NANUNANU THE BUS STOPS THERE

Yes folks, gifted cellist, poet,Chelsea Flower Show gold medallist, and Olympic 200 metre hurdling champion, NanU (34) is setting this weeks poetry bus challenge and it's a little belter involving using those weird and wonderful blobber word verifications that amaze and amuse in almost equal measure.Why didn't we think of it before? Science girl has beaten us to it, I think she may be a genius, in fact I'm sure of it.Make haste to her whereabouts and enter into this weeks poetic festivities.

This week there will be a special 'First Prize'awarded anonymously in secret via a telepathic mallard called Kevin who will choose the winner and think about it.So don't miss out on this golden opportunity to impress and amaze your friends with the totally non existent 'Telepathic Poetry Duck Prize',which in the Blue Riband Poetry Bonanza is second only in kudos to 'The Farting Cow Award For Poetic Endeavour On A Pogo Stick '

Remember friends ask not what the poetry bus can do for you, but how much is a 99 with sprinkles.

Here is the place to be, le challenge poetique de fille de science NanU, right....... HERE

Bedad! Et Mon Dieu! Tis Le Bus de Bagnell!

Le bus de Bagnell est arrivé.Et je crois que ce ete un trés bien exercise n'est ce pas?
Aujordhui (?) Ich has been tres malais, y, I tinks, moi is going slightly mad.

Ah, well.

Confusion reigns supreme, DianaRoss was in the supremes, so chaos is her boss. The angle sum of a triangle is a menage a trois, the higher you grow the harder you fall, the grass is always greener over the other side of the fence that makes a good neighbour a bad one coz they've destroyed the prize pearly white picket at 3 in the morning in a sledgehammered drunken rage.

What I'm trying to say is RIMSKYKORSIKOV! But in a Dutch accent. What I'm trying to say is the opposite of what I'm trying to think.What I'm trying to say is different in every shade of the rainbow.What I'm trying to say, will never be said.What I'm trying to say would never reach me.What I'm trying to say,is a grain of sand on the beach.What I'm trying to say won't go away.What I'm trying to say walks the roads at midnight.What I'm trying to say is in the black box flight recorder.What I'm trying to say doesn't know me.What I'm trying to say shines shoes in Grand Central Station.What I'm trying to say goes to the pictures without me.What I'm trying to say has never been to Brick Lane Market. What I'm trying to say failed all it's exams.What I'm trying to say Killed me then saved me.What I'm trying to say keeps me going.What I'm trying to say can't wash the dishes or pick the kids up from school.What I'm trying to say, could never say I love you.What I'm trying to say would like to be a poem.

Life

Confuses me

Getting to bed at night getting up in the morning

Think about the stairs and you fall

Thinking is dangerous

Thinking leads to enlightenment

Leads to perdition all roads Roman

Realising there are no facts no rules

Everything is

Everyone is

The messiah The Pariah, Uriah Heap,

Nothing else

Nothing is deep

The questions keep

Me awake at night

I’ve lost the fight

For me

Kicking screaming (I should be dreaming

Of) being awake

We hurtle the same chute

Bang! Light!

Take the same exit

Bang! Dark!

The seconds between

Craving tip toe-for a better view

Pity/envy the flat-liners in the flat shoes

Flat foreheads bluff suited bull duck down

Heads in the sands of time

The square tie the nine-to-five trillion in ordered decay

Ignorance is their bliss their territory their Mammon

And still we cross their borders naked in our greed

Tripping over our hanging tongues

Doubt in the shadows

Turn the volume up

The hidden control

Blare the scare

An infinite hill of beans

Baked in the never ending

No single pulse out of place

The DNA of mortality

The endless unremitting chain

The same, the same, the same

Each failure a pyrrhic victory

Row upon row upon row

Facing the past future

like crows and poppies in the sun

waving,

drowning,

waving.

Am I safe?

This blog is many things, perhaps it's only one thing.If it is one thing I hope it is honest,to a certain degree, but in a good way.I hope it is more kind than it is cruel.

Three people may look at a Rose, one may see nothing but beauty, one will notice the greenfly and the third see only the thorns.

In all honesty there is no such universal thing as a rose, or anything in this world.No accepted fact or truth or reality, everything we see is a reflection of ourselves.So everything is different to every individual.


Money seems to rule the world.If Iam beautiful, how can I profit from it,If I am clever, how can I profit from it, If I can sing, how can I profit from it, If I can kick a ball skillfully, how can I profit from it, if I can paint,how can I profit from it, if I can write , how can I profit from it?

They say virtue is it's own reward.I'm beginning to believe that talent, also, is it's own reward.
I've spent most of my life doing soul destroying shitty jobs that I hated.I got a wage packet , rightly so, for each and every one of them. I never, ever, saw that as being paid. I saw it as compensation, and poor compensation at that, for wasting my hours, my days, my life.

They say money is the route of all evil. I say poverty does a pretty good job too. I say that those who are gifted a talent are the lucky ones, the ones that can see a rose as a rose.I say that their talent is worth more than it's weight in gold, it gives them a chance to live a better life, if not a wealthier one.
And yet all they cry for is money.

