3 Poems

Rocky Raised the Flag

Rocky Raised the flag
And became a different boy.
From scrubby soccer tough
To new found solider joy.

He marched down the street
with others of a like mind
To face their fanatical foes
To see what they could find.

A good rock held in his hand,
Wanting to hurl it at a tank,
With vinegar handkerchief
For tear gas fired back.

They all rounded the corner
To face guns and armour.
Shots rang across the street
And Rocky fell down dead.


My Friend

Rocky
My friend.
Raw onion eater,
Good left foot,
AC Milan Shirt
Always Worn.
Stole a bottle of milk
For Meetah's mum.
Hated school.
There was a hole
In the toe
Of one of his
Addidas trainers.


Rocky, Rocky

Rocky, Rocky
Lying on the floor
Is it you?
Really? Any more?
The holey shoe's
Come of your foot,
That Milan shirt
Is dirty as fuck.

But one more use
You will make
As a photograph
For them to take.
Hope it will touch them
In the right place
And perhaps change
The way they face.

Between the lines of two children

Tired,
twisted back,
Torn in two.
Riled,
A doubled lack
of desire to write too.
Obliged,
Must find the crack
To squeeze words into.
Tied down
By my little facts
Who do what babies do.

Larry's Helmet

My first attempt at putting some of my poetry onto video and the internet. It is rough and ready as am I, so go easy on me. This poem makes me smile every time I read it.

Keats: The Duncan Edward of his Times.

So the first question is: Who was Duncan Edwards?

Duncan Edwards was almost the best footballer that ever lived. Okay maybe that is slightly biased. He was almost the best footballer to play for Manchester United. Who said so? Bobby Charlton did.
Yes, Duncan Edwards was huge, hard as nails, had silky skills but what makes the comparison of him to Keats?

Both were geniuses. Both exceptional in their fields of talent and for the briefest blossoming time. Edwards played and captained United and played for England before being killed in the Munich Air Crash at the age of twenty-one. His talent suggests he was possibly one of the best players ever.

Keats? Keats blossomed over such a short period of time and then went to his grave at the tender age of twenty-six. He published his poetry over the last three years of his life. He didn't start writing until he was eighteen. His poetic talent dragged him away from being a normal lad about town:

"...Was it a silent deep-disguised plot
To steal away, and leave without a task
My idle days? Ripe was the drowsy hour;
The blissful cloud of summer-indolence
Benumb'd my eyes; my pulse grew less and less;
Pain had no sting, and pleasure's wreath no flower.
O, why did ye not melt, and leave my sense
Unhaunted quite of all but - nothingness? ..."

Ode to Indolence

And he didn't do it willingly.

"...For Poesy! - no, - she has not a joy, -
At least for me, - so sweet as drowsy noons,
And evenings steep'd in honied indolence; ..."

But he went on to write marvellous works. The latest movie 'Bright Star' takes its name from one of his sonnets:

"...Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature’s patient sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death..."

Bright Star!

In this we can see Keats' strengths of catching the essence of nature and relationships and love.

His masterpieces were Endymion and Hyperion.

Endymion is a poem by John Keats first published in 1818. Beginning famously with the line "A thing of beauty is a joy for ever", Endymion, like many epic poems in English is written in rhyming couplets in iambic pentameter (also known as heroic couplets). Keats based the poem on the Greek myth of Endymion, the shepherd beloved by the moon goddess Selene.

Hyperion was a poem that whilst immense is one that Keats struggled with and ultimately abandoned. Again it is mythic in subject matter, this time dealing with the titans.

The American author Dan Simmons used the poems as stimulus to write his amazing quartet of books called The Hyperion Cantos.

Its easier to sum up Keats by looking at the words of Shelly. Keats was inspired by Shelly and travelled to Italy to live and work with him. It was in Italy that Keats died. Shelly wrote this elegy:

"...He is made one with Nature: there is heard
His voice in all her music; from the moan
Of thunder to the song of night's sweet bird;
He is a presence to be felt and known
In darkness and in light, from herb and stone,
Spreading itself where'er that Power may move
Which has withdrawn his being to its own;
Which wields the world with never wearied love,
Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above.

