just another poetry blog
Horizon blush,
Sun-gold sand burnished;
Palms applaud softly
At the riffle of a silent gust.
Here I sit
Waiting on a holy moment.
Note: I recently found this little poem while looking through an old notebook. It was dated January 4 1995, but I have no clear recollection of the circumstances of its composition or what inspired it. But since I have written no poetry in over a year, I thought I may as well post it here.
STAGE 1
away above a harbourful
in Paris in a loud dark winter
and the Arabs asked terrible questions
truth is not the secret of a few
it was a face which darkness could kill
with bells for hooves in sounding streets
Dada would have liked a day like this
bicyclist among the trees beside the lake
ah there's the moon
pale horse, pale rider
her voice was full of 'Yes'
surfers are poets too
classical masks
she looked so good in the morning
people kept coming in and looking
and she, like a young year
the Cuban revolt against the structure of impotence
for the Indians no resurrection at the end of Holy Week
Spain owned the cow, others drank the milk
Columbus was dazzled by the bright hues of the Caribbean.
Iron teeth in Brazil’s flesh
The 20th century won this 19th century war
Vultures over Lake Maracaibo
The price of coffee dictates all
The giant steel concern Corus has by no means escaped the global economic crisis.
Caissa maintained the tension until the very last moment.
A finesse was indeed called for, but not this one.
A lifetime is not enough to learn everything about chess.
The moves were read out during the national news and the public were urged to send in postcards with their response.
I was intrigued by the idea of a royal chess scandal.
Online communities can often be marred by trolls and people seeking attention by personal attacks.
When Lenin was fifteen he started winning games from his father.
And that’s when he turns on the heat and style.
The winter sun is pleasant and it warms my heart with love for others but the swarms of penitents have dwindled.
A ghost is someone
These victorious figures of bravado ossified young
He said God likes to talk to Himself
A blossoming cloud of lace and tarnished sterling, marbles and bits of string, brown leaves of old books
Endless, the slow swarm, the spinning things
beyond the slow-motion hurricane of lost things
My songs are of time and distance.
‘Evil exists.’
‘He is the wind you hold in your hands.’
‘Danbala is riding her.’
the distant towers of the misplaced cathedral
‘I am The Lord of Roads.’
Europe after the rains
She found something obscene in the calculated humanity of the gesture
The record of what has happened in the past is important in all human societies
The maintenance of order and the collection of revenue were closely linked
THE CHAIN OF CITIES
THE FORMATION OF A SOCIETY
Under the Umayyads the tradition of poetic composition continued to flourish
STAGE 2
The price of coffee dictates all These victorious figures of bravado ossified young and after, like a young year bicyclist among the trees beside the lake “He is the word you hold in your hands.” “Evil exists.” Caissa maintained the tension until the very last moment. Spain owned the cow, others drank the milk classical masks Columbus was dazzled by the bright hues of the Caribbean with bells for hooves in sounding streets Europe after the rains ah there’s the moon The record of what has happened in the past is important in all human societies THE FORMATION OF A SOCIETY away above a harbourful in Paris in a loud dark winter “Danbala is riding her.” Under the Umayyads the tradition of poetic composition continued to flourish THE CHAIN OF CITIES The moves were read out during the national news and the public were urged to send in postcards with their response. truth is not the secret of a few the Cuban revolt against the structure of impotence He said God likes to talk to Himself Iron teeth in Brazil’s flesh A lifetime is not enough to learn everything about chess. And that’s when he turns on the heat and style. The maintenance of order and the collection of revenue were closely linked surfers are poets too Endless, the slow swarm, the spinning things Dada would have liked a day like this A blossoming cloud of lace and tarnished sterling, marbles and bits of string brown leaves of old books She found something obscene in the calculated humanity of the gesture her voice was full of “Yes” Online communities can often be marred by trolls and people seeking attention by personal attacks. The 20th century won this 19th century war My songs are of time and distance she looked so good in the morning The giant steel concern Corus has by no means escaped the global economic crisis Vultures over Lake Maracaibo A ghost is someone When Lenin was fifteen he started winning games from his father. The winter sun is pleasant and it warms my heart with love for others but the swarms of penitents have dwindled. It was a face which darkness could kill and the Arabs asked terrible questions I was intrigued by the idea of a royal chess scandal people kept coming in and looking “I am The Lord of the Roads.” A finesse was indeed called for, but not this one. beyond the slow-motion hurricane of lost things the distant towers of the misplaced cathedral for the Indians no resurrection at the end of Holy Week
STAGE 3
Idea of a royal chess scandal people kept coming in and looking I was intrigued by the called for, but not this one “I am The Lord of Roads” A finesse was indeed the distant towers of the misplaced cathedral beyond the slow-motion hurricane of lost things resurrection at the end of Holy Week for the Indians no The moves were read out during the national news and the figures of bravado ossified young and she, like a young year their response “hold in your hands.” “Evil exists.” truth is not the secret of a few the Cuban revolt against the iron teeth in Brazil’s flesh A lifetime is not enough to learn owned the cow, others drank the milk classical masks And that’s when he turns on the heat and style The maintenance bells for hooves in sounding streets Europe after the rains surfers are poets too Endless, the slow swarm, the spinning past is important in all human societies A blossoming cloud of lace and tarnished sterling, marbles in Paris in a loud dark winter “Danbala is riding her.” She found something obscene in the calculated humanity of the flourish THE CHAIN OF CITIES The price of coffee dictates all These victorious public were urged to send in postcards with bicyclist among the trees beside the lake “He is the wind you structure of impotence. He said God likes to talk to Himself.” Caissa maintained the tension until the very last moment. Spain everything about chess. Columbus was dazzled by the bright hues of the Caribbean with of order and the collection of revenue were closely linked ah there’s the moon The record of what has happened in things Dada would have liked a day like this THE FORMATION OF A SOCIETY away above a harbourful and bits of string, brown leaves of old books Under the Umayyads the tradition of poetic composition continued to gesture her voice was full of “Yes” seeking attention by personal attacks. Online communities can often be marred by trolls and people are of time and distance she looked so good in the morning The 20th century won this 19th century war My songs the global economic crisis Vultures over Lake Maracaibo The giant steel concern Corus has by no means escaped he started winning games from his father. A ghost is someone When Lenin was fifteen love for others but the swarms of penitents have The winter sun is pleasant and it warms my heart with asked terrible questions dwindled. It was a face which darkness could kill and the Arabs
When Lenin was fifteen (the 20th century won this 19th century war) he started winning games from his father. Columbus was dazzled with the record of what has happened in things, by the bright hues of the Caribbean, Spain, everything about chess. The moves were read out during the national news and the figures of bravado ossified young and she, like a young year, the Cuban revolt against the iron teeth in Brazil’s flesh. A finesse was indeed the distant towers of the misplaced cathedral beyond the slow-motion hurricane of lost things, resurrection at the end of Holy Week for the Indians can often be marred by no idea of a royal chess scandal. People kept coming in and looking. I was intrigued by the called-for order, but not this one.
