Sunday, October 18, 2009

It says Sunday but this is MONDAY Poetry Day!!!

It was the best of times.It was the worst of times.
Then the big red Poetry Bus Jetted into town and with it the worst of times fecked off out of it.I've decided to invite someone different to drive the bus each week, just for the craic.This week's guest Bus Driver is Thomas Hardy,or Tommo as I like to call him. He has written a few books including 'Hard Times' The Mayor of Casterbridge' and the semi autobiographical 'Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys '*
*Source- Guineys book of Bollix.
'Jimmy The Butler has been on a week long intensive coctail making course and will be serving Black Russians and Rusty Nails upstairs, or if you fancy a Pixie Stick or A brass Monkey Jimmy's yer man in fact you can have any drink you like except tea, unless it's a Long Island Iced Tea.The usual food and fancies will be served as per last week.So sit back ,tuck in, raise a glass to 'The Bus Poets' and enjoy the ride.
But before you do enjoy yerselves you'll have to read mine.(No such thing as a free Lunch -or Bus ride) Struggled this week even though I've seen the film a few times.Lost for inspiration I sat looking out to sea and being struck by the nothingness of the day, decided to record what I saw/heard as if they were to be my very last moments.Ironically the nothingness burst into life but I was already on my dead-end track so.........
Garage land.

Of course there’s nothing
To begin with
A gentle memory
And the sound of the ocean
Dying hard like an old habit
The longer you sit the louder it becomes
Threatening to drown all before us
you can hear it in the cry of the gulls
Feel it in the beating of your heart
Sea is sky and sky is sea
All horizons are lost
Perspective shrunk to
the parameters of hearing
Listening. An invisible plane
Overhead passing through
Smaller birds draw in
A blackbird in a shrieking panic
A Finch curious upon a briar
To and fro and to
the curlews in and out
pattering with the waves
There’s precious little here
When all is said and done
Birds go this way birds go that
A Cormorant low to the water jets out
At speed like a middle distance bullet
A straight line to nowhere
A blank canvass
What’s to see?
Devil pissed Red and black berries
Un-ripened unpicked- too late
October heading to November
All souls day
The veil lifted SOIS
Save our immortal souls

Water laps the birds fly
Another plane passes by
Time passes slow
Over a featureless seascape
An escape an exit a way out
A one way mirror.
Cormorant is back, hello my friend,
Changed his mind,
Black wing tips touch water.
I hope that someone gets my message in a bottle
The ferns are brown
Summer has gone before it arrived
Letters unsent never arrive
No need of pen of stamp of pain

A stranger passes,
Leather jacket jeans
Black hair heading
Back to somewhere
Heading home, homeward bound
I wish I was, homeward bound,
Perhaps I am.
I don’t think I ever left home,
Home left me
If life is a tumour you’ve got to cut it out
Hear the sand pipers piping, their many feet a drumming
Mistletoe secrets and wine in vino veritas
Plum pudding fiery brandy flaming lips
Stuck like glue, kiss me quick mourn
Me slow.

A fuckin’ canoe, bullshit freedom.
I don’t believe it, hath man’s end no dignity?
A yellow fibreglass banana
thinks it’s navigating the lost Amazon
An intrepid tepid explorer
All Swiss army knife and cocoa
Let the sun shine
Paddle left, paddle right
I’ll paddle me own canoe
Floating in a sea of sky
Of infinite blue.
A curious seal now adding insult
To my injury
If that doesn’t take the biscuit
The living planet
The canoe stops, he looks knackered
Self loathing in his escape
Drifting thoughts oars akimbo
Broken windmills
Then dip left, dip right
a small wake of forward, forward.

