From Cathy to Linton

I’ve learned lots of love letters

Their style, composure, and glee.

They’ve never set much in store

For little, lonely me.

- 

I was told, by dear Dean, no less

That the young start in passion-

The inexperienced finish loose.

I’ve heard her warn

 -

So this letter, my dear Linton

Is all that I should have said

Years back, when my tongue

Was new, yours glad.

 -

I’m sorry our letters stopped short,

Come to me, my love for you did not.

A Poet on stage

Tonight, for the first time in months, I treated myself to a night out, so of course I went with a friend to a much loved event; a poetry reading. This post decidedly will be a short review of Aurélia Lassaque’s reading at Palas Print dated 10/12/12.

Armed with a measure of good red wine and a delicious, not to mention sticky mince pie; sat in a tiny room where the Welsh, French, Spanish, English and whoever else sat shoulder to shoulder, waiting expectantly for the performance to begin.  I had no expectations of this poet, being out of the loop for some time, evident in my blog, I took my seat in the front row. The lovely Aurélia and her translator took their seats facing us. I could not even see a twinge of apprehension, something rare when reading to such a seasoned group of critics, and that was only the Welsh.

I was astounded and full of admiration at Lassaque’s first collection ‘The call of Janus’, tracking the progression of images over St John’s Day. Each image has its own page, and each page resonates with a different sense. ‘Sweet aromas of cut grass’ and ‘horses tramp hooves in a war dance’, are just two phrases from the opening, forbearing the naturalist and disturbing that Lassaque invokes more and more throughout this collection.

With each passage, Lassaque read more and more passionately, while maintaining her authorial distance, something I find admirable when faced with such emotive language such as ‘ blood quickens beneath the skin’ and many others I have little time to mention.

Overall this collection, talking not exclusively of Bella’s time spent in this unusual place, is truly breath taking and well worth a read. It is truly awe inspiring to think these poems were written over two weeks.

Quickly moving on to the rest of her book; there was a truly controversial, perhaps dark side to many of these poems. Lassaque ventured to read some in Catalan and Italian, other than Occitan, demonstrating prowess in major as well as minor languages. Fantasy, for its prude inspiring mention of defrocking monks, and invoking Mediterranean imagery with Greece an ‘an olive tree’, were truly captivating.

‘The king of golden silk’, was possibly the darkest of these poems, retaining its distance from the scene only made it stronger as this king was in fact a scarecrow. The poet mentions his guts are ‘scattered on the ground’. However, before judging any of her work pejoratively, it is essential to mention that no matter how dark the tones are; her poetry exemplifies beauty in a way I have seen very few poets do.  It is my opinion that Aurélia Lassaque’s long career will keep on crashing forwards, with many more books to come; myself, I look forward to her next release in March next year.

The sanity of silliness

So, entering my second year of French with English literature, and I have to ask myself, just how do I keep my sensibilities under all this work (made even harder by having to take time out to get my first Dan black belt in October), and also while wondering if I’ll ever get to work on the Realmskipper saga again soon?

                Well, the answer is, it’s the toons that keep me sane, no I jest not, I don’t talk to them, and I assure you, they don’t ask me to. Watching these figments of another’s imagination allows me to escape the universe I happen to be plonked in, and wander the glittering alleyways of another. The human brain is not a machine, and I never believe it should be treated as such, the least of my reasons is a abhor headaches.

                Are there any other ways, one might ask, of putting down the goblet of pressure, and brain ache of real life? Yes! Many writers subscribe to a healthy fitness regime, myself included.

Consider the following next time you feel the wear and tear of thorny life, or if you feel your wanderings becoming aimless and wholly unsatisfying:

·       -  Martial arts

·        - Cardio workouts

·        - Yoga

·         -Quidditch (The most ancient and silliest of wizarding sports)

·        - Cartoons

·        - Cooking something tricky but fabulous tasting

·        - And many more, leave me some suggestions!

