Poems

[Twit 2]

More Longley:

[Kankurette]

When I was in a kids' choir, we had a few Elizabethan/Tudor era songs to sing and this was one of them. Elegy for Himself by Chidiock Tichborne, a prisoner in the Tower of London, who was hanged for his involvement in the Babington plot.

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,
My crop of corn is but a field of tares,
And all my good is but vain hope of gain:
The day is past, and yet I saw no sun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

My tale was heard, and yet it is not told,
My fruit is fallen, and yet my leaves are green,
My youth is spent, and yet I am not old,
I saw the world, and yet I was not seen:
My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

I sought my death, and found it in my womb,
I looked for life, and saw it was a shade,
I trod the earth, and knew it was my tomb,
And now I die, and now I was but made:
The glass is full, and now the glass is run,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

The melody for this is lovely. Sends shivers down my spine.

[Scarlett Tangible]

Thought I'd resurrect this thread as it's Twit 2's funeral today. Sam introduced me to Don Paterson. I'm guessing he would have liked this poem:


Death

His trick - by which I mean the way he'd convince you of his
  earnestness -
was to actualise at some random and unpredictable post,
  unruffled, immaculate,
like he'd been there all along: vaping at the turn of the stairs,
  taking a leak in the adjacent stall,
or turning round from the seat in front in the empty matinee,
  saying C'mon. We've been through this.
And again I'd get up and leave, and mutter I'm not ready yet,
  and he'd say
Ok bud, see you tonight, knowing we all got worn down by
  this in the end.

Before they kicked me upstairs, I used to work in sales. I still
  have a case of free samples
and an eye for an easy mark. One day, he was working
  through some genre cliches
to keep himself amused, and I was closing the bathroom
  cabinet when I saw him at my shoulder.
I shrieked, he cracked up laughing; I swung round, and we fell
  into the usual threadbare exchange.
But I caught him running the back of his hand across my
  pima cotton towels
and sneak a sidelong look at my new sonic toothbrush, with
  more than just a casual interest;
I noticed his Prada suit was a size too large, and his floral tea
  cologne was Tommy Girl
though it smelled pretty good on him. It was then I really saw
  it. His weakness.
I said Look, look - I'll do you a deal. No deals, he says. You
  know that. Hear me out, I say. It's legit.
Give me another twenty years, and I'll kit you out. I'll be your
  go-to guy. I'm serious. Knockdown rates.
He said nothing, but the sweat was forming on his upper lip
  and brow.
So I got out the case and did my old routine, told him I'm
  practically giving this stuff away;
though it was tough to see him so easily played, so easily
  reduced, so worried and frantic -
me pulling out one thing after another, him suddenly
  wondering if he could afford it all,
patting his pockets, wondering if I took plastic, wondering if
  he had plastic,
what plastic even was - his arms full of all the cool new things
  he wanted,
a black fedora, a snakeskin belt, the silk tie with the Mondrian
  design, but then realising
that he was technically neither salaried nor self-employed -
  a slave to his work, he'd always thought,
but really just a slave, hand-to-mouth, hardly ever in the same
  town two nights in a row,
sleeping on couches between gigs, everything he wore lifted
  from the closets of the dead,
everything he ate, whatever the dead had left uneaten on the
  stove after he'd walked them to the car.
All he wanted was a night off, a table at Clio's so he could
  work through the card,
and then to go home to his own shit - some old jazz on vinyl,
  a valve amplifier,
a good espresso machine and a workout bike, and maybe a
  wife and kids too, in time,
but whenever he thought of them, or rather what they'd talk
  about round the big TV,
the kitchen table as he made his famous chilli, or the school
  gate after hockey practice -
all he could ever think of was him delivering the bad news as
  usual, the worst.
'Daddy, what do you mean I must leave with you now?'

Don't think for a second that Death loves his work. Even
  though I couldn't stop -
we both knew there was no way he could pay for any of this
  stuff - I was holding back the tears for him:
who wants to see their own death fall to such a two-bit hustle?
  In the end I gave up. I hugged him. I said
It's OK, it's OK. I'll go with you. Just give me five to get some
  things and say goodbye to folks.
And he was fine with that, and so innocently grateful when I
  really did come back, carrying a near-new pair of brogues,
a couple of good shirts and a nice blue jacket that I reckoned
  would fit him well,
and I could see in his eyes that over the years he'd lost more
  than a few of us this way,
to this old play, and each of us had cost him like a life.

from Zonal

[ros vulgaris]

I read out a poem of mine in a local open mic event the other week, the first time I've done something like that.

It's like an intimate, confessional thing. A bunch of strangers reading out their thoughts to everyone.

[Scarlett Tangible]

Just thought I'd post these in here because, well, you know why:


Fiona Benson


(personal)

Rape is rarely
what you think.
Sometimes you are
outside yourself
looking down
thinking slut
as you let him do
what he wants
on your own familiar sheets
to stop the yelling
and the backhand to the face
and the zeroing in
of the fist.


(not-Zeus: Medusa 1)

Poseidon the sea god
raped Medusa
where she prayed
in the temple of Athena

and Athena
cursed the girl
with a head full
of snakes.

I came to understand
rape is cultural,
pervasive;
that in this world

the woman is blamed.


Patricia Lockwood


"Rape Joke"

https://www.theawl.com/2013/07/patricia-lockwood-rape-joke/

[Lost Oliver]

Fuck me. Just found out about Twit 2. Really hit me this. He's been a constant for years on here and when him at meets he was just a really sweet and funny guy. Gutting. I don't post as often as I did and the threads I tend to read are the same so I missed it at the time. Man.

[paddy72]

I'm trying to identify a poem that I read years ago. A young boy is looking through the window of a pub, where he can see men drinking/talking/laughing, and he longs to be inside.

Ends with something along the lines of, 'now I'm a man, inside the pub, and I wish I was still the boy looking in' I'm paraphrasing there, but something like that.

Any ideas? I'm sure I haven't imagined this, but having no luck finding it.

[lauraxsynthesis]

Unesco World Poetry Day tomoz, and it turns out your girl's got a first date with a poet. he wants me to recite this to him:

Miranda's Song by WH Auden

My Dear One is mine as mirrors are lonely,
As the poor and sad are real to the good king,
And the high green hill sits always by the sea.

Up jumped the Black Man behind the elder tree,
Turned a somersault and ran away waving;
My Dear One is mine as mirrors are lonely.

The Witch gave a squawk; her venomous body
Melted into light as water leaves a spring,
And the high green hill sits always by the sea.

At his crossroads, too, the Ancient prayed for me,
Down his wasted cheeks tears of joy were running:
My Dear One is mine as mirrors are lonely.

He kissed me awake, and no one was sorry;
The sun shone on sails, eyes, pebbles, anything,
And the high green hill sits always by the sea.

So, to remember our changing garden, we
Are linked as children in a circle dancing:
My Dear One is mine as mirrors are lonely,
And the high green hill sits always by the sea.

[bgmnts]

Pretty hot, won't lie.

I wish there was a World Doggerel Day. Get on it, UNESCO.