A lifetime is not enough to learn, owned the cow; others drank the milk, classical masks. Their response: “hold in your hands.” “Evil exists.” Truth is not the secret of a few.
And that’s when he turns on the heat and style. The maintenance of bells for hooves in sounding streets, Europe after the rains (surfers are poets too). Endless, the slow swarm, the spinning past is important in all human societies. Ah there’s the moon, pale horse, pale rider: a blossoming cloud of lace and tarnished sterling, marbles in Paris in a loud dark winter.
She found something obscene in the calculated humanity of the flourish: “Danbala is riding her.” The price of coffee dictates all these victorious public, the chain of cities were urged to send in postcards with bicyclist among the trees beside the lake. “He is the wind, you structure of impotence. He said God likes to talk to Himself.” Caissa maintained the tension until the very last moment; she looked so good in the morning.
Dada would have liked a day like this: the formation of a society away above a harbourful and bits of string. Brown leaves of old books and the collection of revenue were closely linked under the Umayyads; the tradition of poetic composition continued to gesture, her voice was full of “Yes”, seeking attention by personal attacks. The global economic crisis (Vultures over Lake Maracaibo, the giant steel concern Corus) has by no means escaped the love of others - online communities, trolls and people. A ghost is someone, but the swarms of penitents have my songs and the Arabs are of time and distance.
The winter sun is pleasant and it warms my heart with asked terrible questions dwindled. It was a face which darkness could kill.
22/01/11
Note: This is a cut-up poem I have been working on sporadically since last summer. It was composed in four stages. First I grabbed a number of books within easy reach of my workspace. From these I randomly garnered phrases that appealed to me, then typed out these snippets of text in the order that I found them. Stage two involved printing out this new text, cutting out the phrases, throwing them together in a random jumble and glueing the pieces onto another A4 sheet. I didn't feel that the resulting piece was randomised enough, so I cut up a printout of it and glued the mixed bits of paper onto another A4 sheet, creating lines across the page as in stage two and typing up the results. The fourth and final stage consisted of cutting and pasting the stage three text, changing punctuation where I felt it would aid sense. 'I am The Lord of Roads' is the outcome. I don't think it's particularly successful, to be frank, but here it is anyway. Make of it what you will.
SOURCES: first lines from Pictures of the Gone World, Lawrence Ferlinghetti; Open Veins of Latin America, Eduardo Galeano; Chess Monthly, April 2009; Katherine’s Dream, The Ghost, Waking in the Blue, Robert Lowell; Count Zero, William Gibson; A History of the Arab Peoples, Albert Hourani. Photos of the stage two and stage three texts are on http://twitpic.com/photos/dzhimbo.>
I decided a couple of days ago to start experimenting with micropoetry. The question of form is the main matter: since it is born of microblogging, should it be limited to 140 characters? Should it include forms such as haiku and tanka? What kind of subject-matter is most appropriate to such radical minimalism? Is it about language per se or should it only be a vehicle for the presentation of images through transparent language? What are the particular aesthetics of micropoetry? These are the problems I shall explore and - who knows? - even solve. But then again, ars brevis, vita longa. Maybe I'm just attracted to micropoetry because it's easier to produce than long-form verse.
This is a micropoem
Everything depends
On referencing
William Carlos Williams
My little micropoem
Filtered sky, cracked air, grey light: the day after happiness
98 generations ago
a small cloud of black mist formed above my head.
I thought it was God,
it turned out to be a highly localised weather phenomenon.
November 2008
Note: an old poem I'd forgotten about, composed by the semi-automatic method
My dreams are aimless
frustrated wanderings in search of an indefinable quantity.
They bore me with old colleges and department stores.
31.3.10
embodied creatures, we are swimming in air
ghastly and flesh-made, loquacious and intermittently kind;
we weigh nine-thousand stones but dance beautifully.
occupy yourselves immediately. whatever...
a scoop of ice cream? sure, why not? feed it to me with your insect pincers
until I become one with myself again.
croupier deal me a decent hand, then I can go outside and bend a few strings.
horripilating skin in the winter blow, and godly men in funeral black run
across a busy street holding on to their floppy preacher's hats.
A subtle subterfuge for the joyless millions to behold.
2004
Note: semi-automatic composition
I'm living in a ziggurat on the M25
with my beautiful collection of water pistols,
watering cans, water features.
Water features in my dreams
it is my unity, our unity.
2004
Semi-automatic composition
