Ah yes Pooh, a bear of very little brain. Isn't there a book, "The Tao of Winnie the Pooh"? Thanks for reading Ah Chi! Ewan sweetwater on 05-09-2015 Butterfly Dust Better to lose beauty, than beauty lose itself. Perhaps I have got this wrong but are you saying that if you try and take something lovely you risk destroying it in the process, so it's better to suffer a slight loss than complete destruction? A thought provoking poem, enjoyed it very much. Sue. Author's Reply: Yes, you've nailed it. That's what it's about. Thanks for reading, Sue. Kipper on 05-09-2015 Butterfly Dust I take a similar view to Sue, and in that context this is a very satisfying poem. Yes perhaps loosing beauty stings, but to destroy it for whatever reason, unthinkable! Michael Author's Reply: Yes, it's a healthy attitude, but sometimes difficult to maintain. Thanks for reading, Michael Ewan Pronto on 05-09-2015 Butterfly Dust By holding too tightly to the things we love we can, and often do, destroy them. Worthy pen. Author's Reply: I could just have written that! You sum it up succinctly. Thanks for reading Ewan |
| Old Glory Returns (posted on: 17-08-15) 'Say, Jimmy, you hear Kerry went over there, pulled up the flag hisself?' 'Maybe I'll move to Miami in a few years.' 'Hell, they won't A L L go back!' 'We'll see Bill, we'll see.' The Cadillacs will morph into ugly Humvees, people with hats won't smoke under trees. The colonial arches will turn to gold, and the meretricious new will replace the old. Go to Floridita before the daquiris are gone! Some will come home, andamos, Cabron! Others come with them, the Yanqui and Gringo, and Havana will change into Santo Domingo. But there will be votes, instead of goats in the main street of smaller towns, young mens' smiles will meet old mens' frowns. They'll still catch fish from peeled-paint boats. Cubanos Satos will dance in the street, one man's poison is another man's meat. Archived comments for Old Glory Returns Mikeverdi on 17-08-2015 Old Glory Returns Brilliant, I should have known you would write about this, as always you caught the mood and sentiment. I love it Ewan. Mike Author's Reply: Well, I think this is how it will be. It's a shame that Cuba will change so much over the next few years. gwirionedd on 18-08-2015 Old Glory Returns One man's Communism is another man's Capitalism... You think Cuba will just become another American satellite? Author's Reply: Yes, I do, Ah Chi. I think it will be another Puerto Rico or Dominican Republic, who needs another one of those? Pronto on 18-08-2015 Old Glory Returns I just hope they keep the old cars! great write. Author's Reply: I fear they won't... there will be a business opportunity to buy them all up cheap and sell them dear to collectors, I'm sure. thanks for reading and commenting Ewan |
| It (posted on: 31-07-15) 'It' is what 'It' is... hahaha. It slithers, squirms and sinuates at the corner of my eye. I shiver, shake and 'shambulate', like a cripple fit to die. If I fool it, it will leave. I slaver, squeal, expectorate in the corner of the room, It sizzles, slurps and speculates on the moment of my doom. If I see it, none shall breathe. It slumbers, snores in somnolence at the splendour of its dreams. I savour, slurp, in senescence, as the bloodless moonlight gleams. If I kill it, I shall grieve. Archived comments for It gwirionedd on 31-07-2015 It Inspired by Stephen King? Author's Reply: Well... to a certain extent. The thing is, is the thing in the corner really there? Or if we eliminate it, will we exist? Or do we exist because it does? I'm sorry if this doesn't come over in the poem, but that was what I was aiming for. Thanks, as always, for reading, Archie! Ewan gwirionedd on 01-08-2015 It I honestly have no idea what this poem's about. It seems to be a cryptic and/or philosophical poem, if it's not about Stephen King's "It" (which I haven't read). In any case I do like the rhymes, alliteration and structure. Author's Reply: Philosophical? I think in many ways it is. It is the unnameable fear, which comes from inside ourselves. Many myths and monsters are projections of our own fears. If we conquer it, will we vanish too? We will certainly be changed if we vanquish it. I don't know, it's a poem about it, whatever it is. sweetwater on 01-08-2015 It Absolutely fascinating, have read it several times, I have also read your reply to gwiriionedd about what ' it' is and when I first read the poem I did think that was the meaning behind it. I did one on that same idea a while ago but nowhere as clever as yours. Sue. Author's Reply: |
| Listen to the Music (posted on: 24-07-15) A poem - or doggerel, if you prefer. Listen to the music, listen to the band, listen to the singer with the groupies in his hand. The bassist came on legless, the drummer's off his face, on keyboards is a graduate, writes books on outer space. Listen to the music, listen to it bang, listen to the singer, he's the leader of the gang. Rick Jeffrey plays the guee-tar, the dobro and the spoons, he thinks he's Robert Johnson The band are Looney Toons. Listen to the music, listen to it now, listen to the music, the mouse grew up a cow. The music is downloaded, the lyrics scribbled down, the inspiration's freebased, they call it Golden Brown. Listen to the music, listen to it fade, listen to the music, the man who made the grade. The shooter is a crazy, the gun is aiming high, the other thing he's Holden - The Catcher in the Rye. Listen to the music, listen to the blues, listen to the music, kick off your blue suede shoes. Archived comments for Listen to the Music pommer on 24-07-2015 Listen to the Music Great write, much enjoyed. Peter Author's Reply: Thanks for stopping by, Peter. Best for reading out loud in the style of the wrinkly old rocker of your choice! Mikeverdi on 24-07-2015 Listen to the Music Name that band! But you don't say what the prize is Ewan 🙂 I think I got a few though HaHa! Mike Author's Reply: Ha, this one won't be a favourite of E.G's, too many external references! No prizes, just the satisfaction of completing a clue in a cryptic crossword puzzle. Thanks for reading and commenting, Mike. PS good luck with September. sweetwater on 24-07-2015 Listen to the Music Really, really enjoyed reading this, first reading only got one band, second reading a couple, third reading four. Into favs so I can continue to read and enjoy. Great writing, great imagination and knowledge. Sue. Author's Reply: Thanks for reading, Sue. This poem is meant to be read aloud in front of a mirror with a hairbrush microphone. Ewan gwirionedd on 25-07-2015 Listen to the Music This would be an Überband... David Bowie, John Lennon, The Stranglers, Elvis... That Bowie didn't half have some weird lyrics. Mickey Mouse growing up a cow is a case in point. But my favourite of his is "Time, he flexes like a whore, falls wanking to the floor." Author's Reply: Thanks for reading Archie. Bowie loved (loves) Berlin, he lived in Neukoln for 3 or 4 years in the late 70's. Aladdin Sane, great record, great cover (see what you vinyl virgins miss!) and great punning title. Bowie claimed to use cut-ups as Tzara one of the Dadaist poets did. I think Bowie came to it through William Burroughs though. As with most things about poetry I feel an ambiguity towards the Dada-ists, Tzara and the validity -or even- authenticity of cut-up work. I wrote a poem on ABC years ago which you could find here Tzara-ist Manifesto Thanks again for reading this one anyway, Ah Chi |
| Ten Years After (posted on: 10-07-15) Written today, Tuesday... well you know the date. And now we have it, our own shorthand tragedy, the lucky number twice. Ten years after horror when the friendly capital, and the bitter River Thames, flowed red with blood. And still they come here, their hands open greedily, the evil seeking alms. Ten years after terror on the brightest of symbols; the pride of London Transport flowed red with blood. And we will live through our own arcane comedy the cruellest, sickest joke. Ten years after, mirrored on the sunniest of beaches a tide of British bodies flowed red with blood. Archived comments for Ten Years After gwirionedd on 10-07-2015 Ten Years After Ten years ago now, blimey... Time flies when you're growing old... I'll never forget that day. I lived in the provinces at the time, but moved back to London a few months later. Like a moth to a flame, in spite of the flames... Author's Reply: Pronto on 12-07-2015 Ten Years After Sadly the world has become a much more dangerous place in the intervening years. Timely reminder that vigilance must be kept up. Author's Reply: |
| Somewhere (posted on: 06-07-15) Wilko Johnson was interviewed in the Times on Sunday: he reckons there's somewhere in the universe where Einstein's on the bins... and maybe there is. Somewhere, there's a planet where Einstein's gutting fish, Hawking is a dustbinman and Da Vinci's work is pish. In a chip shop near a comet just where Elvis used to work, The King is Rigel's Nigel, and Dylan's just some berk. There are planets made of cheddar, round a giant that is read, where the body is the brain that is nourished by the head. There's a box that has no cat in, or maybe there's no box and all the laws of physics will never start the clocks. Somewhere, there's a planet where people make things up, where maybe there's a poem and maybe that's enough. Archived comments for Somewhere amman on 06-07-2015 Somewhere Ewan. I could say out of this world or the Hawking reference is rubbish but those are two puns too far. Very clever, droll and just downright enjoyable. Thank you for brightening my day. Cheers. Author's Reply: Mikeverdi on 06-07-2015 Somewhere That bloody cat again, gets in everywhere. Like it Ewan 🙂 Mike Author's Reply: Rab on 06-07-2015 Somewhere Loved it! Brightened up my day. You should send it to Wilco; I think he'd lie it too... Author's Reply: gwirionedd on 07-07-2015 Somewhere Ha ha... Fave story for me... I think the first verse refers to the universe we're in right now. I'm pretty sure that there are plenty of Einsteins and da Vincis in name-badges and saying "Have a nice day" all round the world, not to mention Elvises serving chips like in the song. I intend to write a poem called "Beethoven in Burger King". What's "Rigel's Nigel"? And what do you mean with "a giant that is read"? I can see a pun on "red", but don't get it. Maybe you should change "dustbinman" to just "binman", in order to make the metre flow better? R Chi Author's Reply: deadpoet on 09-07-2015 Somewhere Great fun- colourful.. Author's Reply: sweetwater on 09-07-2015 Somewhere Loved this, great fun and also made me think, I bet the poor cat had wished there was a planet with no boxes on it! Sue x Author's Reply: chant_z on 09-07-2015 Somewhere Very witty and brilliantly so. Thanks! Author's Reply: |
| A Word (posted on: 29-06-15) Ha! Far too overt... And here is a word, a term, a lexeme: it does not allow for morphemes other than -r or -ing or even -ed. But there is no pre- or post-, or suf-, this word is fixed in and of itself: lover and love, loving or even loved. I will give it to you. It's Love, my lover, loved and loving - no prefixing, or ''fixing'' just, only -what it is. Archived comments for A Word chant_z on 30-06-2015 A Word I guess you have a point but it's a funny read for sure. Author's Reply: Thank you very much for reading. Apologies for not acknowledging your comment earlier. I have been very busy getting a final draft accepted by Unbound. The presses will creak into life soon. Well, odd it may be, but only in terms of how to read aloud, although I think that can be done, since I have practiced doing so since reading your comment. thanks again Ewan stormwolf on 30-06-2015 A Word Aww a lovely romantic poem showing your softer side 😉 Alison x Author's Reply: Many apologies, Alison, for not acknowledging your comment earlier.Furthermore, thank you for such a kind comment. Ewan sweetwater on 30-06-2015 A Word I think, ( perhaps wrongly,) that you intended in the first verse to lead the reader down the wrong path about which word it was, just for fun? It thankfully was not the first word that entered my mind anyway! 🙂 An unusual way to write a lovely, romantic poem. Sue. Author's Reply: Hohohoho! Yes, I thought maybe someone would be led astray. Still, one would have "er" vice the other's "r". Thanks for the kind comment, and I'm sorry for not acknowledging it earlier. Ewan Mikeverdi on 02-07-2015 A Word An interesting and rather 'lovely' way of saying I love you. I thought it faintly Shakespearian, I don't know why. I liked it a lot. Mike Author's Reply: I'm pleased you liked it, Mike. Apologies for not acknowledging your kind comment earlier Ewan |