Well, while I have to attempt to make coherent sense of why museums are instruments of political power in the fifth republic of France (which isn’t entirely boring) I’ll leave you all to go out and make your masterpieces, ciao.

Why Sit Alone Little Poet?

I've been a bad blogger lately, I hold my hands up to you who love my poetry and apologize. However, I have been busy, cooking things up for the future, my novel is currently in preparation to hit a few select agencies in the country in the hopes one will take on this poor poet so he can reach more people. I will strive to get something out when time presents itself. But for now, here's something from my collection that earned me a 1st in Poetry in Bangor University, year 1.

Why Sit Alone Little Poet?

 -

Why rest your feet alone timid poet?

The sun does burn harsh your small fantasies.

Kill them quick, darling, do be quaint and quit,

Maybe you have. Those feeble diseases

 -

Which bewitch your mind, your soft supple fingers.

Does shade not keep them deep cool as before?

Shake not your darling bends and breaks, bearers

Of Bangled wrists and bead bracelets. They bore

 -

The gents around town.  Lift yourself up, don’t cry

Your two fine friendly legs stop spirits sore

And your eyes which see the plain paved prairie

Betray thee, with those barred boards of your moor.

 -

As long as paths do wind, and grass does gleam

Follow the river and forget the stream.

A poem to say: I Miss You

This one was inspired by a number of things, boredom from editing my book for the umpteenth time, the poem 'I don't know,' by my acquaintance Nikola Madrizorv and missing my best friend Doug. So without further ado my poem:

I miss you

I miss you.

I miss the things we used to do together,

Like go to the Chinese and have rice, chips

And sweet and sour sauce every time.

That is, every time except for the last.

I miss you.

I miss our walks to all sorts of new places,

The way you’d show me everything, as if

You owned it all. The pier, hills and dive

Bars were just some of the wonders.

I miss you.

I miss cooking, having dinner with you.

The effort was more a privilege than chore.

The thrill of discovering a new recipe, and

Those sounds you make as you eat too quickly.

You miss me.

That is, I hope you think of me.

It’s only been a week, and already I want you back.

I want one more lunch, dinner, and ice cream on the pier.

One more story of your time abroad.

So I’m calling just to ask…

How are you doing, my old friend?

Baking Bread

In this post I shall recall one of my early experiences with cooking in my university's kitchen, without my trusty fajita maker (on which I cook everything now). This experience was making bread, as the title suggests. I managed to flood the kitchen with black smoke, almost setting off the smoke alarm. Yang, my Chinese flatmate and I spent the subsequent half an hour, choking on the fumes, and trying to air out the kitchen. Good times.
Here I present my poem:

Baking Bread

Pasty rolls and oven hot

Put away till tops get spots

Pre-rolled and pressed

Practically prepared

So what’s wrong with it?

My dear, why care?

Darkened top and oven hot

Put away rolls, with more than spots

Blackened smoke, panicked shouts

God, will someone stop these pouts?

The oven’s broke- well what’s new?

It’s college dear, what’s wrong with you?

 

Rude Awakenings

As promised, the second of the two poems released in Pulp Magazine this month! This poem was written in a literal sense, not long after watching a group of highly talented Slovenian poets. Another taste of my experimental poetry lies ahead, enjoy if you dare:

-

Rude Awakenings

-

Rude awakenings. The morning

Resembles the night. Each day filled

With the gust of bitter winds. Every

Morning, and night, like one of early

November. Less cheerful than December.

Rude mornings. The awakening of gusts

That seems like the winds at night. Morning

Which is still really night, as you sip your tea

Waiting for the light. Open fingers. From

Preparing dinner before a breakfast has been made.

Rude winds. Cold mornings, like those of December

Only less cheerful. Bleeding fingers, while

Breakfast waits. Wind whipping away the night.

Rude fingers, dinner away. Rude awakenings.