Poets, musicians, artists.

Vincent Van Gough lived in poverty, a tragedy. That is wrong.Would money have eased his burden? Possibly, but I doubt it. Would it have made him a better artist? No way!
What is more of a tragedy to my eyes, more wrong, is that his art is worth millions now. That's totally ridiculous, obscene.

There is no money in poetry.People wail about it, I rejoice in it.If you write poetry in any kind of earnest manner it's because you need to, not because you want to. Money would ruin poetry.
How do I know? I know because the few poets that do make money,win nonsensical prizes, bore me to tears.

TFE's opinions are amorphous , a moveable feast, a thinking out loud, looking for an echo, constantly changing, blowin in the wind, I'm learning what I think.Tomorrow it may all be different.

What do you believe, today?

THE BAGNELL BUS

Yes folks plucky poet actress dancer performer broadcaster and trapeze artist Niamh (62) is bravely back driving the bus HERE

I'm shredded, wrecked. Haven't been round to all last weeks passengers yet, sorry. But I look forward to getting round tomorrow. Many thanks to amazing articulate Argent (19) who took time out from running a large multi national rubber band company to drive last week, and did so, brilliantly.

I have a mountain of work to do was up till 3am sorting the poetry bus mag.Had help today but it seems there's more to do than I thought.It's not easy this publishing malarkey, especially for a total idiot. Nose to the keyboard day and night now apart from (other world things) power naps and tai chi breaks. When I say 'other world' I don't mean like in a supernatural way,like OOOooWwwoohhhooo!! I mean the 'real' world, except that, that world is totally unreal, and this stuff is the REAL world, innit, n'est ce pas und Comprendo and ting?

It's a ferocious howling beast of a mag and is gonna eat everything in the poetry pond when it is unleashed, so WATCH OUT.

ALMOST LATE FOR THE BUS !!

Busier than a hyperactive bee on amphetamines and a bonus.Will try to get round to read the rest o the passengeroos today.Wrote this real quick, same old same old.Apologos.

Feel the need in me.

Okay, I love you.

So what’s new

I still love you.

I’ve always loved you

Since you took my soul

I’ve put you first

Before all others

Before myself

Despite myself

Because of myself

I walked out a hundred times

And always I came back crawling

I’ve given you my best years

All my words

You took them from me

I needed you

You cut me down

Broke me in two

I took you back

you tried to kill me

I forgave you

On my lips first thing in the morning

Last thing at night

I spent every cent I had on you

The more I held you

The more I needed you

I was lost I was found

The journey more travelled

The road twofold

The answer to the question

The question to the answer

You have me now

You always had me

You’ll never let me go

My darling, my demon ,my drug, my drink.

Meanwhile here is the king of unrequited, Mr Morriseyo

Poetry Bus Needs Passengers!!

Well done to all who took part in Dominic Rivron's 'write on' challenge last week. It was as refreshing as a 'refresher' in a bucket of red lemonade and Drambuie. Thanks Dominic for your excellent Busmanship.

This week tis 'The Return Of Argent' Yes due to overwhelming public demand, that nice bloke Argent who is actually a lady legs, is returning to repeat the runaway success of her last task that broke box office records at the box office where they break records (mainly Cliff Richard's and Abba's)

She do be over there so get over there to read this weeks exciting Poetry Bus challenge.. HERE
Remember you've got to be in it, to be on it, so get at it. And write a poem too.
Good luck to you all and may your hands and feet be with you.

Where lies the power? What is the intent?

What do they want, what have they got, what do they need?
Who has the power?
What is their intent?
Who do they represent?
Who will they kill?
Who will they let be killed?
Who will they let kill?
Would they do it?
Will they respect their debt?
Who are they?
Are they us,if so why?
If not, why do we agree?

Who has the power?
What is the intent?
In Gaza?
The gas chamber?
In Afghanistan?
In Iraq?
At Shannon airport?
The North of Ireland?
In County Mayo?
The Rossport five?
The Birmingham Six?
Sunday, Bloody Sunday?
Omagh, Warrington?
Hiroshima?
Vietnam?
NewOrleans?
General Belgrano?
Miner's strike?
History, repeating itself?
Disgracing itself?
Negative equity?
Pawn tickets, lottery tickets?
Poetry anthologies?
The drink and the drunk?


In the Vatican?
The Texas death row?
The stoned to death adultress?
In the strip joint?
The street corner?
The passed around?
The dark alley?
The homeless hand?
The Joyridden car?
The politicians speech?
In free speech?

The Fairtraders trade?
The Tesco profit margin?
In the house where you live?
In the people you meet?
In the poem you write?
The TV you watch?
The papers you read?
The gossip they serve?
The words you use?
Nigger, Paki, Chav, Scanger, knacker?
In your head?
In your heart?

Hypocrite me, I've the arrogance to say,
to change the world,
I'll try to start with me.