| The Last Man on the Moon (posted on: 22-06-15) what it says on the tin... feel free to pass it by... It is a short 'tell'-y piece which will be reworked to make it less so, in the fullness of time. Ziggy waited. Earthrise would be in a few minutes. Canaveral X would lift off 15 minutes later. The dust would plume around Ziggy's gravboots after the sonic wave pierced the moon to its heart and rebounded to the base of the pulse rocket. And that would be it. Alone until Canaverals I-IX returned from the other side of the Plutinos. If they did. Canaveral I left in the year 2615 C.E. The year of Syzygy Judit Resnik 's Birth. The year of the Great Trial. II left a year later, the Trial had finished and the sentence was passed down. III had moon-bounced in 2618. The appeal had been denied. Three years passed, IV had begun its journey and the family began to call her Ziggy. When she reached her 12th birthday, she witnessed her first moon-bounce; Canaveral V left. The ships left, at increasing intervals, but still they left. X was about to go and Ziggy was 231 years old. She figured she might see IV return home. Before her T-limit. People lived until they were 300 as a matter of course – and then they died. The En-gene-eers had announced that it just happened. One day you woke up with no telomeres and later you just perished of cell stagnation. Or you went to the Elysium on your 300th. Where the En-gene-eers used your corpse to look for clues in the case of the disappearing nucleotides. That was on Earth, of course, or so people said. Ziggy had been born on the moon. Unplanned, unexpected and unlawful. The Lunar council had sentenced her, not her father, nor her mother, who had left on Canaverals V and VI respectively. 'You will be fine, Ziggy,' her mother had said, when she'd told her of the sentence on her 6th birthday. 'Will I, Mom? Will I really?' Ziggy's mom had sniffed and given her a rare printed biography of Eugene Cernan. 'You'll be famous too, Sweetie.' It was time for the moon-bounce. Ziggy listened to the countdown over the light-com. The Ship-Leader's voice sounded metallic inside the helmet. The pulse-wave went down. It felt like a mild electric shock to the soles of the feet. The re-bounce was something else. X would be the last pulse-wave launch. Ziggy had worked on the investigation: the moon's orbit had changed. It was in decay. This was the biggest secret on the moon. The decay was infinitesimal, but it was there. By the time they noticed on Earth – well that wasn't Ziggy's problem. Besides, movement from Earth to Moon had been banned after the lunar flu of two centuries previous. Holidaymakers returning Earthside had died quickly, but not before causing a pandemic. Like the North Americans of the early part of the millennium, the Earthbound just decided it was too dangerous to travel. Canaveral X's ship-leader had come to see her only the day before, 'One of these things will get back.' Laurie looked up at the ship. 'Why do we still make them so pointy?' 'Men still design them.' Ziggy smiled at him. 'Yours won't... get back I mean.' 'Of course not. Maybe III or IV.' She shrugged. 'I'll be here, wherever here ends up being. At least until T-Limit.' 'Is it true? About I and II?' Laurie said. 'What difference does it make?' 'Is it?' 'Nothing but automated signals for six years from either. Human transmissions stopped within months of each other, but that doesn't mean anything.' Laurie Vigger scowled. 'It doesn't make a difference. We have to go. ' 'But you don't have to come back.' The Ship-Leader turned to go. Ziggy put up her hand, but he didn't notice and just left for the launch site. There was a lot to do. The re-bounce almost knocked Ziggy over, but she gripped the rail around the viewing site. X was there and then gone, almost too fast to see. Just the after image like the ghost-on-the-blackboard trick she'd been shown as a child. She waved anyway. Then she rubbed the swell of her stomach and thought about her unborn son, the last man on the moon. Archived comments for The Last Man on the Moon No comments archives found! |
| Up and Down the City Road (posted on: 15-06-15) It's a vignette, there's no plot and nothing happens... OK? I haven't got tuppence in my pocket. I'd make a pound of rice and treacle. It's cold without a weasel. That's the way the money goes. Aye, pop! Pop goes the weasel for a bit of uncle's tin, in and out the Eagle, a pewter jug of gin. That's the way the money goes. Hahaha, don't make me laugh. A monkey? On my table? It'd go in my pocket, no knocking off with sticks, but I'd knock it off all right. Then down the Eagle, watch the dance and hear the tune and maybe join in. Got a tanner? A penny? A ha'penny? Then God bless you. This old man's hat is the only thing that keeps me warm, my dad was a hatter. His weasel went pop too. Uncle gave him tuppence. That's the way the money goes. I wonder who'll beg up and down the City Road in the next century or the next? Maybe there'll be no poor, though they say they'll always be with us. Hahaha, I'm not with them, kept at arms length while they cover their noses. I'd sing for sixpence but there's only rye in their pockets. If I had but sixpence and the moon, I'd buy a dream for a ducat. And the tune goes on,like the road goes ever on, like the City Road. Da-da-da, da-dada-da-dah. Pop! It goes POP! I've a weasel in my pocket. No, a real one. It won't go pop, and I must not and neither I will. Imagine eating so much you pop. That's the way. The money goes in and out the Eagle, up and down the City Road. Archived comments for Up and Down the City Road sweetwater on 15-06-2015 Up and Down the City Road I remember picking this nursery rhyme to pieces at junior school, to understand the meaning, I much prefer your version, love the way you have written it, I found myself fascinated by it. Sue. Author's Reply: Thanks for reading. Yes, sometimes when I'm in a bit of a trough and not over-burdened with ideas, I do something like this. It usually helps get things moving again. deadpoet on 15-06-2015 Up and Down the City Road This made me laugh- thanks- Author's Reply: Good! You're welcome. chant_z on 17-06-2015 Up and Down the City Road Very amusing. Don't know the background though but I guess that's not mandatory. Author's Reply: It's a deconstruction and embellishment of a couple of nursery rhymes. franciman on 20-06-2015 Up and Down the City Road A bit of McGonagle; a lot of Joyce; and reminds me of Chaucer! Well I have to say it as I see it. Really enjoyed it and feel sure I'll want to dip in again. Author's Reply: Strange bedfellows indeed! I wonder how a mash-up like that would turn out? Thanks for reading and the generous rating Ewan |
| Time After Time (posted on: 15-06-15) No explanations. There are at least two poems on a page, the one that is written and the one that is read. Therefore: xP = yR+1 or xP - (yR+1) = 0 Where P = the written Poem and R = reader I saw the news today, a boy from another century once had twin pistols for his tiny, clean-nailed hands. King of Rome at three! He was the boy Aiglón a name from another century coined by some writer with his inky, hat-plume pen. Such names were never heard. I read a book today, a tale from another century writ by some scribbler on his shiny, slick-keyed board, "Age of Mud and Fleas". It had the King Mouldwarp, a man of another century, called by some 'Lover' with his rounded, butcher's face. Such love was undeserved. I dreamed a dream today, a day from another century seen by this dabbler in his tiny, slack-sieved mind. Things that cannot be. It was the last trumpet, a tune from another century played by none other than the greatest, sweetest horn. I felt like freedom's bird. I crossed a bridge today: in stone from another century built by some landowner for his smoke-clad, northern town, Gates of Hell-by-Sea. It was not my homeland, a realm from another century swept by only sand on howling, djinn-called winds. I know my place of birth. I smelled a rose today, a bloom from any century, grown by one gardener, in her verdant, green-sleeved plot, where once she loved me. It was not near heaven, nor sheol of another century, with dancing, fleck eyed imps. it is my final rest. I lie in loamy earth. Archived comments for Time After Time gwirionedd on 15-06-2015 Time After Time I don't understand any of this. I mean, I assume that each verse deals with a different moment in history, but I don't recognise any of them apart from Henry VIII, the "Mouldwarp" king. And details surrounding that appear sketchy too. Why exactly was Henry called the Mouldwarp (which I'm assuming means "mole", cf. Scots "mowdiewarp", German "Maulwurf")? Author's Reply: Hmm... No, not six moments in history... the first two concern historical figures... L'Aiglon was a name coined by a French Playwright (posthumously) for Napoleon Bonaparte's son, who Boney named King Of Rome when he was born. Two matching pistols were made for his 3rd birthday and sold recently for a no doubt ridiculous sum. Merlin wrote the Mouldwarp (yes, it means Mole) prophecy. Papists and traditionalists claimed Mouldwarp meant Henry VIII although he was in fact the 13th king rather than the twice times 6th named in the prophecy. Although the Mouldwarp Prophecy concerns one particular king, the whole document purported to include all the kings from King John until Henry VIII. They were all given animal names, Dragon, Lamb, Lion, Ass etc. I dreamt all of the third verse. 'My homeland' is the other realm swept by wind. the last verse is about a rose. I did all of those things in one day, saw news, read book, dreamed dream, crossed a bridge (although the one in a northern town was a different bridge in a different time), and smelled a rose. The poem is just ramblings on those various things. gwirionedd on 15-06-2015 Time After Time Very interesting, Ewan... The first thing I noticed, actually, if this doesn't sound too obvious, was the Beatlesque overtones, A Day In The Life. "I read the news today, oh boy" But now I'm looking a bit deeper... As far as I understand, there is no evidence that Merlin ever actually existed, is there? Or King Arthur, Guinevere, Lancelot and all the rest? Has anyone ever actually read this strange Prophecy? Re-reading the third verse, in light of the information that you literally dreamt it, I can now see a new meaning. A Biblical one. Was your dream a John the Apostle moment? It seems to refer to Revelations, in particular the Seven Trumpets leading up to Armageddon. That would mean the other century from this verse is a future one, although some would say Armageddon is coming in this century, and that roughly half the Seven Trumpets have already been blown: Trumpet 1: WW1 Trumpet 2: WW2 Trumpet 3: Chernobyl Trumpet 4: Iraq War These are just other people's interpretations of course, but they are very interesting. What is particularly creepy for me is the fact that the destructive and contaminating falling star in Trumpet 3 is called "Wormwood", which in Russian is "Chernobyl". The third verse seems to be where the poem starts to become mystical and supernatural. You seem to be talking about death and the afterlife... Your place of birth is the cosmos, perhaps.... Author's Reply: Bingo! The Beatles reference was deliberate. deadpoet on 18-06-2015 Time After Time I threw all my maths books away as soon as I finished school but I understand your equation and you are quite right. I am glad I read your explanation . I think you often use quite floral language- well, very expressive and it always creates an atmostphere- very good Ewan. Author's Reply: |
| Moonshine (posted on: 12-06-15) it's short, it's made up, ergo it's... The moon went out. Just like that. There and then gone, as though God's hand had flicked the switch or Mohammed had forgotten to change the bulb. But no-one noticed, or very few. It was a waning moon well below a quarter full, a thin sliver that was barely there. It disappeared one midnight last November. I stayed awake all night waiting for it to reappear. I dozed during the day following and they came to see that I ate and took the pills. There should have been a moon the next night, but there wasn't, I watched through the night. I heard them talking the next day, 'This is new. It will be the medication. Fallschirm published a paper on this very thing.' 'Fallschirm! He is an idiot. McIntosh's extensive tests have proved beyond-' 'Doubt? There is always doubt.' There were very few times that the white coats skirted the truth so closely. The new moon did not reappear on the appointed night. I supposed that no-one noticed. If only we had been near the sea. Perhaps then someone would have. They changed the pills. I stayed awake every night, waiting for the return of the moon. 'Is he eating? What do the notes say?' 'They say he is not.' 'He has lost weight, surely?' 'Very little. He drinks the water, though no-one sees him do it.' One of them shone a pencil torch into my left eye. 'Pupil contracts normally. When did he speak last, again?' 'Over two weeks ago.' Well, of course! And still the moon hid its face. 'He is fading.' Far from the truth. I understood. They did not. The tubes and wires were inconvenient, but I could see the window overhead. Even so, I no longer needed to keep vigil. Now I know. It was no omnipotent hand which extinguished the moon. I look down at the blue sphere and imagine the white coats around the empty bed. I wax and wane, I am the Lord of Tides. Archived comments for Moonshine deadpoet on 13-06-2015 Moonshine The man in moon disappeared too! I seldom understand your writig Ewan- but I find it appealing and charming a lot of the time. Pia xx Author's Reply: amman on 14-06-2015 Moonshine Terrific writing, Ewan. Redolent of 'the dying of the light' from Dylan Thomas' best known poem. Into favs. Author's Reply: |
| How It Happens... (posted on: 12-06-15) I'm sure you'll work it out... The speech turns the brains, scrambles them like eggs. All the cursing coursing from their mouths is echoed, amplified from mine. The 'them' becomes us, gathered up like sheep, all the bleating blaming all who are quite othered, ostracised by time. The last is soon first, shouting like a loon, all the paper people lift their arms in hailing, justified in crime. Archived comments for How It Happens... chant_z on 12-06-2015 How It Happens... Thought provocing piece. Sign of the times eh? Author's Reply: Sadly the times they never are a-changing, Pace Bob Z. Thanks for reading and commenting. Ewan gwirionedd on 12-06-2015 How It Happens... It made me think of Nazi Germany. But then, most things do. Author's Reply: "Give the man a coconut!" Thanks for reading Ah Chi! Ewan |
| Closing the Circle (posted on: 01-06-15) because the book says so... We infidels claim the same for God's Messenger as the surrendered do. For Ayesha was six years old as his handmaiden and other things too. Their Book says it is so, therefore it must be true though we say it is not right. We infidels blame the name of God's Messenger for what his faithful do. But the Hadiths say the sin makes angels shudder and the very mountains too. Their Book says it is so, although it may be true, I cannot believe it right. Archived comments for Closing the Circle THEGOLDENEGG on 01-06-2015 Closing the Circle I liked the structure and modified repeat lines in this. But to be honest, though I can guess generally what the intention might be, the specific references are not at all clear, so in that sense it loses a lot of the power it would otherwise have. Author's Reply: e-griff on 01-06-2015 Closing the Circle sorry that was me - forgot to change persona after doing some weekly challenge stuff. Author's Reply: Well, I will explain them but they would be obvious to any believer that read them. How the references are used by ISIS, for example, and, say, Britain First are completely different, but they use the same ones. That is, God's Messenger, al Rasool, I'm sure you know who that is, took a girl aged between 6 and 9 as his umpteenth wife. ISIS use this as justification for some of the excesses in Kurdish areas. Britain First jump on this reference with glee to show that all of the faithful are potential if not actual paedophiles. The second stanza refers to how the Hadith treat the 'sin' of homosexuality. The holy writ of religions may well have been reasonable handbooks for life in a pre-civilised desert, but probably not for 21st century living. In addition, any of the holy books can be used as a stick to beat you with if you insist that they are the word of your God, they're all so contradictory deadpoet on 02-06-2015 Closing the Circle There are no excuses for taking child brides or condemning homosexuality. There are IMO no excuses for relying on any Holy book for life choices. Author's Reply: And I agree with you, but the closed circle is actually a circular argument. These things are written and both extremes hold up what is written to argue their opposing cases. I like the Bible, it's got some good stories in it, but it's not a documentary or God's autobiography - and neither is the Qu'ran. stormwolf on 02-06-2015 Closing the Circle Good philisophical poem. Alison x Author's Reply: Thanks for reading and commenting, Ewan Mikeverdi on 04-06-2015 Closing the Circle I'm of the "Do as you would be done by" faith. It works anyway you read it... and in any language. I will never understand any religion, as they always lead to the same end...control by fear; and death to all those who do not agree. Great writing as always Ewan. Mike Author's Reply: There are many worse codes to live by than that one, Mike. Thanks for reading and commenting Ewan |
