Category Archives: Pink Poesy
Poetry, unsurprisingly.
Poetry Workshop
Attended a poetry workshop earlier today at the Fitz, across town. Harvested some of the more reasonable products below – four in response to artworks I’ve included (doubled up on the Rodin), and the last a prompt. Rough works, but hopefully of some service.
Large Clenched Hand
(Grande main crispée)
Rodin
Vitality expressed in its
moment of expungence.
Pain, cast in metal.
The body radiating
its emotion, its anger
and its revolt,
using nothing more than
itself.
Masculine, this could be
the hand of Laocoön
as he grapples with
the serpent coils of
his pride-wrought fate.
Ah! Pride!
Whomever this hand
belongs to, it is a
proud man.
The despair, the anger
expressed in the rictus
clench could signal
no less
than a will
-a prideful will-
roundly thwarted.
David and Goliath
Degas
Dun, nude, loose.
Your colours, the olive green,
the dirty taupe,
evoke your crude life,
your barbaric
brutish existence.
There could never have
been honour won that
day.
Honour requires grace,
and there is no grace to
be found
in the rude, shifting
muck of your lives.
Large Clenched Hand
(Grande main crispée)
Rodin
Alive!
Even in My agony,
Beset by the cruelties of
the World
You will not take Me
I refuse this fate
I despite your arrows
of Inevitability
Reckon!
I am a Man
and though You
would snuff Me out,
You cannot deny that I have been
Alive!
A street, possibly in Port-Marly, 1875-77
Sisley
I see your view
the view that you
moulded, filtered and
regurgitated.
And I deem it good.
Masterful, even. Yet,
it is not the skill
of rendering the sky,
nor the evocation
of the shadow,
nor any of the many other
elements of quality that
make me pause.
No.
It is simply
the way you write
your name.
The clumsiness of it.
Slap-dash.
Work-a-day.
Did you, too,
regret the ugliness
of your hand?
Did you
look on that text
and grow sad
at its lack of finesse?
Six characters, rough-written,
express more
than the painting entire.
Just as you reworked
what you saw, so do I
import my own assumptions.
But,
whatever phantasms I conjure,
whatever gross errors I commit,
I am left
with that sliver of Truth.
You and I,
We are brothers.
Sandbox
2×8’s
screwed to one another,
hanging together loosely, unevenly
set atop flags of repurposed concrete.
A shoddy affair, made in an amateur manner
but fit to purpose.
Good enough to hold back the spilling
sands.
You can remember the damp grit of it, even
now –
you can still feel it in your mouth, that
not-quite-earthy taste,
that roughness you knew,
even then, was doing
damage to your teeth.
How many hours did you spend there,
building imaginary worlds
which, god-like, shifted to your every whim?
Shifted, like so much sand.
Solitary hours – yes, there were times
you were joined, where your pantheon
doubled, trebled – but it was never as
good as when there was but a
single will – a direction unfettered
by compromise.
A tyranny enlightened
and self-contained.
Contained by a set of 2×8’s
screwed to one another
and hanging together,
loosely.
The Start
The Start
The early days
where we are tentative:
Each with diffident regard
for the other – not yet honest,
still wrapped up in the allure of the foreign.
At arms length we eye one-another,
unsure of the way ahead.
Easily abashed, we shy from
the bold and dangerous claims of our hearts
their true pealing tones.
But,
when hinted at,
or fallen into
and –
met with words of support!
Ah, then the rush of emotion;
the desire to forge new commonalities;
to root out the remaining similarities;
it is strong.
The growth of it, it depends on
moments like this
where we rush roughshod
over our own timidity.
Where we drop our guard,
forgetting the earnest hopes
and desires
and bare ourselves.
Self forgotten in a moment of
vitality.
Only this way can we grow –
grow to be true friends.
The Modality of Illness
The Modality of Illness
What does it mean to be ill?
To be dying?
What is the meaning of violence?
How can one tell when the shift from
dying to dead happens,
from health to un-health?
When it comes time to hit to mean it,
how do you avoid pulling the punch?
Where does the sickness enter in,
and how can it be known,
in the moment,
that you shift from living to dying?
Life doesn’t happen
discretely.
While the time-slice might
be binary
the lived experience is continua.
You can’t switch between the two,
completely in one or the other.
So, how do you effect the shift?
Our media, our lessons, our culture
provide no easy solution.
At our bases, we are all
still Parmenedean.
The act of the will
is all,
and allows of no
gradation.
At point A
a thing is 0,
and point B
a thing is 1.
And the gulf between the two,
unbridgeable.
Where is the room for life?
Work Poems
A few poems I’ve had sitting around for a while. Thought I might as well post them. Some are newish, others I don’t even recall writing, but they all have a similar through-line. In no particular order:
7:48
Restive.
Filled with energy,
but eager to return to bed.
Feeling alive,
yet sickly – on a tilt
with my seinous too full.
Caffeine taking hold
with the work-day yawning before me
eager to swallow all my liveliness.
Agitated
I know not whether to shout the start of the day
or to crawl back beneath the sheets.
Of a Sunday
It is a small thing.
Inconsequential, really,
but the immediacy of it,
on the day,
makes it loom large in the eye.