He is a portion of the loveliness
Which once he made more lovely: he doth bear
His part, while the one Spirit's plastic stress
Sweeps through the dull dense world, compelling there
All new successions to the forms they wear...."

Adonais by Shelly.

Further reading: Keats by Andrew Motion

Movie rather than the book:?

Chilling Out or Spaced Out:Getting back to nature

I had a go at some simple concrete poetry. The leaves were noticed whilst visiting a children's play park in Gijon, Spain and the waves - well down at the local beach. 'Easy Waves' was a game I played with my neice Xana whilst we were in the sea. We stood shouting at the waves and turned it into a rhyme. I would shout a line and she would repeat it. Spent quite a bit of time with my sister's boyfriend and we talked a little bit about the waves for surfing and he told me about wave shapes and what affects them.

Leaf

Each
A tiny Sail
On branches
Joined to trunks
To drive the
World
Around.

Easy Waves

Easy Waves
I don't care waves
I'm not scared waves
You won't get me waves
I'll just jump over you waves
Easy waves that I like.

Wave Shapes
(cheers Javi)

A
Reef
Will give
A definite shape
Every time
Whilst
Sand changes
With every tide
And makes
A new
Wave,
But,
Give me
An offshore wind,
See the swell,
Watch me
Ride.

And then there is the other side to me.

Mason the Fish

Mason was a fish.
At least, he acted just like one.
With his mouth round and open,
Approaching the girls was his fun.

For his salutation,
He's lay on five with a fin.
And for a minute
His round mouth would become a grin.

One day, like any other,
Mason was in his groove
Swimming with the ladies,
Waiting to make a move.

Then a particularly fine catch
Got him on her hook
Wearing bright red stilettos
And fish nets fit for luck.

But as he glided over,
She destroyed him with just one remark
"You're really a little orange fish,
I'd much prefer a big white shark."

But now he's proud to be a goldfish.
Before his style had been all wrong.
Trying out shark moves when really,
He was a little fish in a big blue pond.

Wordle of Blog

From the website:

"...Wordle is a toy for generating “word clouds” from text that you provide. The clouds give greater prominence to words that appear more frequently in the source text. You can tweak your clouds with different fonts, layouts, and color schemes. The images you create with Wordle are yours to use however you like. You can print them out, or save them to the Wordle gallery to share with your friends..."

This is mine for my blog. 

See Wordle.

Retrospective - Roots and its Influence.

One of my poems that I just read again and liked, and would like to share with you.

 Bird Eating Teacher (From Up North)

By Tricky McDee

Ee din't like to say,

What ee'd ad for is breakfas that mornin',

buh t'was obvious,

when ee open is mouth n was yawnin'.

Ee mus' av bin at

the bird's nest tha sat in gutter,

for as ee spoke,

blue feathers came out in flutter.

A good teacher,

well spoken, quite clear and decent,

But overshadowed

By the animal eatin' incident.

Still, good is good,

N tis ard to find fine teacher,

so bought him cat,

N ee promise not to eat er.

All was well,

till they left on a ship for Africa

To catch parrots

N to live appily ever after.

My Words Uncloy the Senses

WARNING: the fourth paragraph is a bit graphic and some viewers may want to skip down the page.

Uncloying - what the frig does that mean? It's not a proper word. I was struggling with a poem on  a blog and came a cross it. This is one of the things that makes me regurgitate poems and spit them out instead of swallowing anew.

Poets like to make up words but often get carried away with it. A strong image isn't made stronger with a made up word. Why make up words - when there is a gap or for the enjoyment. I have to say I am as guilty as the targets who I spit these darts. 

 I wanted to leave in what I had written to show how diametrically opposite I can think. I have completely changed my mind tonight about both the above things.

First of all, uncloying is a great word. At least it sounds like a great word. In the phrase 'uncloying my senses' it gives a really strong image of a physical action. If I am uncloying then my senses must have previously been cloyed. My senses obviously refers to my eyes, ears, mouth and nose. To uncloy them all must mean to extract something. So here we have the image of me pulling at stuff that has being seeping out of all the pores and holes. All I can think of is a mixture of nasal slime and eye sleep; my hand physically pulling at the goo as it becomes 'uncloyed' from my face.

Secondly I love made up words. I live for made up words -Jabberwocky and the poetry collection called Oh Fabjous Day are some of my favourites.