| Living Under Treacle (posted on: 01-06-15) For anyone affected by the things this story deals with... She was living under water. Moving through treacle. Was this what people on lithium felt like? Well today would be different. Today she would... definitely. She slid out of the bed, swivelling legs to the floor, like some old lady. When did she stop throwing back the covers and jumping out of bed? The LED on the clock said 05:27, maybe there'd been a power cut. Her watch said twenty five minutes past five. No power cut. There was light coming through the curtains. Opening them allowed the view of a scruffy dawn behind the cathedral spire. The whole of the town's terraced streets full of student lets, benefit claimants and immigrants separated Medea's flat from the hilltop and its beautiful mediaeval buildings. She stood in front of the wardrobe. All the clothes looked like someone else's. However good they'd looked in the shop's mirror, when she put them on her own hangers, she was reminded of charity shops and jumble sales. Most days she had to force herself to wear anything at all. But today was the day. No doubt about it. So she would have to grin and wear it. Ha ha. Greg, the last one would have made that joke first, before Medea had even thought of it. He'd gone and good riddance. Not everything was funny, was it? Some people didn't have to laugh every day. Medea took out the one item that wasn't hers. A vintage dress, some would call it. It was a Thea Porter maxi, it had belonged to her Grandmother. It still fit. Medea hadn't worn it since... Well, a long time ago. She laid the dress carefully on the quilt. Time for a shower. The water came slowly at first, running a little brown while the pipes settled down. The ventilator which came on with the light allowed the smell of chip vats from the take away downstairs into the cubicle. She gagged but didn't vomit. Nothing to puke in any case. The bald head looked out at her from the mirror. She got on with the eyebrow pencil. Her first efforts had been truly laughable. Now she felt she was channelling Joan Crawford's make up artist. On with the false eyelashes. No make up. Her skin was really good, no, really. The treatment really ought to have resulted in all kinds of spots, blemishes and lesions. But there was nothing. In fact her skin was better than it had been in her twenties. The wig was on the polystyrene stand. Medea left it there. She was going to wear a hat. £2000 for a natural hair wig and it itched, scratched and made you sweat. The hat had been her mother's. Wide-brimmed, straw and with a beautiful chiffon hat band that could have done duty as Isadora Duncan's scarf. The chiffon's colour had faded from a vibrant purple to a gentle lilac and was none the worse for that. The clock said 8:05. Living under treacle. She missed the 9.10 by seconds. Twenty minutes lost in the stairwell. Never mind. That meant there was no-one in the bus shelter and those uncomfortable moulded seats would be empty. The tramp who'd used to sleep there had moved on when the bus company had removed the bench. Medea believed that no-one could sit for more than ten minutes on those seats. The number 9 arrived every 15 minutes, so most people stood after a while. Medea used the five spare minutes to get out of the seat. Some of the drivers weren't particularly patient. Perhaps they were at the beck and call of what they used to call time and motion experts. No-one actually complained about the time it took Medea to board the bus and sit down. People just looked at their watches and looked away, out of the window or down at the floor. It was like being invisible, or being the most embarrassing relative. People couldn't, no, wouldn't see you. And they all knew, as if a huge sign over your head told them. Even if they didn't see you moving like an 80-year-old, they still knew. The bus stop outside the cathedral was the end of the line. If the bus arrived on time it parked up for twenty minutes and the driver would get off for a sneaky fag or a pee in the public toilets. Of course, having Medea on board would eat into that time. Most drivers tried hard not to scowl when she got on and off their buses, she could see that. Medea's watch said a quarter to eleven. There were few people in the graveyard. The last time she'd come it had been a bank holiday weekend. It had been busy. A man had given her one of the flowers he'd brought for a gravestone. She'd been tempted, but you couldn't tell. It was best that she had given all that up. The two graves were side by side in a corner under the shade of an ash tree. Perhaps it was one of the last in the county. Two lives taken by the first two bouts. She hadn't even known she was pregnant, when they'd sent her for the tests. Neither time. She'd insisted they give her the foetus, both times. Buried without being born. Medea's treatment would have killed them anyway. Jason left after the second time. And now it was back again and the treatment too. She was living under treacle. Perhaps that was what dying felt like. Archived comments for Living Under Treacle Mikeverdi on 02-06-2015 Living Under Treacle Thanks Ewan, sadly I see this to much. Great writing as always. Mike Author's Reply: |
| Wisherman (posted on: 29-05-15) just a poem... In a coble, on the sea, off a chilly, rocky coast, the sea fret drifts damp as a shivering ghost, the nets trawl the deep and dark pelagic, the Wisherman wishes for something magic. A fish-found ring, a kraken, a whale, a rainbow fish over the patched lug-sail, all or some or any of these, more welcome than the most zephyrous breeze, he wipes salt from his lips with a cracked leather glove, and dreams of catching a mermaid's love. Archived comments for Wisherman Weefatfella on 29-05-2015 Wisherman Hi Ewan, this guy's waitin a wee while afore he gits a bite. The thoughts that pass through an anglers head, have, I'm certain,inspired many great tales. ( pelagic?...........google! ) Cheers Nom. Weefatfella. Author's Reply: I think he should be careful what he wishes for, thanks for reading Weef! Mikeverdi on 29-05-2015 Wisherman Like the images here, "damp as a shivering ghost" just terrific. Mike Author's Reply: Thanks for reading Mike Ewan THEGOLDENEGG on 30-05-2015 Wisherman Nice images. For me, it would benefit from more complex rhymes ... 🙂 Author's Reply: Ah well,you can't please all of the people all of the time. Some of my stuff has been criticised for over-complicated rhyme schemes in invented forms. I wanted a nursery rhyme feel for this, in any case. Thanks for reading and commenting. Ewan deadpoet on 30-05-2015 Wisherman Wisherman! I like that- I might adopt it (por favor?) as Wisherwoman. Beautiful tale yet I can hear the Zephyrous winds and I think they are noisy and unsettling. Pia Author's Reply: Thanks for reading DP! amman on 01-06-2015 Wisherman Hi Ewan. I like the nursery rhyme cadence of this; sort of like 'The Owl and the Pussycat'. Clever poem which delivers a couple of unfamiliar words. Thanks. Tony. Author's Reply: Yes, that's exactly the effect I was looking for, thanks for reading and commenting Ewan ifyouplease on 01-06-2015 Wisherman i'd like to read something abstract and surreal from you. nice poem this one. has a very solid form. i would like to write a response poem. may I? Author's Reply: Why not? I'll look forward to reading it. Ewan |
| Platform 29 (posted on: 25-05-15) I was horrified to read this article in the Times on Saturday. TheTimes.co.uk Unfortunately, you can't read the whole thing via that link, but you'll get the idea from this piece of flash. The world is a dreadful place. You'd think they'd treat us better here. After all, we are Roma, this is Roma. Ion laughed when I said this to him, but then he is Father Placido's favourite in the empty carriage. The priest is always texting the moment he leaves the train. I am surprised he has urges at 68. I have no urges at all. Ion says that is no surprise, we have been working at the Railway station for two years. He knows I get the curse, regular as the moon, but he says that doesn't matter. He says we are broken. The men who come to Platform 29 have broken our souls, but they will never break our hearts. I think Ion should never have learned to read. The things he tells me from the books he carries back and forth from Termini to our shack on the banks of the Tiber! He'll read anything, even newspapers. He says that in 'Il Messaggero' they call us 'Invisibles'. This sounds silly to me, how can we be invisible, when the men are able to find us at Platform 29? It's a long walk to Platform 29. It's where they keep the empty trains, Ion says. It's right at the back. Sometimes we send someone off to the main concourse for food or a Coca-Cola. The food is cold and the drink is warm when they return. They are all old, these men. Father Placido is by no means the oldest. The youngest always asks for me: he is thirty-five. He likes to call me Fiorella. It means little flower. Ion says it's probably the name of the man's daughter. I don't like to think about that. Tobor gives me some of the money when the Fiorella man comes asking for me. When I have 500 Euros I will buy a train ticket myself. It won't take long, only Tobor does take 100 Euros per week for our shack. Each. He says he is saving the money so we can all go to England. It must cost a lot to get there. Tobor has a large knife. Everyone knows he killed a man in Bucaresti, a few years ago. Or it might have been in Targoviste. Anyway, Tobor taught me what to do. He has helped me a lot. He's like a brother to me. Or an uncle. But Tobor doesn't like Ion much. If Father Placido didn't come every Friday to Platform 29, I think Tobor would say that maybe Ion should leave the shack. Apart from Father Placido, Ion doesn't have many customers. Maybe one a day. Ion thinks that, like the Fiorella man, the priest pays quite a lot for what he wants. Ion whispers to me at night that we should get more of the money we earn. He says that Tobor is a pander, a pimp and other words that aren't familiar to me. Perhaps he reads them in his books. I remind Ion that Tobor has a knife and he is twenty years old, and ask him 'what can two 13-year-olds do against a grown man?' Ion cries every Friday night and so do some of the new ones, at first. I don't cry. Crying is for babies. Sometimes I think that Ion's soul is not broken like mine. I think he has a broken heart. Archived comments for Platform 29 bluepootle on 25-05-2015 Platform 29 Heartbreaking. I think you captured the banal horror of such transactions very well in few words. Author's Reply: pommer on 25-05-2015 Platform 29 What a world we live in.Heart rendering and well depicted.Peter. Author's Reply: deadpoet on 26-05-2015 Platform 29 I am glad you made a personal story of it- but it is no surprise to me. Yes heartbreaking but pieces like yours here help awareness and hopefully action to free others, especially children , of oppression and abuse. Author's Reply: Mikeverdi on 26-05-2015 Platform 29 I know the station, and the situation. Athens is the same. Sometimes on the main roads into the large towns,you see them in the lay-bys, girls and boys. With the influx of immigrants it will get far worse. Hard to say you enjoy the subject, but your writing did it proud. Mike Author's Reply: ifyouplease on 01-06-2015 Platform 29 painfully realistic write. we're in hell. Author's Reply: |
| The Kiss and the Money (posted on: 22-05-15) Whatever happened to socialism? And in the aftermath of the night of the short knives, delivered from just behind and to the right - but a little – a Blair minimum – you understand, we expect, England expects (Scotland expelled) un-electable liars, demogogues and unholy fools with strong connection to the smirking class. No tie required and may your collar not be blue, you leader of the party of the middle ground. The trenches to the left and right intersect and no-man's land is where the horny-handed lurk, un-respectable beggars, parasites and be-tattooed fools. All hail rejection of the working class. A rose by any other name would smell as sour, choose well a leader for our less-than-finest hour. Archived comments for The Kiss and the Money deadpoet on 22-05-2015 The Kiss and the Money Get it out- well said- I wish I could say something just as eloquently put about our country's government-supposed to be Labour - Author's Reply: Mikeverdi on 22-05-2015 The Kiss and the Money That's just bloody brilliant mate. Mike Author's Reply: |