DOM'S MAD BANANA POETRY EXTRAVANZA

Neato , Neato, Alberito, there is no finito to the bus. Vin de Pays the ferryman, glockenspiel, glock 17, the opposite of cabbage is baggage. So boola boss , boola boss, we all give a toss the feathers whatever the weather the best for leather is something or other the perfect shine, let it shine hold your hands out to the moon, the sun, the stars and let it shine . Oh lay your hands on my own let your fingers touch my soul, every road leads you to your, from your, home.See how they shine oh ! how they shine, let the lights of home shine down on me. Albatross , Alcatraz, Albequeurque, all hands to the grist, to the mill, corn and husks and whaeat and barley spill, still low lie the fields of Athenry, it's so lonely round the fields my dad trod, with nineteen years beneath his belt from working in the woods to Banagher sawmill to working the fields all day a pound of butter his pay from farmers wise beyond their years how many tears did they shed for the men that bled, fled home in search for better days to earn their pays and sang songs in bars from london to timbuktu for love and loss of home and then fuckers, gangsters, twisters, like Bertie Ahern, and every developer and half arsed greedy sheister milked every cent that was going never paying the debt they were owing to those gone before, those yet to come, to home or distant shore and suffered in silence or drunken roar that they deserved more from this bastard life.

THE POETRY BUS, DOM's GONE BANANAS!!

One banana, two banana ,three banana, four.Five bananas on the Poetry Bus but we want twenty more, la la la, la la la la, la la la ,la la la la!

Get over to Dominic Rivron's blog to find out the next Poetry Bus challenge. It's different, and different is good!

HERE


Come on and do the Funky Gibbon, NOW!

Many thanks to Weaver for driving last week and doing such a great job(never seen the bus looking so tidy!) and thanks too to all you wonderful passengers for without you the bus is but a gong booming, a cymbal clashing, a tree crashing with no one to hear it. So get onboard or even better sign up to DRIVE!

Ishga Maninga! It's that old Bus of Poetry!

Wonderful Weaver set the bus in motion this week with her task HERE

If you have not yet been over and done , then get over and do.
Poetry! Try it, you may like it!
It's not marmite and marzipan, it isn't pins and needles,it isn't a waste of time but when it is, it's a glorious one.
It's a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea on a foggy November morning, it's holding hands and skipping, it's two bottles of red wine with a friend,it's a lemon mousse after a sunday roast, it's different, it's odd, it's an uncaged bird, it's seeing things with your heart as well as your eyes, it's the part of you you don't understand, it's what you thought you had forgotten, it's not just a poem written in 5 mins, it's everything that has ever happened to you up till the second before you write.
Exercise yer brain or exorcise your soul. Write a poem today.

I wanted to write about a woman I once saw in a big park in the north of England. (This is true and I have witnesses.) It was summer and the park was crowded.Up ahead of us mingled among the strolling hordes were a family. The mother was large walked slightly oddly and was dressed vividly in loud colours. There was something out of kilter with her in general but her gait in particular. Drawn like magnets we sped up and strained to see more. There was something about her legs. Did she have two? Were they the same colour. As we got closer we still couldn't quite believe it.She had two legs alright, but one of them was from an ornate dining table. A proper fughin table leg, thick heavy mahogany or teak and Edwardian looking all shaped and carved with rings and bulges and square bits.

But I couldn't get me poetry head round that and so was at a loss.Not drinking doesn't exactly oil the poetry metabolism either.

Luckily I walked into the garden yesterday(somewhat gratefully on me two flesh and bone type legs) and saw two flies on a snail- and there was my poem. Or should I say here is my poem.

Fireflies

Despite failing sense

I came across them

Broad sunlight upon their backs

Feeding, fighting, flirting,

A greenbottle and bluebottle,

Flies on the hard and soft carcass

Of yesterdays snail.

They were ugly. but so beautiful,

Their colours bright as fire

A reflection of midday heat

And it meant something

It meant everything

It meant nothing

It was all you wanted it to be

It was life.

THE VIRTUAL POETRY BUS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So follow me follow away to the wonderful world of Weaver and there we will wallow in this weeks neither whistfully wanton nor wutheringly woeful poetry bus challenge, no, no witch is Weaver, but she will cast a spell on you, her task is magic and weally weally wickedly good methinks.

Unless wisteria gives you hysteria you should be eager as a beaver to get over to Weaver where nature and musings weave and mingle like waves among the shingle.
You'll be left wanting more when you've walked along her sunny shore.

So make haste comrades of the bus they call' poetry 'and gather the muse unto yourselves like a bunch of flowers and intoxicate us with the sweet perfume of your words, or just get over there and write a feckin poem. Right? HERE

Ireland gets new national anthem !!

Spread the love!

Kalle Ryan and Enda Roche of the Brown Bread Mix tape night up in Dubland entered and won a competition run by The Irish Times to find a new anthem for the auld sod, Ireland that is, not Bertie Ahern. The judges were Neil Hannon (Ex of The Divine Comedy) with some fat bloke who now call themselves 'The Terry Duckworth Trio' or some such.
Anyways I thinks this is a fabuloso chant and me and the rest of the Castle entourage have been belting it out all day.

If we'd had this earlier, Thierry handball Henry wouldn't have dared carry the ball to his pal to put in the net and we'd have gone on to win the world cup.