Another fucking plane
Talk about getting away from it all!
Midges rev around me
The boat nearly gone
I hear a crow see a seagull, a bee,
The tweet bird of youth and the Cormorant
off again, inches from the water
Fast, then out of sight
The seal near waters edge
Head only above water
Looks like Churchill’s Labrador
A tiny black headed fly lands upon my thumb
Investigating the land of giants
And flits away

I’m sure that small bird watches me
There’s nothing else now except the seal
Up and down like a submarine
The crushing weight of the water
The crushing weight of the world
Boredom rules vast and empty
The sand a thin veil between liquid and solid
Fact and fiction chiaroscuro
Tidal and static spinning as one
I can hear myself breathe
There’s nothing else nothing to see
There is nothing
It’s time to go
Nothing left nothing left behind
Time to go now
In some ways there’s something
In many ways there’s plenty
In all ways there’s never enough.

Titus is already aboard enjoying tea ,toast and a doggy biscuit.

A dog and now a Fox,
Rachel Fox

And some humans...
Karen (I've been patient)

Swiss(been at the stop over a week!)

Jeanne (two blogs) Lakatos

Mrs Niamh (4 blogs but I never heard o Gene Pitney)Bagnell

Argent ( Strange Luggage)

Dominic (Eno) Rivron

Willow (Mistress of The Manor)

Uiscebot (Colm-The short list King- Keegan)

The (Wonderful) Weaver of Grass

Sandra(Hold my Hand ) Leigh

( you can be sure of) Shug

The (fantabulous singing) Watercats

Heather (it's a definite maybe)

The muli talented P. Nolan

It's Aaargh! Argent

Kat (I'm talking on the back seat) Mortensen AKA Poetikat

NanU the genetecist, not Man U the football club

Cider with Wild Somerset Child
Another from Rachel Fox


swiss said...

wow, that's an epic! i particularly liked

Sea is sky and sky is sea
All horizons are lost

and the anguished

hath man’s end no dignity?

you should struggle more often! lol

Dominic Rivron said...

Post posted! (I'm just off up the wooden hill - I'll read yours tomorrow when I'm awake!)

Jeanne Iris said...

Jeanne Two Blogs here.
Sounds like a Dick Tracy character, doesn't it?

TFE...I love your poem, Garage Land, a classic, for sure! I particularly like the peroration at the end and the reappearance throughout of small, winged creatures. Their 'flitting' natures parallel the transitory theme of this poem. Lovely.

Okay, since I've already posted, I'll just kick back in the rear seat and enjoy Jimmy the Butler's Long Island Iced Teas...ALL DAY LONG... Tommo does know the way, right?

willow said...

Hey, don't let the bus pass me by again! Kiss me quick mourn, me slow.

I'm really curious to see "Garage" now.

Uiscebot said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
The Weaver of Grass said...

Posted - to hell with the station clock today - jumped on as it sped past a bus stop.

the watercats said...

*sits quietly, listening to rawhide.. a strangely suitable backdrop to your poem... :-)
I could hear the space blowing while reading this... that eerie dreamlike semi silence a winter shoreline emanates, the ocean has a fantastic habit of really fucking your head up if you gaze at it enough! You gotta love a poem with cormorants in, black divers are an underestimated beauty in my opinion. Beautifully tortured stuff EEjit!..
(have my feeble attempt up finally, lol)

shug said...

Last minute effort

Uiscebot said...

I've read most of the poems now, what a mix. I would have personally liked to have seen more Garage poems though!

That's a long poem TFE love the cormorant in there!

Argent said...

Oooh! Ye could cut the atmosphere in that poem with a chainsaw! Fantastic work. I like the recurring themes like the cormorant and plane. There was such a windswept desloation about the thing! Kudos!

Heather said...

I've just posted mine - I could have said that before couldn't I?

P Nolan said...

The Weaver of Grass said...

I love the last four lines eej and also I love the shape of the whole thing on the page. You are quite a poet when you get going you know.
If you are choosing a new driver each week then please don't choose Dylan T as he was never sober enough to drive a bus - nor do we want anyone vaguely suicidal like Plath - I may already have my bus pass but I am still pretty nimble at jumping on as it speeds by.