| Enemy of the State (posted on: 22-05-15) an allegory, as the original was...some say 'Volodya, pass me that shoe. I 'm hungry.' 'Do you fancy a little tongue, Sir?' 'Indeed not, it is Friday, I shall partake of the sole.' Vladimir Ivanovitch Beketov clamps his lips to the sole of the boot handed to him with some delicacy by Pyotr Stroganov, who does not care for his Patronymic, since it is Vissarionovitch, and this has distasteful connotations for most of the inmates of the camp. 'This is as fine a sole as ever I have tasted since … when did I have sole last?' 'Yesterday,' Stroganov says. Beketov and Stroganov, like many of those working in Gold Mining Operation 34 b Section 7 of the Magadan Gulag, are serving a sentence for the most Soviet of all crimes. 'Somewhere in the world there is a war, you know.' Stroganov replaces his boot. 'There is always a war, somewhere,' Beketov says.'Thank you for sharing dinner.' 'Tchert! I wish I had said that!' 'You did, Pyotr.' 'When?' 'Yesterday.' Beketov looks back down the length of the section they are mining. 'Maybe he'll come today.' He kicks at the rock hammer and pick lying in the dirt. Stroganov looks up at the beams keeping the weight of the earth from burying them alive. He shines the lamp at the walls of the shaft. There are dull yellow flecks in the rock. 'All that glisters is not gold, it is true.' 'He was Russian, you know.' Beketov removes a canine tooth from a raw-looking gum and puts in in his pocket. He keeps all his lost teeth. 'Indeed he was not,' Stroganov protests. 'Shakespeare was a true Georgian.' 'Bosh! A Russian and a Bolshevik at that. In the first:' Beketov holds up a gnarled and blackened finger, 'He rewrote history from Caesar to those interminable British Henrys.' Stroganov shrugs. Becket raises a second finger, equally filthy and bent, 'He has claimed others work as his own.' This time his fellow miner nods. There is no third finger raised since Beketov's disappeared with its ring on arrival at the Gulag, 'And those glorious, glorious titles 'Much Ado About Nothing and All's Well That Ends Well'?Are these not slogans worthy of the Politburo?' Stroganov laughs, 'You forgot his Anti-Semitism.. Anyway, he is Georgian, he died on St George's Day and some say he was born then too.' 'Always joking, Pyotr. I hear Stalin was going to ban Georgian jokes, but he was frightened he might disappear himself.' 'Like us, you mean?' 'It is not we who have disappeared, Pyotr, it is everyone else. There is nothing but the Gulag.' 'Hah!' Stroganov has pincered a creeping, crawling thing between a finger and thumb. 'Dessert?' Beketov shakes his head, 'I've had one.' Stroganov's eyes narrow, 'When?' 'Yesterday.' Dessert finished, Stroganov gives a stifled belch, 'How do you know?' 'There is only yesterday.' 'No, I know that, I mean how do you know there is nothing else?' 'There is no evidence for its existence.' 'But we were there, before...' 'And if we were, it does not mean it still exists.' 'No Moscow, no Tblisi?' 'No New York, no Hollywood!' Pyor 'no-patronymic' Stroganov laughs, 'Was there ever any evidence that they existed?' 'They must have, to get the Nomenklatura so upset.' 'You know, we could be arrested for talking like this, Volodya.' 'We were.' 'On what charge? We should ask for a re-trial!' 'Khuliganstvo, and you need to have had a trial before you can have a re-trial.' 'Hah! Only a lawyer would know such things.' Stroganov looks down the length of the shaft they have been working since yesterday. 'Do you think he will come?' 'Maybe.' Beketov picks up the rock hammer and swings it at a likely smear of dull yellow. Archived comments for Enemy of the State Mikeverdi on 24-05-2015 Enemy of the State So sorry....I missed this one, so pleased I found it 🙂 Mike Author's Reply: |
| We Were Airmen (posted on: 11-05-15) poem that was on Jottify - a now defunct website... Above the fray, in skies blue and metal-grey. Listening, thinking, guessing. We were airmen. And on the ground, in bars, safe-and-bloody sound, chattering, drinking, boasting. We were airmen. Before the wars, on tours, old and crashing bores, fiddling, winking, chiselling. We were airmen. After the fight, on film, smart and medal-bright, parading, prinking, waving. We were airmen. Archived comments for We Were Airmen sweetwater on 11-05-2015 We Were Airmen This is simple, poignant and effective. Loved it. Sue. Author's Reply: deadpoet on 11-05-2015 We Were Airmen You might say, you were just doing your job Ewan but you should be proud. Anyone who "just" does their job should be proud. And it takes something a little extra to be airmen. Good for you! Author's Reply: Pronto on 14-05-2015 We Were Airmen Loved it's simplicity it said a lot to me. Author's Reply: amman on 14-05-2015 We Were Airmen Like the echoing rhythm, Ewan, apropos to the subject matter. Very effective. Reminds me of Dylan Thomas. Perhaps lose the 'And' starting the 2nd stanza to maintain the structure. Best. Tony Author's Reply: Hmm.. keep the structure, throw out the rhythm? "A-bove the fray" da-dum da-dum "And on the ground" da-dum da-dum there are more problems here, really, "After the fight" dum-da,da-dum... I toyed with "Yet post the fight" da-dum da-dum Still work to do. thanks for reading and commenting Ewan gwirionedd on 03-06-2015 We Were Airmen Excellent in its repetition and simplicity. Nice poem. May I suggest "skies of blue"? "Skies blue" sounds unnatural and forced, as does any adjective laid straight after a noun. Author's Reply: |
| Another Country (posted on: 08-05-15) If you think this is an apologia for UKIP, you have misunderstood it. It's gone. England, their England that never-never land of long-summered cricket on the green and draymen on the lane. A place, shining, just shining in jolly-jolly fun of short-trousered Williams in the school and violets at the gate. I saw waving, still waving a tattered, tattered flag and T-shirted bigots in the street with violence in their face. Archived comments for Another Country e-griff on 08-05-2015 Another Country as far as UKIP is concerned. I think people's good sense prevailed in the election. 🙂 Author's Reply: I've always been an advocate of PR... just imagine the make up of the HOC if it were in force on today's election figures. e-griff on 08-05-2015 Another Country You're right, ukip had around the same number of total votes as the snp. But the operational/practical difficulties of introducing pr are enormous. I think a transferable vote system would seem fairer than first past, avoiding split votes, but people instinctively mistrust it. Author's Reply: I've got to admit the transferable vote - If my first choice has no chance, I'll have my second - does have its attractions. There again, that would also have produced some really interesting results, I think. stormwolf on 08-05-2015 Another Country Hi Ewan, Great poem. The first two verses absolutely capturing the post-card image of old England and the contrast in the last one was a jolt. I know what you are saying. However, I think that in many (not all) cases of people acting like the people here, is a desperate cry from people who feel powerless amd overlooked. Not excusing it but trying to understand 😉 God knows what's ahead now for the UK. Many more poems methinks! Congrats on the nib Alison x Author's Reply: Hi Alison, Yes, I know that there are many who feel disenfranchised in the UK at the moment. I am sick of seeing people like Russell Brand - and others - trivialising politics (small p) and society. Middle class protesters on the streets of London, faces obscured (no doubt in case Mummy sees them) shouting about the miners' strike (they weren't even born), claiming solidarity with the working class, don't make me laugh! I'd like to see figures saying exactly who voted for UKIP by the ABC social grouping. A good bet would be that many would be white, blue-collar males. I have no answers, but both major parties really need to engage with what remains of the working class. 3rd generation benefit claimers in Middlesbrough will vote for whatever keeps the money coming and who can blame them? Regarding immigration, the story is much more complex than either right or left wing demagogues will admit. Doctor from India? Plumber from Poland? Bus Conductor from the West Indies? Irish Navvy? We've been here before. Let's just get on with what is already a fait accompli. Rant over! Thanks for reading, Alison, as always. Andrea on 08-05-2015 Another Country Ah, the England I remember (sort of). Dunno what Griff means, almost 4 mill voted for them. I, too, am an advocate of PR. 4 mill, 1 seat - how is that in any way democratic? Author's Reply: Supratik on 10-05-2015 Another Country It's great to have a picture of old England through this poem! Author's Reply: It is a view of England that is most definitely rose-tinted, and however much demagogues hark back to it, it is never coming back - not even in the form that it truly was. Thanks for reading! Mikeverdi on 10-05-2015 Another Country The England in the first verses disappeared after the fifties, blown away by my generation in a blitz of a different kind. I can only remember the young rebelling as a right of passage. In ever country it's the same, without it no change can happen, and any change is better than stagnation. Great writing Ewan. Mike Author's Reply: Supratik on 11-05-2015 Another Country Ewan, I felt the pain in your response to my comment. I come from a city called Calcutta (now Kolkata, the name was changed to bring in authenticity, ha ha ha, so juvenile an effort!!!). Calcutta is the capital of West Bengal, a state in India. In India, nearly all the states are different in all aspects; travelling from one city to the other is like travelling to different countries. In Calcutta, there are pockets which I cannot recognise; it is now full of people who never belonged to Bengal, and have no semblance of bengaliness in them. So I can empathize with the loss of identity or authenticity you conveyed so beautifully, but may be in a different context. No matter how hard we rationalize the loss as an after-effect of something, the loss of England in England could be very frustrating. And here is where Mike's comment can help. Author's Reply: |
| The Spandrels Overhead (posted on: 04-05-15) poem... We are here, once again, within the Royal Bedchamber. I see Camelodunum and much beyond. Gwenny looks at the spandrels overhead. I am fierce, Pendragón, atop my Royal Guinevere, I reach my Avalon and fall quite spent. Gwenny looks at the spandrels overhead. A sharp knock insistent upon the Royal oaken door, I see him, Lancelot, and much besides. Gwenny looks at the spandrels overhead. Footnote: Spandrel (Arch.) The triangular space between the outer curve of an arch and the rectangle formed by the mouldings surrounding it, frequently filled in with ornamental work. Archived comments for The Spandrels Overhead deadpoet on 06-05-2015 The Spandrels Overhead Funny 😂 Author's Reply: stormwolf on 06-05-2015 The Spandrels Overhead gawd Ewan, I was once accused of winding my watch! (Well he was not all that. )😜 This is both searing and self depreciating and well worth the nib. Alison x Author's Reply: Mikeverdi on 09-05-2015 The Spandrels Overhead Well you cant win them all...or so they say 🙂 Enjoyed the read and worth the Nib. Mike Author's Reply: |
| The Magic (posted on: 04-05-15) The worst disappearing trick of all, as a relative disappears before your eyes... The Magic Happens in the corners of rooms, is seen from the impossible of your eye: there are no angles in spheroids. They do it with mirrors and smoke. Single exposures do not lie, there are no faeries in Polaroids. We need two looking glasses to see ourselves as we really are: our own image is transposed in our brain. We do it with mirrors and smoke. Science and progress do not lie, we are the fathers of humanoids. Mysteries await us in bright-lit homes, are seen through the cataracts in your eyes: our own history is replayed in slow time, we blur it with mirrors and smoke. Neuron impulses do not lie, until they tangle in amyloids. Archived comments for The Magic deadpoet on 04-05-2015 The Magic This is a unique way of expressing what I can understand must be loss? I can see how you have described a relative with the 2 mirrors. That is great. Never heard it expressed this way. Very good indeed. I'm sorry if this happened to you recently. I hope I got it right. You are hard to decipher in your poetry. I tried hard this time. ☺ Author's Reply: |
| The Third Girl (posted on: 24-04-15) and here she is... She held my hand in hers and told me that she could love me – if the stars fell out of the sky. I asked for her promise and she swore that she would leave me – when diamonds dripped out of her eye. I held her hand in mine and told her that she should love me 'til the stars fell out of the sky. She asked me for my promise and I knew that I should tell her - that opals dripped out of her eye. Archived comments for The Third Girl deadpoet on 24-04-2015 The Third Girl Thought I would take a look at this series. Very colourful images and colourful girls. They all made an impression on me- young and old. Nice Ewan- I say Well done too !! Author's Reply: Mikeverdi on 26-04-2015 The Third Girl The first and the third brought a feeling of a Leonard Cohen song to mind. I don't know if this was your intention, it just did. I had not realised that the middle one was of the same group... so I got mixed up. Didn't matter in the end; as always I enjoyed the read. Mike Author's Reply: |
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| The First Girl (posted on: 17-04-15) "People are always asking me what my lyrics mean. Well I say what any decent poet would say if you dared ask him to analyse his work: if you see it, darling, then it's there." Freddie Mercury The first girl you took to the pictures has hair the colour of smoke, jokes about her deafness. Less worried about her looks she cooks for someone, everyone in her semi-detatched life on the edge of the town, down by the canal where you kissed her, missed her curfew too late for the last bus home. The first girl has your photograph still, will search your face for clues, use it for a coaster. The toaster then pops its load. She looks for something, anything in her silver-skinned hand gnarled by work and age. Rage at the waning, straining for unread futures, sutures holding fates, too late for living alone. Archived comments for The First Girl Andrea on 18-04-2015 The First Girl For some reason best known to myself, this reminded me of this (I did my best to ignore the teeth). (It's totally excellent by the way) Author's Reply: Mikeverdi on 26-04-2015 The First Girl I think I will read them all before commenting Ewan. Author's Reply: |
| Take Three Girls (posted on: 17-04-15) Still paved with stony hearts... ''Come down to London Town, join the underground.'' Judy sang and Bert plucked and naïve girls flocked to be Victoria, Kate or Avril, cello, babe or paintbox carried from King's Cross -never once getting lost- to West-bloody-Ken. A light flight, a late flit: that made, made them and made that? ''Out, down in London Town, on the underground.'' Ralph sang and, yes, plucked, the naïve girls rocked outside Victoria, Bank or Euston, saucepan, hat or hatbox, carried from Hackney never once getting free of door-stepping debt Archived comments for Take Three Girls bo_duke99 on 18-04-2015 Take Three Girls had to search for the inspiration, and may well explore more - beautifully executed, as ever - Greg Author's Reply: Mikeverdi on 19-04-2015 Take Three Girls I like the interchange of TV and music, brought it all back beautifully Ewan. Mike Author's Reply: |