And to demonstrate that I want to share another poem of mine with you:

The boy who brings nonsense words to school

I am Ronald and I truly rule.

Why  - because I bring nonsense words to school.

I answer “Yuzai!” to the register

And shout “nweep” when I get out of my chair.

“Quilly boo,” for any History answer

Makes Mr Johnson pull out all his hair.

I say that 2x2 is fourpoop

And 3x2 is brix.

Then London is in Frag-u-stuff

And Australia – Outertrix

At lunch when I asked for Squidgytoot

Miss Mulltree gave a funny look

So then I just said beep beep boop

Miss Mulltree said she’s ‘just the cook.’

After dinner I read Jabberwocky

And Mr Johnson gave me lots of praise

Said ‘was the first lesson I’d done properly

In days and days and days.’

I nodded muttering “pwezishaa,”

And went to tidy the library books.

Which I did with Alicia quietly.

Only silence really sucks.

So I started shouting “Jubjeree,”

And danced around the room.

But Mr Johnson called the headteacher,

Who said I’d be going home very soon.

I whistled and cried “da da daa,”

But it was the last thing that I said.

As mum came and brought the doctor

And they took me home to bed.

 This makes me giggle every time I read it.  

Collaboration with JPS

This is a project that I have been working on with Jonny over the last year. It has a scratch title of 'Gnarly Watkins in Love'. Its the first page but still needs colour and polish. Watch this space.

Too Long to Warrant the Effort

It gets like that sometimes doesn't it? Whether it’s the gym, cooking proper meals, cleaning the windows or visiting your Nan. You leave it so long that it starts to eat away at your thoughts when you've got a few minutes for leisure. I don't mean evening TV leisure. Those minutes on a Saturday when you've got the shopping done and done a few minor jobs around the house. You find you've finished earlier than you planned, so you get the paper, make a cup of tea, maybe take a rich tea biscuit or two and sit down at the kitchen table and expel that sigh of the 'at ease'. You take that first sip and into your mind it nags. You should be doing it. For me it always has my mother’s voice. For me it is writing.

Okay so it has been months and months. There has obviously been good reason. Not just that Pacific, Boardwalk Empire and Breaking Bad are damn good series that deserved taking up my precious time. But the thing about time is that it warps ideas and memories. When the voice comes: You should be writing, I always answer back but it’s not a simple thing. Thing is - it is a simple thing. Writing is just putting some words on paper. 

That's what I did this week - I just put some words on paper. I want to share them with you. Not because it is what I warrant as good. But rather to exemplify the idea of the first step can be easy. 

I tried to respond to a competition but missed the deadline last Sunday due to a full work load. Excuses excuses my mother is saying and as per usual she is probably right. The basic brief was to write a marine or Qatar's sea history related poem. This is what I have got:

Twenty-seventh day at sea,

Five dead,

Sun above

Smacks sense

From head squashed

Next to head, 

With dilapidated bodies

And broken spirits

I step from the mass

With my Siad 

Holding my tether

Over the side

And fall through the divide,

The slither of surface

Splitting worlds.

A barrage of bubbles

Stream up my body

And bounce off my nose

And upward into hell

I descend in hope

Trumpeting;
An ear-thumping,

White animal.

Take me from this sea!

That's it - unfinished. I won't over analyse it but the things that sing out to me that need addressing are the opening line, and the second half of the third stanza. I don't even know what the white animal reference was all about. The poem is based on the life of the nineteenth century pearl diver. An incredibly hard life that often ended in an early death if not craziness due to the bends. 

On a second foot I believe in responding to with I am thinking and feeling inside and in between writing the above I also came up with the following. It is not good or cute but it is fun. 

Big fat mamma

Big fat mamma

You aint having a piece of me

You aint really any no-one

Big fat mamma

Big fat mamma

You aint got a heart

And you aint got no caring

Big at mamma

Big fat mamma

You think if yo self

And y've got nutting sparing

Big fat mamma

Big fat mamma

Your mouth runs away with yer

Using up words that you've stolen

Big fat mamma

Big fat mamma

Your tongue is twisted

Your words are hard

They make people blister

They hit people hard

Big fat mamma

Big fat mamma

She's a big fat mamma

She's a big fat mamma