Friday, June 29, 2007
Which is good enough.
When I was twelve, I read two books: one was Think like a Grandmaster (a chess book); the other was The Elements of Prosody (not a chess book).
The second was the most effective: I know what an iamb is, and how five of them make a pentameter, and I'm crap at chess.
I know scansion, and internal rhyme, where the tension is metered out in rhyme (see what I did there? Very clever, me).
Now I'll try a random string of words, and see if it's blank verse, or the reverse, a self-referential reflection (is there any other kind) of the thing I have in mind, I have started (and, to be honest, there's some tricks going on, right there) and I'll continue, new, without the fix, with a word that has to be there.
Stopped short, where I lost the rhythm, broke on that full stop. Because, I've just realised, I'm a bit crap at this.
According to Poetry Mechanics Weekly, I should end on something obscure, but apparently meaningful. Whether it is meaningful or not isn't important, it's just got to look clever.
Don't mind me, my mind is me.
all of you, you fucked up Stockholm syndrome sycophants,
you bitching tramps, you mendicants, you terrible twats,
have some fun, you frowning trolls, you spittle-flecked fuckers,
stop making my world tiny and parametered by your little-brained and little-thought, nasty jibing, mean-spirited carping,
stop your headache, stop your breathing (because it's my air you're wasting), and have some joy.
And only then can you have a part in my shining landscape,
and until then, live in the hell of your own making,
and stop your shit-smelling invasion.
So, anyway, I'm here with the read-faced flush of rum, thinking on many and disparate things: all of them shining in my head; none of them quite dead.
But, like a rotten apple, smeared at the bottom of the barrel, there are some dragging flecks.
Listen to the ear. It's got curlicues of flesh that capture sound and keep it, swirling, so that one day after, you will hear something said, and think it's thought. But it's not, it's just an echo.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Friday, June 15, 2007
metaphor mix: clay doll; photograph; movie. There's some development of motion there.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
When I worked on the railway, with my orange boiler-suit, fly-bedevilled in the middle of rape-seed fields (we called the little millions of beetles dynamite bugs, because they swarmed round us, attracted to the orange livery, and got in our mouths, and went off like crunchy bangs of poison), I was a red. In fact I was very much at that end of the spectrum in all things - red in politics, orange in uniform, yellow in craven-A smoking, and kind of pink in complexion.
I went to a Revolutionary Communist Party whinge-fest in central London in the embers of the eighties, and got disillusioned (as everything faded like corduroy slacks) because the main thrust of discourse seemed to be how these asses could excuse driving sporty VW Golfs, whilst still espousing the bloodless coup.
The retinue of pseudo-communists there was mainly well-groomed cultural studies graduates, feminist men (never trust these smelly goateed twats) and pre-goth pachouli-drenched twenty somethings, slacking around with more money than tense.
And there's me, stone digging from 8 to 5, completely patronised by the sanctimonious middle class socialists thereabouts.
I'm still a socialist at heart (because I believe people are fundamentally decent), but I can't subscribe to the doctrinaire pettifogging of these whiny faux-Marxists: there's no substance there, no meat, no blood; it's all arguments about punctuation, not grammar, syntax not semantics, ways of saying, not things to say.
So I got out, and did that Clint no-name, don't say anything, if you haven't got anything good to say, thing.
And, guess what? I don't say anything now.
Saturday, June 02, 2007
Now, I'm a big bloke: 6' 2" and built like a shit brick house, but I'm also (notwithstanding the bluff exterior and mainline chapness going on here) fairly sensitive to the breezes and cold fronts of the day-to-day emotional weather.
And, I have to say, I can't fathom this recent development.