| The Lint in God's Pocket (posted on: 13-04-15) rant... See them all in their rectitude The Chosen Ones, the blind-faithful of Allah, the dog-collared Anglican with his slip-on shoes. The catholic cleric with his dubious tastes, The hell-fire Baptist and the born-again fool, That Un-christian Scientist, whose patients lose. Count not on verisimilitude, Scientology's spacemen, Jehovah's Witnesses: the pearly gates' guardian must need some clues. These bone-head religions, their riches intact, are lint in God's Pocket, while in Sunday School the shit dries hard on the fisherman's shoes. Archived comments for The Lint in God's Pocket Andrea on 13-04-2015 The Lint in God’s Pocket Quite. Author's Reply: Mikeverdi on 14-04-2015 The Lint in God’s Pocket Indeed. I love that title. Author's Reply: Pronto on 15-04-2015 The Lint in God’s Pocket Brilliant title and the poem sang a song to my soul, Author's Reply: |
| Somehow (posted on: 03-04-15) A poem... Somehow, I've mixed the stories up. We talk of love and shadows, and years of solitude stretch out before us. Throw out the numbers, hoard the words, the absurds, the broken, the spoken, the token of written sparks flying upward from the page. Somehow, I've mixed the stories up. We talk of death and the maiden, in case of fire in a foreign land. Throw out the bodies, hoard the lies: watch but-whys, the writers, the fighters, the lighters of spitting fires, flying downward from the plane. Somehow, I've mixed the stories up. Archived comments for Somehow sweetwater on 03-04-2015 Somehow Have to admit with shame I don't completely understand the meaning here, hopefully other comments will enlighten me. However this to me understanding or not, is a terrific poem, I love the way your words fall sharply from the pen. For me this is what true poetry is all about. The words, the rhyme and rhythm perfection on a page. Sue. Author's Reply: Thanks for reading and commenting. Much of my poetry suffers from my early exposure to Eliot, so I can't resist obscure (and not so obscure) references. I know that this puts many, many people off. However, I do try to put words together in a sufficiently interesting way as to make people want to investigate. Clues : Death Flights; South American literature. Mikeverdi on 03-04-2015 Somehow There you go...being all convoluted again. I've so far made three poems out of your words, pleased to say one of them's not bad. Not totally sure that's what you intended but.... 🙂 Mike Author's Reply: Thanks for giving me a laugh Mike! There's more than one way to read any poem, anyway. Ewan |
| Timor Mortis Me Conturbat (posted on: 30-03-15) well it does... Warning! Contains Latin with which I have taken a syntactical liberty. I feel lumps growing under my skin, my sturdy heartbeat has grown thin. I hide lost hair under an old man's hat: Timor mortis me conturbat. Morning's glory does not come often, other hardnesses continue to soften. Lust and love? I've forgotten all that Timor mortis me conturbat. Mirrors show me an old, lined man, there is little I did, that I still can. I've no boon companion, just a miserable cat, Timor mortis me conturbat. Autumn's the season I savour most, the season of witches or occasional ghosts. The candle grows short, wax or fat, Timor mortis me conturbat. Memory fails, I suffer fools' jokes, there's solace in mummery, incense smokes: a coffin, a stone, in pace requiescat! Timor mortis me conturbat. Archived comments for Timor Mortis Me Conturbat sweetwater on 30-03-2015 Timor Mortis Me Conturbat I really loved this poem, did wonder why the cat was referred to as miserable. The last two verses are a favourite. With everything you say being so true, the fear death should not be confusing, but it is. Great poem Sue x Author's Reply: Well, there is a little projection by the narrator here. I'm not too far down this road myself yet. It's just that over the last 6 months people I know have been dropping like the proverbial flies. However, you never know how much time you have, Carpe Diem! Thanks for reading and for your generous comment Ewan Mikeverdi on 30-03-2015 Timor Mortis Me Conturbat Bugger...too close for comfort Ewan, although I do have Lesley and the dogs 🙂 A bit of my Latin: ego semper mauris, varius tatum profundum. Author's Reply: Thanks for reading Mike, I'm not so badly off as this. Non illegitimi carborundum is one of my favourite bits of Cod-Latin. Ewan pommer on 30-03-2015 Timor Mortis Me Conturbat Yes. as Mike says, too close for comfort.Well said Ewan.Tempus fugit, mors venit. Be lucky, Peter. Author's Reply: Too many contemporaries have died recently for me not to think about these things. This is an oldish poem which looks at things differently... http://jottify.com/works/the-top-of-the-hill/ Thanks for reading and commenting Ewan |
| Americana (posted on: 27-03-15) just a poem... We need newer presidents on our dollars, John Deere ain't on the plains in the fields. The diners are closed, Waffle House imitations burn the onions and salt the grits with Clorodox. No-one remembers the Black Sox, now the Whites can't win a raffle. Tall Man Riding's sitting low in the saddle on the flickered television old western a black-and-white sign of the times. There's no Drive-in out by the treatment plants, Roots Music is rap in the 'hoods and the 'Boros. The blues are nazz, Whitey Yale imitations blow harmonicas and bend the strings with Rotosound. We can't shout down from the high ground now the message is the music. Long Tall Sally's peeling in the desert on the long-nose of a B-52. A cocktail once upon a time in the west. We grow landfill and create fake hillside views, know your garbage, know your poor and plutocrats. The truckers haul shit, crap-shoot imitations full of poisons and half the price of quality. No-one bothers with posterity now the future is the present. White Cloud Mushroom's glowing on the skyline with the cactus and the droop-necked vulture. Hey! Lookit the old time 50's through the glass. Archived comments for Americana Mikeverdi on 27-03-2015 Americana As is often the case with your writing, I needed to read this several times. Having done that I think I get it. I know I can be a bit thick at times. I think it's bloody brilliant Ewan. Mike Author's Reply: |
| Manichean Dichotomy (posted on: 23-02-15) Chernobog, Czernobog, Tchernobog... a supposed Slavic equivalent to Beelzebub (-etc.). He barely exists in texts at all apart from one spectacular mis-appellation by Sir Walter Scott as Saxon deity Zernebock in Ivanhoe... It means Black God. Chernobog hides in the darkness of history: his existence vouchsafes Belobog's own. He laughs from the Bald Mountain top, retreat for the atramentous night. Is he the Devil? Is he not? ''For dark to exist there must be light, we understand black because there is white.'' Chernobog sings baritone in the choir of doom, counterpoints innocence's soprano tone. He shouts from the veil he lies beyond. Who believes, will fear, as well they might. Is he the Devil? Is he God? For two to exist there must be one, we understand this, because there are none. Archived comments for Manichean Dichotomy franciman on 23-02-2015 Manichean Dichotomy Really enjoyed this. Were you a Druid back in the day? cheers, Jim Author's Reply: Hahaha, no. I just find alternate mythologies and religions interesting. Old Tchernobog really only turns up nowadays in mild Slavic swearing in phrases which, although pretty much untranslatable, are equivalent to 'God damned' as adjective, and 'God damn you!' as a general sweary of annoyance. Thanks for reading, Jim Ewan |
| The Other Side (posted on: 20-02-15) Wish I could leave the genre blank... 'I just can't hear the sound of their voices any more,' Clitheroe exhaled, his lips vibrated like a child imitating a horse. 'It'll come back, it happens to us all,' Palmester's mouth tightened. He looked down at his nails. A manicure. Today. After Robert had finished moaning. And he'd finished humouring the idiot. Robert Clitheroe had been in the snug when Palmester arrived. Three empty bottles of imported lager stood on the round table in front of him. The lemon slices were arranged in a tri-lobate mush next to an unused beermat. Cliff was going to have one more black velvet and then he was off. Life was too short. Besides the table was full. 'It's alright for you,' Clitheroe stuck out a now thankfully immobile lower lip. Cliff sighed. 'Well,' Clitheroe began – Cliff signalled to the empty bottle and his own glass, then ran to the bar. 'Two more, Shane, then can you pretend there's a fire?' 'Too right, mate. Only canya pay off the bludger's bill?' 'Yes, yes, of course.' 'Ten bob, including yours.' Cliff threw the red note on the bar and said, 'Better hit the fire alarm as soon as I get back to him then.' The Aussie let him down. Some office girls came in. All mini-skirts and beehive hairdos. So Cliff listened to Robert complaining that the voices had stopped. He liked Robert. He was the only one of them to truly believe. Of course, he was quite mad. As mad as Leslie Flint. Doris hadn't been mad, though. Bad. Bad to the bone. It's no crime to give comfort, to allow the customers to believe. But you didn't try to fool a fellow listener. Not at all. Robert didn't try to fool anyone, except perhaps himself. And now he couldn't hear the voices. All the way down Wardour St. the chatter kept up. Cliff wished he couldn't hear Robert's voice. A cab almost ran them both down outside the Coach and Horses on Greek St. He dragged Robert into the pub. 'I haven't got...' 'I've got enough for both of us,' Blavatsky's would be shut in half-an-hour. Madame would wait for ten minutes and assume he wasn't coming. The nails would have to do until Monday. 'Palmester?' Robert slurred and mushed the 's'. 'Can I have a Mackeson?' 'Oh, for fuck's sake, Clitheroe!' Robert crashed into the bar and knocked over two full pints of mild. Who drank mild in London? Cliff wondered. Then he handed over he cash to pay for the crew-cut fellows' drinks as well as his own. His friend had already sat down over by the piano. Thank God it was still early evening. The - frankly - burly King and Queen who insisted on singing 'Knees Up Muvver Brown' ad infinitum would have been too much to bear. Well, he was going to get Robert out before 8 o'clock, if it killed him. It was possible that Robert Clitheroe would soon drink himself insensible and that would do. Half-way down the Mackeson, Robert stood up, executed a few caracoles in the manner of a tired dressage horse and made his way to the Gents'. He bumped into a large man who seemed to be shouting into the wall-mounted phone. The penny coins seemed tiny in his fist as he pumped them one after the other into the slot. 'I'm dead, tell him not to call. Tell him to visit.' Cliff looked round. The two crew-cut gentlemen glared back at him. Neither looked likely to twitter in the the quavering voice of an old lady. There was no-one else in earshot. The large man hung up the phone. Robert stumbled into him and bounced off, landing on the sticky carpet like a string-cut marionette. The big man lowered over him, but offered Cliff's friend a hand up. They came over to the table. 'Ge'm a drinkkk, I bummedinna 'im.' Clitheroe fell into his chair. 'Yeah, sorry about that. What can I get you? Pint?' 'I'd love a Babycham,' the voice was a rumble that must have started a long way from the mouth it came out of, maybe the seat of his trousers. Cliff returned to the bar. The barman put two tiny bottles on the bar next to a half-pint mug. 'On the house.' He looked at the barman, a local this time. 'Reggie drinks on the house,' he shrugged and Cliff took the glass and bottles back to the table. The three of them scarcely fit around the table. Reggie looked as though he was sitting on a child's chair. His suit looked very well cut and probably wasn't hooky. It was certainly better than Cliff's from Burton's peg. Was the man's name really Reggie? Or was it a bit of hero-worship for a namesake? The man was about the right age, but there was no twin in tow. Reggie picked up the Babycham bottles in one hand, the necks grasped between index and ring, middle and pinky; he poured them into the half-pint glass with some delicacy. He sipped from it as though it were fine bone china, little finger extended. Robert was snoring gently. 'Bit under the weather, your mate?' He flicked a glance at Robert's open mouth. 'Ah.. he's not exactly...' 'Ah, like that is it?' Reggie's mouth turned up at one side. Palmester looked at Robert, eyes wide, 'No, no, nothing like that, it's...' Reggie laughed, 'I don't care.' 'We're colleagues, of a sort.' The big man looked from one to the other, 'Policemen?' 'What? No... haha! Something else, something else entirely.' Palmester took a drink. 'Umm, Did you finish? The phone call, I mean, before...' he nodded towards the dozing Robert. 'No, well, I got through.' The Babycham was gone. Reggie stood, 'but no-one answered, not even heavy breathing. Just dead air. Drink?' He waggled the glass in his hand. 'Same again, don't bother with his,' they both looked at the string of drool joining the corner of Robert's mouth to his lapel. Reggie came back with the drinks. 'Ah, and the call, who..?' 'Oh, just Mum. Just felt the need to call, haven't spoken for a while. Don't ring that often, but regular, you know... usually once a fortnight. I just, well, I needed to call, don't know why.' 'Hmm, maybe you'd better go round.' 'Ha! Don't think so, she lives in Middlesbrough.' 'But-' 'I don't have that accent.' He said the last two words in what Palmester supposed was an approximation of how people spoke up there. 'Well, yes. Can't you go, though? Shouldn't you go?' 'What's it to you?' Palmester held up his hands. 'Yeah, you're right. None of my business.' 'I could go, I s'pose. Only... no car at the moment. MOT.' It came out, surprising Palmester himself. 'I'll take you.' 'No, I couldn't. It'd take hours to get there – and what about him?' 'Don't worry about Sleeping Ugly, they'll wake him up at chucking out time – and chuck him out. He'll get home. He always does.' Reggie stood up, 'well if you're sure...' Palmester wasn't sure, but he said 'it's the weekend' anyway. Reggie slept from Peterborough to Scotch Corner. The big man could not possibly have been comfortable from the moment he folded himself into the seat next to Reggie. He'd looked at the Imp and asked if it was a Dinky Toy. Said he'd never seen one so close-up before. The voice had come just north of Doncaster. 'Hurry,' it had said. While Reggie slept on. 'What time is it?' Reggie yawned, thought about a stretch, then thought again. 'Three.' 'Not bad, seven hours. We'll be there in an hour or so.' 'I've no fuel left. We're pulling in here.' Palmester steered the Hillman into the grounds of the Hotel. 