Time runs quicker,
and the running, with the
rush of speed and compression of air,
adds to the stress.
Each hour attended to by
a mounting frustration,
itself a source of deprivation.
Finally, Night seeps in.
Night is a thin fabric, fit only
for the savouring of that
bitterest of rumens,
wasted Time.
Soon enough, the body is thrown back in.
And the mind, forever(?) shackled to it,
is dragged to the bottom just as inexorably.
Now, the regret comes
and with it,
the souring of future opportunities,
ushered in, compelled, by the
required perspective.
As we all know,
as we all know.
Time is merely relative,
and the experience of it,
it’s up to us.
How, then, to shake ourselves free,
and live as we wish to live?
Post Work Partum
The desire to crawl up inside yourself.
Not tired, but too burned through to care
hungry
even though you know you’ve eaten enough
Strung out on caffeine, jittery, short
Even the internet has run out of new things
and you’re
surrounded by people
with their inanities
and their posturing
and you just
can’t
fucking care about it all anymore.
Friday Afternoon
The frustration of
scenes, and descriptions
and interactions left
uncaptured for want of
foresight or strength of
memory.
The irritation of
plans and stories
and plots conjured on
the cusp of sleep, filling
you with excitement and
energy, only to fade
to ridiculousness, to
inexpressibility, to the
mundane by morning light.
The ever-present anxiety
at being illegitimate, at
wearing un-earned names,
at pinning too much of
yourself on something
ephemeral, on something
that doesn’t fit you.
Vigil
Vigil
I first saw them
around midsummer, walking home
in the early evening shade.
They stood, huddled together,
aside from the flow of traffic.
Not quite dark enough yet,
their candles didn’t cast much light.
Everyone else seemed to ignore them,
so I did too, despite their queer appearance.
The second time I saw them, their numbers
had grown.
Four now, all dressed similarly,
with the same candles as before.
Still no one seemed to pay them attention.
And so neither did I.
I was late to a meeting
with a friend.
I guess I’d catch them
every two or three days
over the course of the next
several months.
They never seemed to say anything,
or interact with anyone.
Just stood there,
with their candles,
and their dark clothes,
and their cryptic sign
saying:
Remember Ma-Ga
and D.S.
Winter’s set in now,
and the dark comes early,
and stays late.
I haven’t seen them for a while,
but
whenever I walk past
the corner they used to fill,
I think on how
their candles would flare brightly.
People would see them,
now.
Swelter
Swelter
The storied sailor may be right,
and Hell is a cold, icy ocean trench
that saps your will and chokes your heart;
I wouldn’t pretend to know.
Despair, though –
Despair is hot.
The heat of an over-burdened body
The heat of all the rage and impotence
clutched close and tight.
The heat of a breath held too long,
after the swirling eye-spots
have blotted out vision
and the lungs shudder to bursting.
The heat of a fatal fever-
too extreme to heal,
too strong to dissipate.
Despair has the heat of friction,
born of all the wasted efforts
and the rued missed chances,
and the stupid, wanton mistakes.
The heat smothers,
blanketing you with its weight.
It surrounds you even while
it comes from inside,
till the tears start from your bloodshot eyes and
moans, undirected, start from your parched throat.
Yes, Hell might be cold,
but Despair,
Despair is hot.
Nomenclature
Nomenclature
A writer, eh?
You seem to have considered this prettily thoroughly; you come to me with determination in your stance.
It never hurts, though, to have a second perspective.
A check-list, then, to get you on your way:
Necessities for THE WRITER
-recursive self-reference
-abstraction, elitist and hermetic
-anti-social addictions and behaviour: nicotine is a must, alcoholism is tested and true, but, for my money, opiates are due an imminent come-back
-melancholic disposition, coupled with pseudo-legitimate mental disorder(s)
-self-conscious posturing, initially best practiced alone
-queer politics: used to be, you could be a Maoist, though, nowadays, the Dark Enlighten –
What? What do you mean, none of that has anything to do with “the craft?” You think being a writer, it comes out of actually writing? Like some sort of emergent label?
You’ve got it all wrong, friend! Can’t you see, it’s McLuhan-esque! The whole package, it’s a performance! The trick of it, it’s about getting people, not all people, certainly, but enough to pay the tab, it’s about getting them to fall for the fantasy, to buy in!
You have to charm them with your attractive vulnerability, your potent phthisis, picking up on their own desires for a sensual enervation.
You have to become that idealised insubstantial!
Then, then you’ll have them, have them by the score and, vampiric, you’ll feed off their collective desires, enriching yourself to sustain your dissolution.
That’s what being a Writer is all about! Actually writing, well, that’s maybe third or fourth in order of actual importance!
Identity
Identity
Ex-communist
Student
Male
Writer
Son
Aesthete
Brother
Caucasian
Husband
Feminist-Ally
Canadian
Socialist
Friend
Expatriate
Agnostic
Cis
Millennial
Pescetarian
Musician
None of these things
are Me
Satisfaction
Satisfaction
Verruca.
Chipped Tooth.
Scar Tissue.
Overbite.
Too much weight here.
Too little there.
Without this,
this current
Fixation,
maybe then I’d
be happy,
and confident,
and satisfied with
this,
this body of
mine.
Probably not,
though.