March

It's a new month, and with it comes news! This month I'm very pleased and proud to announce that I've made it into Bangor University's own Pulp Magazine, with two of my poems including 'Rude awakenings' and 'Short Night'. This is the first step to getting where I want to be, and I'd like to thank all of my loyal readers who keep coming back and giving me that push I need to create something worth reading.

As a treat, I'll put the two poems that Pulp are using on here also, (but shhh, don't tell them) along with my usual assortment of poetry antics, such as my first solo ride on a train and much more. Expect news of my Novel's progress, as it nears its final manuscript form and preparations for the dreaded agent search.

So without further ado I present, Short night, Inspired my my best friend in the world Douglas Crawford, a man with a good taste in friends and an unusually spectacular taste in Ales and Ciders.

-

Short Night

-

No stars. Breath of wind. Far off voices.

It’s only just turned dark. Voices. Lots

Of them. They clamour around, not

Staggering yet. Side lane. Trees overhead.

Cutting silhouettes into the sky. Church.

Stale piss. The smell burns my senses.

Clamour. People. The cake. Oh look

It’s a celebration. Food. Orange drinks.

Lime fingers. The centrepiece went down well.

Swan. Apple. Melon with boiled strawberries.

Girl. Darkened room. Lights. The party can

Begin now. Shudder of shutters. Click, click. Click, Click.

Man with a camera, hope I get to see them later.

Fuzzy hours. Lazy games. Memories. These

Are what I’d dreamed of. The coat. The bag.

The empty room. Trees. The night is still black.

No stars. Dead wind. Far off slurs. They don’t

Walk, they stagger. I know the night is ending.

Room. Bed. Clock. The slurred voices never lie.

It’s late.

The view from Alun 201

I suppose this one reflects my fascinations with what lay through windows in my first semester. Written while staring though the window of my poetry classroom, this chilling poem almost gives me those Victorian chills I so enjoy.

-

The view from Alun 201

-

Lamp. Black. Debutant Plaths, Larkin’s and Audens alike.

One stops to appreciate my eye. Tree. Leaves.

Like Children’s hands reaching towards me. Averted eye.

-

Old mortar stares me down. Its ancient lines cry wisdom.

There’s nothing funnier than its misery.

To its left, a seemingly gross tumescence.

Engorged Mortar Member. Why no one cringes is beyond me.

-

Victorian lamp. False garden. How the two are

Forced together fascinate me. No one else – just me.

The Children’s hands reach out. They are my hands.

No wonder, I’m home.

The student Romeo to His Unknown Other

New year, new poetry. I have conjured up a horde of new poems for you all to celebrate the new year, for the foreseeable future, all of the poems published will have been for my poetry portfolio in the first semester of University. Today's was inspired by the Sheppard to his mistress. Here is my version:

-

The student Romeo to His Unknown Other

-

Come with me and be my dove,

And live all pleasure of my love

Gaze upon mountains from indoors.

Those lonely looking high up moors.

-

Here we will sit upon the finest chairs

Of plastic, wood, perhaps the bed,

Watching others wash their socks

Or laden with their books too much.

-

In here I can make a seaside of paper

Their tides against the crumbs of sand-

Not only last night’s dinner. A scarf

Of autumn leaves, I will lay before you.

-

A necklace of shoes littering my room

These are your pearls. The Masses of

Wires are your dresses, and your crown

Colours captured as though pillow bound.

-

On our walks you will eat ice cream, even

In October, nothing is sweeter. I will pluck

For you, loose change from my pocket, pubs

And pool tables will be your pleasures.

-

The diamond sparkle for your eye, shall be the

Garfield comics on my computer screen. And

Caviar is nothing compared to your crackers

Perhaps with cheese, made half hourly.

-

Others will look in awe, at you my Queen-bright-

No doubt taller than me. When May will move

We shall sing each morning, devoting to delight.

Now my dove- live with me and be my love.