'I'm going to have a kip. We'll sort out some petrol in the morning.' Reggie glared at him, but Palmester went to sleep anyway. He woke up at seven. Reggie wasn't in the car. The petrol might have stretched to Middlesbrough if he hadn't been in the car from the beginning. In which case, the car, and Palmester, would not have been parked outside the Scotch Corner Hotel at all. He laughed, quite sure he was still tired. It looked like rain, it should have been lighter by now. He jumped as the car rocked and the door swung open. 'Drive.' Reggie said, cramming himself into the car. 'Petrol... we need petrol. It won't even start on the fumes in the tank.' 'It's sorted.' Reggie glanced over at a Daimler Sovereign at the other end of the car park. 'Get moving,' Reggie pointed out of the windscreen. Reggie's suit looked rumpled. More than sleeping in the car would make it. In the gloom, Palmester thought there might have been a stain on the jacket. Perhaps he'd spilled some of the syphoned petrol. Palmester swerved to avoid the jerry-can that most likely had come from the Daimler's open boot. He looked at the petrol gauge. The needle was showing full. Reggie must have filled the can more than once. They took the A66 eastbound towards Middlesbrough. 'We're looking for Ayresome Park Road, when we get there, it's near the football ground.' Then Reggie went back to sleep. Palmester pulled to the kerb in front of some terraced houses. Further down the street were some red-brick industrial units and at the end of the road the main entrance to the stadium. 'Ever been?' Reggie shook his head like a dog bothered by a fly, 'Hate football. Always have.' 'What about your Dad? Didn't he take you?' 'Hated him too.' Reggie pointed out of the window, 'You need to go a bit further down, number 43.' Palmerston turned in his seat, hands on the ignition, 'Now look-' 'Just get on with it.' Reggie knocked on the green door. 'Haven't you got -' 'No, haven't lived here since I was twelve.' Palmester guessed that was at least 20 years ago, just after the war. A shout through the letter box flap produced no reaction whatsoever. Reggie straightened up, balled his fists and ground them into the small of his back. 'I'll see if Mrs Jessup still has a key,' he knocked at the door of the next house along. Mrs Jessup had moved on, apparently. A young woman came out, headscarf around her head, cigarette glued to a bright red lip and a toddler on her hip. 'Whatta yiz want, like?' Reggie coloured up, 'Ah, do you have a key for Mrs. Duncan's next door?' 'That old witch? No, no ah don't.' The door was shut firmly but not slammed. Palmester was surprised that Reggie hadn't jammed a foot in it. 'What now?' he asked. Reggie stared down the street at the football stadium. Palmester heard the voice again, 'Hurry UP!' He ran a hand across his face. This was ridiculous. He'd always laughed at Robert Clitheroe's fancy that he really heard the voices. Every show was a disaster. Even the fools at the Spiritualist Churches thought that he was faking. However, they lapped up every cheesecloth ectoplasmic manifestation that Palmester and all the others paraded before the gullible bereaved. And now he was hearing voices. Palmester jumped as the green door swung inward with a crash. The Yale lock had parted from the frame with the lock-set still engaged. The smell was bad. Mostly cats. 3 arched their backs the minute Reggie stepped inside. Palmester couldn't smell death or corruption. Just strong cat's piss. The stairs went straight up from a tiny square of flooring. To the right was a door to a lounge. No carpet or linoleum was visible. Every square inch was covered in piles of newspapers. A door on the far side led through to a kitchen. More a scullery, Palmester reckoned. Reggie was shaking his head. 'What a fucking state! She'll be upstairs.' The stair-case was narrow, Reggie hardly fit between the adjoining wall and the banister. Palmester followed him up. There were two bedrooms upstairs. 'Loo's outside,' Reggie said. One of the doors wouldn't open more than an inch. 'More newspapers,' Reggie said. Palmester tried the other door, it swung wide. There was an extremely obese woman in a single bed. The room looked tidy, if not clean. 'Mum!' Reggie's voice sounded like a twelve-year-old's. Palmester recognised the other voice, 'Took yer time, eh?' But the mummified remains' lips did not move. Reggie's hands were round Palmester's throat, 'thanksmum,thanksmum,thanksmum, long time since you got me one, thanksssssss!' Palmester heard the old woman's voice for the last time, 'Welcome to the other side, Mr Palmester.' Archived comments for The Other Side franciman on 20-02-2015 The Other Side Didn't see it coming, Ewan. Always a sign of a great tale. Atmospheric, evocative build-up that had me racing toward the reveal. The only bit I found clunky was the passage with the two young men at the bar and the whatyoulookinat look. It just read lumpy and out of place alongside the more engaging prose of The piece. Just me, I'm sure! cheers, Jim Author's Reply: Yes, I see what you mean. However, there needs to be something to demonstrate that the formerly sceptical Palmester is the one now hearing voices - or in this case a particular voice. I'll have a look at it but the two men at the bar will stay somehow. Thanks for reading. Mikeverdi on 20-02-2015 The Other Side Agree with Jim, the ending was well hidden and I enjoyed the read. If I may critique... I found the idea of an 'Obese' mummified woman's remains with her lips sewn up unlikely. Not to say it stopped my enjoyment though, it was a great story. 🙂 Mike Author's Reply: No Mike, her lips weren't sewn up, but she was dead. If you find the woman's remains still being in the bed less likely than people in communication with the dead, then I'm surprised. Thanks for reading and commenting. Mikeverdi on 21-02-2015 The Other Side Not strange being in bed, just still being fat when mummified. I don't know where I got the stitched up lips from. It was just an observation, as I said I liked the story. Mike Author's Reply: e-griff on 22-02-2015 The Other Side Just to comment on the style of this, I really did not like it. The story may indeed be a goodun at heart, but the execution leaves a lot to be desired - forgive me for speaking bluntly, hope you understand I'm trying to help. A staccato style is fine if that's what you choose, but consider the opening to exemplify my disquiet: '... just can't hear the sound of their voices any more,' Clitheroe exhaled, his lips vibrated like a child imitating a horse. 'It'll come back, it happens to us all,' Palmester's mouth tightened. Robert Clitheroe had been 'It's alright for you,' Clitheroe stuck out a now thankfully immobile lower lip. etc etc. Author's Reply: Yes that's all fair enough, I suppose. However, it all read a lot more smoothly to me as I originally wrote it. Then I realised that the POV was all over the place. In my efforts to keep focus on the main protagonist, the story "delaminated" somewhat, provoking your distaste along the way. |
| The New Normans (posted on: 13-02-15) No... it's up to you what it's about. The major oak is still in the forest. A wound horn's echo is heard; over the sound of others, the Queen's highway is killing the trees. Locksley weeps. Angle-Land sleeps. They are the Norman Invaders, crushing the Saxon in word, even as they pound their breastplates: the still greenwood is crying for shame. At modern lies, the Green Man sighs. Our King is not under the mountain, nor sleeps deep in Avalon: craven though we wait in serfdom, we yet savour the chattel's despair. And Cameron quakes, when Hereward wakes. Archived comments for The New Normans Mikeverdi on 13-02-2015 The New Normans Still searching 🙂 I get most of the references, and the names. As always you write to make us think, and that's good, I just hope I'm worthy of it when I pin it all together. 🙂 Mike Author's Reply: sweetwater on 13-02-2015 The New Normans Well I have to admit, I am lost. It comes across to me as a forest on the verge of destruction, from the Locksley and Green Man connection. However for me the meaning takes second place to the content, I found it entrancing, absolutely fascinating. Sue. Author's Reply: franciman on 16-02-2015 The New Normans And yet the Nouveau Normandaise would sing in praise of ang1o -Saxon virtues. Ewan, this is vg and nominated. And this is what poets should be writing of. cheers, Jim (Fracking the Greenwood. Now there's a Noble plan!) Author's Reply: |
| Lie With me (posted on: 06-02-15) ... In your twisted sheets I'll follow dangerous curves to reach heaven's gate. Though not religious, you'll moan in tongues; writhing, you'll pull your hair and mine. In the little death, body stiffened - back arched, mons high - your rigor vitae. Archived comments for Lie With me stormwolf on 06-02-2015 Lie With me oooh! The feeling I am getting here is one of illicit love . There comes over (maybe not intentional) a feeling of even slight resentment to the woman's ability to snare through sexual charms. 'twisted sheet, dangerous curves' but he is aware but more than willinging order to reach 'heaven's gate' I liked the semi-religious feeling through the words and metaphors. I confess I had to look up rigor vitae.;( This is a very powerful woman, who lives life on her own terms...I am getting the feeling of perhaps an affair and that the title could be read two ways? Anyway, Ewan, a very skillful poem with every word accountable. Alison x Author's Reply: I count a poem unsuccessful if it is read the same way by any two readers. Thank you for reading, Alison. Ewan Bozzz on 07-02-2015 Lie With me Despite the double entendre of the lie, speed of arrival does not always imply illicit sex - yearning too after separation as in Alison's poem? On the nail Ewan - but where else are you...David Author's Reply: As I said in my reply above, I consider a poem read differently by different readers as successful. Thank you for reading and commenting, Ewan |
| Put Out More Flags (posted on: 06-02-15) The British Army has announced the formation of a new unit to specialise in cyber warfare, to attack enemies of the state via social media amongst other things... It's a phoney war; the enemy in plain sight, hiding behind a flat screen. We tell ourselves atrocities are faked and finessed on youtube and facebook. Some rave of Lex Talonis, forgetting that this is what we fight over. A man's end in pixels, zeroes and ones flashed by wire and without. One million likes for a snuff movie with political motivation. It's a funny war, we delegate a strange fight, typing behind our flat screen. We tell them tales, propaganda half-baked and possessed on theytube and fakebook. Put out more flags. Archived comments for Put Out More Flags Bozzz on 07-02-2015 Put Out More Flags An apt description of establishment hack - but why bother - as you say, Facebook and You tube tell all. Sharp poem, nibworthy IMHO. David Author's Reply: |
| Manager of the Modernist Branch (posted on: 02-02-15) More stuff about Tom Let us go then, you and I, retrace the steps, ponder the why; the when, the who, the how, the what. Remember the Mid-West that Tom forgot. A past burned like letters in a fire stoked with poker-faced disgust. Call me King, call me Knave, call me Possum, Omissive Liar. Move on, write on, in Babylon 'mene, mene, tekel, upharsin'. Back turned on the Big River, go you down to Nineveh. Sanskrit written on wind, in sand the opaque, mis-remembered, few understand. Big town, smaller river via dreaming, uninspiring spires down among the hallowed men, town, gown and falling down. In for a penny in for a Pound, journeys to Lloyd's on the underground. And a road not travelled, better in the waste land than in collared slavery, unsavoury to aesthetes and drones alike. Inheritance and legacy, written or hawked like corner vendors' news, clues to friendships long and short, as Gwyer's partner doubled his stake. Wystan, Spender, and another Tom – Hughes, he found others to fill his own shoes. Breath spent, life up in smoke though still quite fond, burned and lost in the fire beyond, lauded for all that Ezra wrote, Tom became his own foot-note. Archived comments for Manager of the Modernist Branch Mikeverdi on 02-02-2015 Manager of the Modernist Branch That's just bloody brilliant. Mike Author's Reply: Glad you liked it Mike. The phantom nibber got this one. Hmm... perhaps he figured out it was a poem referring to TS Eliot... Ionicus on 03-02-2015 Manager of the Modernist Branch Very clever and stylish, Ewan. Author's Reply: |
| Kielbasa (posted on: 30-01-15) Best served cold... Nothing grew where Eden now was, Stanislaus saw. It had taken a long time. A fifteen year old boy had begun work in #5 Slaughterhouse in Wroclaw almost 70 years ago. A very thin boy. Wladislaw the foreman gave him various things that did not go to the butchers and meat factories. There was a room at the back where he showed Stanislaus how to make sausages. They were good. Better than what had made Stanislaus so thin,until Ivan had come and left the gates open. People still talked of liberation, but it wasn't that, in Stanislaus' view. The boy had walked away from the other 7,000 skeletons and stopped at the gate of that Slaughterhouse. It was only 6 kilometres from the place where the Eden Meat Products factory now was to the slaughterhouse. History said that it was one-and-a-half million lifetimes. And now Stanislaus was back. The opening would be attended by local dignitaries and a junior minister from Warzawa. Stanislaus had seen him first on the tv: a typical bureaucrat, very like Hőss had been, if you thought about it. The junior minister had been put in charge of redeveloping the site. There were protests and that's why Stanislaus had put forward his proposal. 'It should be one of us, Pan Minister,' he'd said. 'One of you? Why?'' The minister looked up from his desk. 'It might be best. The Amis and their friends from Galilee. Some people still care. 'Do they?' The minister asked. Stanislaus looked around the office. The Solidarna Polska emblem hung in a large frame behind the minister's desk. Photographs of the minister with Ludwik Dorn in the Sejm flanked it. Then he stared at the man behind the desk for a while until the minister spoke. 'Maybe you're right, Berkowicz.' It had been easy, Stanislaus reflected. As easy as leaving behind the kashrut. When you spent the day with slaughtered pigs, what did it matter? Besides, Stanislaus had shown a gift for the sausage, Wladislaw had seen it, straight away. Whatever the foreman gave him Stanislaus spun from offal wheat into sausage gold. They had started at a street market, at the weekends. The first Saturday every link had been sold by 11.15. Wladi and Stan celebrated in Mleczarnia, although Wladi left early. Stanislaus looked out of the window at him, collar up against the wind and turned away at the sight of the congregation leaving the half-rebuilt synagogue. One shop, two, seven, a chain throughout Poland and a branch in Brooklyn. Looking backwards it happened so quickly. At the time it had been… a long-winded process. The first factory had been purpose built in 1965. Of course, there were quotas and the curse of full-employment and the crêche within the factory walls. There were the commissars to pay, and the Służba Bezpieczeństwa too. God bless Lech Wałęsa and capitalism for enabling one factory to become ten. And then in the 90's, somehow, it had stopped being about sausages. First there were the one-word-name supermarkets over the border in Germany, then factory farms in Austria and Britain. Acquisitions, take-overs – friendly and hostile; mergers and outright theft although they called it other names. His company owned everything from kindergartens to crematoria. His birthday, 85, a good day to open it. Eden Meat Products Factory. He wondered how long people would still call it Oswiecim or the Germans' name for it. Stanislaus watched as the Minister finally cut the ribbon after a speech which even he must have found boring. The guided tour was cancelled. The TV cameras would film the motionless machinery and tomorrow it would begin. The old Jew smiled a smile as cold as the Tatra mountains. Refrigerated wagons would bring good German flesh to make into kielbasi and Stanislaus would sell the Germans their own grandfathers back to them in their beloved sausages. Archived comments for Kielbasa Mikeverdi on 30-01-2015 Kielbasa Just terrific, I enjoyed every word, thanks for posting. Mike Author's Reply: |