Poetikat said...

I hope I didn't miss the bus (*hanging on to the rear fender*).

If I did, I'll just shout my piece from back here, so keep the windows open!

Poetikat said...

So many lines really leapt out at me, TFE:
"Self loathing in his escape" - brilliant!
"midges rev..." - hilarious!

And all the lovely weaving of pop-culture, music refs - loved that!

SOC (a la Woolf, Faulkner etc) great!

Loved your personal albatross in the black cormorant and all the nature refs.
All in all, this was a real trip! That's why you're the Poetry Bus engineer.
Hellow, Thomas!

Mine's a Long Island, Jimmy!

NanU said...

Oh, my, Eejit, is that ever a meaty wonderful poem. You're inspiring me to get back on this bus and ride it from the inside, not an onlooker.
It has absolutely nothing to do with poetry, certainly not quality poetry like I've just been reading, but if anyone is drunk enough yet to laugh at child's play, there is a small offering here:

ArtSparker said...

I'm thinking overcast above the sea...

Also thought of Hardy's aged thrush.

Anonymous said...

Hi again this mid-October Monday. I've down it again - posted my own thing and not followed whatever we were set. I sense a reprimand coming, or being thrown off the bus! And I can't remember what it is I send you as a link, but my blog is

Niamh B said...

I normally don't like long poems, well poems that long, but that one suited the length I think, felt like you were just sitting there for hours, lovely really.
Some catchy lyric-like lines too "I wish I was, homeward bound" almost reminded me of a song.

In some ways there’s something
In many ways there’s plenty
In all ways there’s never enough.

Like the end of it

Niamh Griffin said...

The struggle was worth the effort!
I liked this the best:
Heading home, homeward bound
I wish I was, homeward bound,
Perhaps I am.
I don’t think I ever left home,
Home left me
If life is a tumour you’ve got to cut it out
Haven't heard of the film before but I'll hunt it out now!

P Nolan said...

This one seems to have upped the ante somewhat- some quite serious and chillingly considered pieces;

Particularly liked Sandra's, Weaver's and that final stanza of Colm's is a bullet.

The bus bustleth!

Dominic Rivron said...

Like the poem. I thought the first 50 lines or so was the best stuff of yours I've read. I see the similarity you pointed out between our poems. Perhaps its just that coincidence intensifies awareness, but it seems to me that strange things happen in groups - even online groups apparently (you notice it particularly when making music in a group).

Poetikat said...

Are you sleeping, brother Peadar? I've recorded it, just for YOU!

Karen said...

Your poem is wonderful! Just when I'm comfortably settling into a beautiful reflection on nature(and the first three stanzas are truly lovely language), the tone totally changes, blasting the birds, the canoeist, the midges.

This poem certainly didn't take me where I thought I was going, but that's what makes it work in the end. The beauty of the sea-skyscape and the bird imagery throughout, followed by the intrusions of the plane and the canoeist finally lead me to understand the intention and the crushing weight of the water and the world. Very, very interesting. I do so wish I could see that film. The poetry it inspired is outstanding.

Titus said...

TFE that is a very beautiful, desolate piece of writing. I love the water and sky of it - calls to "garage" - and the timelessness of the whole piece that builds to stunning, downbeat conclusion - great last line - "In all ways there's never enough." The birds, plane and flying creatures (loved "Midges rev around me") give it an atmosphere in more ways than one.
The mood is perfect, such an interior piece created entirely from observations of the exterior. Loved it.

Great driving this week, Mr. TFE, and my, how the bus is filling up now! Thank you.

Wigeon said...

Sorry TFE - I couldn't catch the bus this week but I was really interested to read the responses.
Yours is a long poem stuffed full of imagery so that I could feel myself there.
Scunnered or scunnert is a Scots word for a number of things: bored or fed up or objectionable and variations on a theme of those.

Rachel Fox said...

For the record my (very late) Garage poem is here. It just wanted to be with the others.