| Transient Magic (posted on: 23-01-15) because it was... and it still is And the hour came, when the moon split asunder. The Most Beautiful Man made signs above us. We had come to the mountain, his faithful ones and I. Then the hour passed, and the moon became a circle. Light Personified confirmed it as his miracle. We had come to the mountain, his faithful ones and I. Some from Makkah whispered of transient magic. God's Messenger told us to cast them down. We had come to the mountain, his faithful ones and I. But such belief was snuffing wisdom's candles. More Praiseworthy told us to quench them all. We came down from the mountain, his faithful ones and I. Archived comments for Transient Magic stormwolf on 23-01-2015 Transient Magic Loved it Ewan. It had magic infused with ancient mystery all the way through. Right up my street if not my mountain 😉 The message ever so slightly cryptic (to me anyway) but the feeling the poem engendered was sacred. Alison x Author's Reply: Thank you for reading, Alison. The poem is supposed to 'turn' in the last stanza. It's supposed to show how charismatic leaders can disappoint their followers. sweetwater on 24-01-2015 Transient Magic I too felt the mystical quality of this poem, which was enhanced by the repeated last line. Lovely "other worldly" feeling all the way through. Sue x Author's Reply: Thank you for reading, Sue. In the last stanza there is a suggestion of a rejection of the mystical leader. Mikeverdi on 25-01-2015 Transient Magic Quite often when reading your work in the past, the meaning has not always been clear. I agree with Alison, that's not always important; the strength of the writing caries it through...as in this case. I loved it. I was a little confused by the use of capital letters. Mike Author's Reply: Hi, Mike. Thanks for reading. The capital letters are used because the phrases are all epithets by which a certain religious figure is known and referred to in the appropriate religious text. Nemo on 25-01-2015 Transient Magic I'm reading something topical into the last stanza. Wisdom's candles are indeed being snuffed. "Enjoyed" this, Ewan. Gerald Author's Reply: Yes, the poem is provoked - I shan't say inspired - by recent events. Thank you for reading, Nemo. gwirionedd on 21-11-2015 Transient Magic I would need to read the Quran, I think, to really understand this. But I can see how belief in magic and miracles snuffs out wisdom's candle. Author's Reply: |
| Believer (posted on: 12-12-14) Archived comments for Believer sweetwater on 13-12-2014 Believer I can't claim to understand everything in this verse, but I have read it through several times and it really caught my interest and with each reading it all became clearer, and made such obvious sense. As you say every person's God is put together by hundreds of jigsaw pieces handed down. Your words have given me much to think about. Sue. Author's Reply: Bozzz on 13-12-2014 Believer You have it right. I see the scribes of ancient humanity's events as having never been anything more than the newspaper hacks of today - inaccurate, biased, motivated by the need to survive. Why should their work be endowed with truth and wisdom implanted with so-called later knowledge. A fabricated manifesto of the political past to promote today's objectives. Bravo my friend....David Author's Reply: |
| Christmas (Round) Robin (posted on: 01-12-14) Jonty has to do the Christmas round robin... Dear All, (special mention for Victor, last next-door neighbour but one, how much was the lottery win by the way?). All is well here at ''Lutterworth Towers''. Thanks for that John (you know who you are), it's quite funny really. Though I think it's a little unfair since it's only a Victorian terrace and the second bathroom isn't finished. Jonquil is coping well after the unfortunate incident in the supermarket and has been wonderful since I took charge of the medication. Viveca is doing very well at the new free school, this term's report included a remark from the head saying he's never had a student like her. We were so proud. Bevel is not doing so well at the Montessori and one of the younger female teachers did remark that he seems a little precocious. Most boys like to explore the differences between themselves and girls, so I don't consider it too much of a problem. Jonquil's indisposition means that this news-letter business has fallen to me, along with the housework and feeding Poppaea. There are some wonderful formulae in Aldi's which are quite as good as those in Sainsbury's, thank goodness. Those of you who know Lassiter and Quim will be aware that I'm on a leave of absence for six months by mutual agreement. I'm not sure that I will go back as Tarquin Lassiter did make a few provisos that I could not accept and I'm not sure that kind of surgery is possible or even legal. Those of you who went to school with me will remember how well I ran the tuck shop at Prendergast. I've started doing a stall at the Car Boot on alternate Sundays. It's going rather well although you would not believe the amount of thievery attempted. Sometimes it's not even Oiks! Suffice to say the Carters and ourselves are no longer on speakers. Last week we cleared a splendid 150 pounds. I must admit I was sad to see Jonquil's dresses go. She said she'd never wear them again even though the Doctor did say any weight gain would be temporary. Last week Jonquil's mother, Boudicca, arrived with more than the customary two suitcases. She has kindly offered to stay until her daughter's indisposition is over. Unfortunately this means that I have had to move out of the spare bedroom to the sofa. However, as Boudicca is fond of saying, we're all in it together. I'm trying to disabuse Bevel of the habit of stage whispering 'up to our necks', when she does. On Christmas Day itself, Viveca's new beau is dropping by. It must be love since he had to fill in quite a few forms at the remand centre to enable him to come to Lutterworth Towers rather than his mum's flat over on the estate. I like to think we're doing our bit for those less fortunate than ourselves. In any event, Kyle is a huge improvement on Viveca's guest last year, Buster. I'm not entirely convinced that he had no connection with our burglary Boxing Day last, especially after hearing his cryptic conversation on a mobile better than the one the office supplied to me. Viveca bade farewell to Buster shortly after his trial. I think she'd accepted he was just a tad too old for her. At least Kyle is only 15 and girls do mature earlier, don't they? Anyway, as you see I'm sending this E-mail with all our Christmas wishes. Jonquil and I both agreed we'd prefer to do a little for the planet and not send actual cards this year. If you like you could contribute to your favourite charity instead. I shall be donating to Fathers 4 Justice this year, just in case. Merry Christmas all! Jonty Lutterworth and Family. Archived comments for Christmas (Round) Robin Mikeverdi on 02-12-2014 Christmas (Round) Robin HaHaHa! I really enjoyed this, it reads like a situation comedy; eg. Mrs Brown. Thanks for another side of you Ewan. Mike Author's Reply: |
| The Wrong Morris (posted on: 01-12-14) Not so very long ago... 'Cor-por-al Maw-riss.' The tall black man drawled my rank and name as if trying it out for a character in a play. 'Yessir, Loo-tenant Washington!' I stood up and to attention. The Yanks liked that sort of thing, although I can't say I ever got used to it. 'Get along to Headquarters, they gotta job for yuh.' I saluted him and got in return the perky wave that is common to the United States Air Force and drum majorettes in bad musicals. The Lieutenant mumbled a 'stuck-up Brit' and I ignored it. I knew I'd made no friends at Lakenheath. Surely it wouldn't be long before someone found out they'd sent the wrong Morris. Her Majesty's Royal Air Force had seconded me to the USAF, at RAF Lakenheath. There'd been a little bother in Berlin with a working girl, so I should have been handing out blankets and sheets at RAF Benbecula, a place on few people's list of preferred postings. It was an admin mistake which I wasn't keen to correct. At the Yank base I got aircraft technicians to sign for spanners. It was a long way from listening in to Soviet communications. I'd been a Sergeant before and since they couldn't prove the girl was working for the Stasi as well as Mon Cherie's, they'd only busted me as far as Corporal. It was the end of Berlin for me though. At least I was getting used to the uniforms by that time. The Yanks seemed to get medals for everything, but there were a few decorated Vietnam veterans around. Many were pilots and therefore officers. Some of them stared right through you when you saluted them, not seeing a uniform but ragged trousers and a different coloured skin. Once inside the HQ building, I followed an Airwoman 1st Class into the Chief Clerk's office. We both watched her leave. I bet myself he was thinking she was first class too. 'Maw-riss, ain't it?' 'Yes, Sergeant.' The Chief Clerk waved an arm burdened with many stripes towards the open door of his office at the rows of clerks at their desks. There must have been around 50 of them. 'You can call me Chief, Corporal.' I thought how much he looked like Ernest Borgnine, but didn't mention it. He stood up, 'Follow me,' he said and put on a forage cap. We went out of the Personnel and Administration pool and along to an office with Base Adjutant written on the door. My escort knocked. There was a shouted 'C'mon in'. Ernest opened the door, marched in, gave a genuine salute and said, 'It's the Limey, suh, from Stores.' The Base Adjutant was a full Colonel. On a RAF station that size – if we had had one the size of Lakenheath – he most likely would have been, at best, a Wing Commander, but much more likely a Squadron Leader. A Major, if you like. I could count on the fingers of no hands the times I'd had an interview with someone of the Colonel's rank, at least in uniform. His desk was very large, though it did not occupy much of the floor space in his office. Somehow he managed to make the desk look unaffected, just incidental. Perhaps that was due to his own size. On one wall were photographs of planes and politicians, plaudits and certificates all framed in an identical dark wood. It was hard to believe that he would cart such things all around the world from Guam to Guatemala. 'Sit down,' he looked at some paper on his desk. 'Cor-por-al Morris, isn't it?' 'Yessir,' I was still rigidly at attention, having thrown up a sharp salute on entering his office. 'I mean it, we're hats off as of this moment, son.' He had pilots wings over his breast pocket. He was about 32 or 3. How in hell he'd ended up in Administration, I had no idea. It conjured pictures of catastrophic missions ending in permanent grounding. Perhaps that was why the photos travelled around with him. I took off my beret and sat in the armchair. The Colonel opened a drawer and pulled out a packet of Lucky Strike. He shook the packet and offered one of the two protruding cigarettes to me. After he lit his own, he passed me his Zippo. I glanced at the crest, 352nd Tactical Fighter Squadron. Super Sabres out of Phan Rang. He'd have been in his late 20's in 1971. I lit the cigarette. 'Know anything about 'Nam?' He held out his hand for the lighter. I didn't trot out the joke about North Luffenham, where I'd learned my Russian. He'd have pronounced it 'Luffen-hayum' anyway. 'A bit, reading's a good way to pass a night shift.' He stared at me for a while, then, 'and a boring day-job.' He straightened up in his chair, 'Well, I'd sure be wondering what this was about if I were you, son.' 'I expect you'll tell me soon, sir.' He steepled his hands and put his elbows on the desk, I was sure they taught that at every Officer Training College in the world, from Cranwell to Point Cook. 'You learned Russian, right?' 'I did, sir.' He thumbed through a file, 'Outstanding student, near native skills, recommend for...' The Colonel looked up at me, 'you know what it says here under the x-es?' 'We never see our personnel records, sir.' 'You must know.' 'It might have been embassy duties, sir.' 'You aren't that naïve, son.' 'Doesn't matter, sir. I went to Berlin. You must know what they do at Marienfelde. We did the same.' 'Have it your own way. I've gotta job for you. You can say no, right off the bat and I'll say have a nice day. Or you can listen to what it is, but once you know, you'll be doing it, come what may.' 'Is it treasonable?' He raised his eyebrows, 'If that means what I think it does, then no. In fact, you'll be helping Détente a little. Or at least that's what they're saying in Washington, you understand?' I shrugged, 'Why not?' The Colonel stood. He wasn't so tall standing up. He had the shortest legs I'd ever seen under a massive torso. He should have been a giant. Instead, he was merely average height. He went over to the door, opened it, peered out at the clerks in the huge pool and shut it again. There was a hi-fi system against one wall, he switched on the radio. It must have been Radio 2. Ol' Blue Eyes was warbling Strangers in the Night. The American was smiling by the time he took his seat again. 'You do have a passport?' I nodded. 'You'll fly from here to Frankfurt, then you'll get the Military Train to Berlin. We'll give you orders... papers allowing you to travel on your passport. You'll have to leave your military ID with me.' My blue cardboard F1250 looked tiny on his desk. 'Berlin?' 'You won't be staying, you'll be taken to Schoenefeld and you'll go onward from there.' 'Onward?' I felt as dull as I must have sounded. 'If I go on now, you won't be turning back, capisce?' He didn't look Italian and his name badge said Morgenstern. I took a last drag on the Lucky and he handed me an ashtray. 'OK,' I breathed out the smoke into his face. He didn't flinch. He did take a deep breath before starting to speak. 'You'll be escorting a VIP on an unofficial visit to Moscow. The VIP is visiting a V VIP at the request of said V VIP. This is a non-military matter, however it is beyond top secret codeword level. The visit will take place over the course of no more than two hours within the confines of Moscow Shermetevo Airport. The face to face will take place in a private lounge. You and the subject will not leave the Airport except on the return Interflug flight to Berlin. You will also be the interpreter for the V and the V V.' He had a sheet of paper in front of him, but hadn't looked at it once. 'Also?' 'You're a sign of good faith. If the summit goes wrong and the Soviets are dissatisfied, they get to keep you.' 'Not the VIP?' 'He's far too important for that.' 'Where do I meet the VIP?' 'At Schoenefeld Airport. In Berlin. There'll be no problem with identification.' 'No codeword? No 'Hot Enough for June?' He laughed, but not because he was a fan of Dirk Bogarde. 'There'll be no problem with identification. Just wait at the Interflug check-in.' And there wasn't. There was no problem with anything. I'd read my orders and could see nothing unusual in them. The strange thing was that people only had to look at them for a second and I felt like Ali Baba. This had not been my experience when presenting my secondment orders at the Main Gate, on posting to Lakenheath. It had taken 3 hours to get as far as the MP Picquet Post. I was in the main concourse, rushing to the East German airline's desk. I'd stopped for a beer that became three in the wink of an eye or maybe half-an-hour. It was a night flight and if the rumours were true about the in-flight service, a stiff drink was the best pre-flight routine. As the Colonel had said, there was no problem with identification. I recognised the trilby and the raincoat. I held out a hand and told him he was waiting for me. He gave me a piercing look, 'Volunteer?' 'No, not really.' 'Get your boarding pass and let's go then.' The starchy blonde on the check-in clearly didn't recognise him, although he'd made no effort at disguise. Perhaps it was too ridiculous to be true, or Interflug's staff really were trained to be as impassive as a guardsman at Buckingham Palace. And it went on. The two pairs of bad-suits fore and aft all the way out to the aircraft steps acknowledged neither of us. The stew who welcomed us aboard had all the charm of Rosa Klebb and I steered well clear of her flat and shiny lace-ups. The VIP and I took our seats near the front, there was no class on Interflug, a truly Communist airline. 'Why?' I asked, thinking to take his mind off the take-off, which was making the runway seem like a ploughed field. 'Ask not what you can do...' 'I heard you weren't so keen on the Democrats now.' He laughed. 'They're all jerks. The other crowd made me an offer I couldn't refuse.' The man looked out of the window, but there was nothing to see except the lights of East Berlin. 'You like music. That stuff they do now? All those hippies?' 'Yeah, I do.' 'It's crap, you know. There's no romance, no swing. Nuthin'.' 'Nobody likes their father's music, nobody likes their son's.' 'Maybe.' 'Who are we going to see?' 'I don't know, son. Somebody important, that's all I know.' He was still wearing the trilby. I wondered if he hadn't brought the toupée. Not wearing it would have been an effective disguise, although he didn't appear to need one. I felt as though we were in some parallel world where he wasn't and never had been famous. He pulled the hat down over his eyes, 'Might as well get some sleep son, it's going to be a long day.' He slept until the landing, when he held tight to my forearm and his armrest. 'Where are you supposed to be?' I asked. 'The Agency recommended saying I was visiting family in Hoboken. I told 'em I'm never going back there. The papers say I'm in Switzerland getting the monkey glands treatment, everyone'll believe that.' He gave a bitter laugh as the wheels touched tarmac. We left the Tupolev 134 last of all, except for Rosa Klebb. We were bracketed into the terminal by the Slavic cousins of the East Berlin goons who had escorted us onto the plane. Inside the terminal there were Red Army uniforms everywhere, AK-47's at the ready. We turned off into a narrow corridor. The interval between uniforms became shorter and shorter. There were ten either side of the door at the end. The first pair of heavies knocked. The door opened and we were ushered in.There were only two KGB in the room, unless the pianist was one too. The man on the sofa looked ill. He coughed several times and spat into a silk handkerchief. There were 3 bottles of vodka on the table and two glasses. I opened my mouth, Russian came out, 'Leonid Ilyich, may I present...' The old man interrupted, 'Kto ne evo znayet? Who doesn't know him? Tell him to speak to the pianist, I want to hear him sing.' My travelling companion went over to the woman seated at the piano. He whispered in her ear then turned to me, 'Ask him what he wants me to sing.' I turned to Brezhnev, but he shouted, spilling some vodka as he did so, 'Mоя́ Доро́га, Mоя́ Доро́га! Moyá Doróga, Moyá Doróga!' I winked at the American and said, 'Guess, Francis Albert, guess.' Archived comments for The Wrong Morris Mikeverdi on 01-12-2014 The Wrong Morris Truly brilliant Ewan, thanks. Mike Author's Reply: Hi Mike, just a bit of fun really. Or maybe it really did happen... I'm sure I could convince a conspiracy theorist. 😀 Thanks,as always, for reading Ewan |
| Nonsense Rhyme (posted on: 14-11-14) do you really need one? Tic tac toe, you don't know which way's up, or where I go. One two three, you love me just as much as Claire McGee. Ha ha ha - not so far - come with me to a titty bar. He he he, don't you see? You read this - you're as daft as me Da da dum, metric sum; two are short and one long one Piff Paff Poff, you may scoff, laugh at this until you cough. Archived comments for Nonsense Rhyme pommer on 15-11-2014 Nonsense Rhyme Hi, I enjoyed this one. I did write a comment yesterday, which finished up in my inbox. I don't mind being as daft as you reading this. I really liked it well done. Be lucky, Peter. Author's Reply: Thanks for reading Peter! sweetwater on 16-11-2014 Nonsense Rhyme Loved this, took me back to childhood and playground nonsence rhymes. 🙂 Sue x. Author's Reply: |
| Holes (posted on: 03-11-14) My dog passed away on Friday, so I don't really care what anyone thinks of this... In the lawn, a scrape; a foxhole, apt for your vulpine looks. In the trees, a pit, a hide-out, cool for the summer days. In my heart, a void, an abyss, shaped like man's best friend. Archived comments for Holes Bozzz on 03-11-2014 Holes Fascinating. When a domestic dog digs a hole it is offering a prayer to the great forest in the skies. That is what starlings and pigeons are doing when gathering in flocks - going nowhere any more - just celebrating their past. This elegant story of holes is a human scratch on a cave wall. Brilliant. David Author's Reply: stormwolf on 03-11-2014 Holes I love the constrained emotion in this Ewan. It only highlights the pain. I am so sorry to know of your loss. Looks like a few of us have had to face this recently. The choice of the word 'abyss' tells the reader the magnitude of loss. Happy to nominate it and congrats on the nib. Alison x Author's Reply: sweetwater on 03-11-2014 Holes I am so sorry to hear such sad news, having lost many deeply loved dogs over a lifetime I know what you are going through. This is a lovely poem for a best friend, the last line is particularly poignant, but the whole poem says how much you care, and how much love and thought went into where he now rests. Sue xx. Author's Reply: Mikeverdi on 04-11-2014 Holes Something I know a lot about sadly, nice tribute Ewan Mike Author's Reply: ifyouplease on 05-11-2014 Holes Author's Reply: |
| The Wind Soughs (posted on: 27-10-14) Nostalgia for other autumns Somewhere, across two countries and a narrow channel, Autumn arrives in colours russet and rust. The leaves fall and have fallen in rustling heaps kicked joyfully by children into leafy blizzards while dogs and their walkers look on. People wear scarves and overcoats - and even hats - if October comes cool on September's heels. For some this brings no melancholy, those for whom Autumn's gentle song is the soughing of the wind through the last leaves on boughs of oak and ash and silver beeches. Here in the deep Iberian south, the Fall arrives in Summer's clothes delaying the Winter green and bringing sun for rain. Archived comments for The Wind Soughs sweetwater on 27-10-2014 The Wind Soughs I never tire of autumn poems and yours is particularly lovely, can clearly see the picture you have created. 🙂 Sue. Author's Reply: Thanks for reading and for the very kind comment. Ewan ifyouplease on 27-10-2014 The Wind Soughs it does arrive in Summer's clothes, but now it's cold enough for Winter to appear in Fall's clothes. heheh. nice poem, enjoyed. Author's Reply: I must admit I miss the autumn and the spring, I don't miss the winter so much! Thanks for reading and commenting Ewan stormwolf on 29-10-2014 The Wind Soughs Delightfully nostalgic and melancholy...perfect for Autumn which always to me seems to hold a minor chord if it was music. A time of gathering in and shamanically, of making plans for what we want to incubate in the dark void of winter. I cannot imaging doing it back to front ( so to speak 😜) so the second part invites thinking. Really lovely poem Ewan Alison x Author's Reply: It's odd, we're not quite back to front here, it's just the seasons are not so pronounced in their difference,and autumn, winter and spring are so very short. Thanks for reading and for the very kind comment. Ewan |
| Beyond Arcturus (posted on: 20-10-14) ... There may be sub-stellar companions; if such planets exist what wars are fought by strange battalions under binary suns? There may be enamoured companions, if such lovers exist, where trysts are made in twice-lit canyons under the distant stars. There may be. There is more nothing than matter, if such motes in the vacuum are infinite, what form does the synapse take? Are there souls or spirits? Are they materials in the spirit world? There may be answers to these questions - if such beings exist - while we imagine space-ships bastioned under the distant stars. Archived comments for Beyond Arcturus Gothicman on 22-10-2014 Beyond Arcturus Like the first two stanzas and single line, Nomenklatur, but the rest needs a rethink IMO. For me the messaging just doesn't develop and progress as it should, and it does feel good enough to warrant a rethink. Best..Gothicman Author's Reply: I'd have to agree with you I'm afraid; I've definitely written better things on this theme. Struggling badly to write at all at the moment, so I'm not too disappointed with this. |
| Random Noise Generator (posted on: 22-08-14) Appearing at a festival (fringe) near you, if not me. The man on stage shouts forcing rhymes with volume. Stunned listeners wait for something that has meaning. A long wait is in prospect for this is the Festival. Later he has a guitar, he flails an open discord whenever he reaches a line break that doesn't ring true. The man on stage leaves bounding past the klieglight. Stunned watchers wish for someone with a shotgun. A slow death is in prospect for the buyer of the tickets. Archived comments for Random Noise Generator stormwolf on 23-08-2014 Random Noise Generator Haha loved it Ewan, made me laugh. You caught it totally! Btw hearty congrats on your book. Alison x Author's Reply: Thanks for reading (and laughing) Alison. Book project's not a done deal but it is 50% funded after only 3 weeks, which I'm told is good going. Ewan |
| Sunshine in My Pockets (Home and Away) (posted on: 28-07-14) Written after a brief visit to the UK... The milky sun gutters; the light of street-lamps mitigating daytime dark fights the gloom with neon spots. I've got sunshine in my pockets and some raindrops on my shoes. The yellow disc shimmers; the glint of aircraft imitating daylight stars pocks the sky with shiny dots. I've got sunshine in my pockets, but no raindrops on my shoes. Archived comments for Sunshine in My Pockets (Home and Away) No comments archives found! |
| Where Is Everybody? (posted on: 18-07-14) 'Where is everybody?' qv Fermi's Paradox. It's time to tighten the Van Allen Belt, time to straighten our spacesuit seams. No-one has come knocking, encounters remain the stuff of dreams. Dwarfs and Giants are in the stars, the price of looking upward is a stiff neck. It's time to venture beyond the pale time's debenture is running out, no-one has been checking, each star is a message, destiny's shout.Signs and omens are in the stars, the cost of looking inward is a swift death. It's time to find another system time to found our galactic empire: no-one has been talking, let's kindle connections with astral fire.Archived comments for Where Is Everybody? gwirionedd on 08-06-2015 Where Is Everybody? I really like this. I'm surprised no-one's commented on it. Where is everybody indeed? The internal rhymes are good - tighten/straighten and venture/debenture. What is a debenture, by the way? Author's Reply: From examples given in the OED "In my opinion a debenture means a document which either creates a debt or acknowledges it, and any document which fulfils either of these conditions is a ‘debenture’‥It is not either in law or commerce a strictly technical term, or what is called a term ‘of art’." Quoted from something published with respect to Chancery and Law. Thanks for reading and commenting Ewan |
| Unseen Forces (posted on: 14-07-14) Archived comments for Unseen Forces No comments archives found! |
| When the Sun Beats Down... (posted on: 09-06-14) |
