faith is not required

June 5, 2010 at 7:54 am | Posted in poetry, writing | 18 Comments
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between the it is (always) dark(est just
before the (dawn) of her
blink andthe
busyness bustle of
mind the day
there’s an infinitesimal
time the sky
,exact

blue
shade of smiling
eyes

Translation into Romanian

June 3, 2010 at 6:53 am | Posted in blogging, writing | 10 Comments
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Translation of poetry always raises difficult questions. Because the sound and movement in the language is an integral part of poetry, I believe that the translation is always a new poem, a variation on the original not a replication.

There is a sense in which all communication is a form of translation, of course, a process of encoding thought events into signs and signifiers which are translated or disencoded by the listener. And in a broader arc, there is a way of seeing the world in which it is a subtle and mysterious process of translation. Consciousness translates experience through the mediating filters of the mind which constructs waterfalls and sunsets in a delicate spiraling interplay between perception and conception…

When Ana asked if she could translate one of my poems into Romanian I was thrilled. This is the poem she chose…

different senses, different shoes

unless you are a practioner of the dark arts emerging
schmooze leadened sense
from Bowen Hills
highhat bass and most important
esoteric referensh
perhaps in sullen sluggish chains led
regretful wriggling uncomfortable on its claws
look for two most
unexpected arrivals
rival twice
then be gone

and here is the translation…

alte simţuri, alţi papuci

De nu eşti un practicant al actelor oculte originar
zvonite plumburiu (re)simţite
din Bowen Hills
chimval în timbru grav şi foarte important
o referinţǎ ejotericǎ
probabil cǎ îţi târşâi mohorât înlǎnţuitele
regrete furişate incomod pe gheare
te uitǎ dupǎ douǎ
ajunse pe neaşteptate
îndoitǎ rivalitate
şi te du.

(Thank you, Ana. You can hear Ana reading the poem in Romanian here.)

The Moondog Poem Saga

June 1, 2010 at 9:41 pm | Posted in blogging, writing | 11 Comments
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“The only one who knows this ounce of words is just a token,
is he who has a tongue to tell that must remain unspoken.”
Moondog. (from Bird’s Lament)

Moondog was a jazz composure who lived homeless on the streets of New York for twenty years. He dressed as a Viking and invented his own instruments which is very cool.  I am trying to write a poem about or based on him for the Extempore Jazz Writing competition. But it is proving difficult. My brain is geometric and I seemed to have lost that instinctive feeling for the architecture of water which is so much a part of jazz. Still, I have one verse, so we’ll see.

life is desire

May 27, 2010 at 6:30 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 15 Comments
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I don’t think

there are particular
unusual unique monsters
just that the depths of my mind
are closer to the surface

underocean rivers of contrasting warmths
mutually curled in constant motion
carrying sunken pirate craft
rising to the dawn

I don’t think

just name traces of
curlsound occasions
tiny snippets which fit
the thought stream

very lovely lunch sitting
in the sun where the
babble bubble breaks
on the shore of a quiet mind

Summer Assortment in Wicker Hamper

May 24, 2010 at 3:58 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 9 Comments
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With a volley of other eye words like aye aye capitan
we shall plot the demise of all rhyming silliness
and make a point west, or east, or at least
apply the principle of parsimony.
After all, one without the other? Absurd like a star
without a toe turned pebbleward and if I was less
than imitable I would not deserve your attentions
my darling, I shall spend my days concocting
drunken cartographers from whom we can expect
an endless source of unique ridiculousnesses
carefully arranged in wicker hampers
specifically designed to conflate integrity, pastry and influence.
And whilst I rue the lack of subtlety, tis true,
a perfect tune, these babble of voices, instigation,
echo, interpolation, lull, anticipation and reflection
cannot help but sing your praise and praise your song
and leave us unconditional.

“The Poet Busker” CD by Kiersty Boon, a review.

May 17, 2010 at 5:43 am | Posted in contemporary poetry, links, poetry, writing | 5 Comments
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There has been a tendency in the past to think of performance poetry as a separate and somehow less serious or valuable mode of expression than poetry printed on the page. This collection of eighteen poems performed to music puts that idea finally and firmly to rest. It is impossible to disentangle the intelligence from the emotion, the poems from the narrative, the craft and skill in the making from the emotional effect on the audience. It takes the listener on a unique and irresistible journey through a carefully observed, immaculately crafted landscape created through the exercise of a unique imagination on the modern world.

From the joyful celebration of verbal virtuosity that is Tiddly Om…

“Now some scholars may
get quite upstropulous,
if you bling up their
well thumbed thesauruses
with colloquialised
conjured up meaning”

to the fierce strength of a poem like “Fairy Steps”

“The trailer’s being towed for a blowjob on Sunset Strip
by a whore who pays her clients with her husband’s credit card,
While the begging question rolls in with the angry sky,
Just who IS paying for this crap?”

…you will be engaged, entertained and moved.

It is part of the responsibility of the modern poet to create an audience for poetry. This CD is a completely independent production, made using freely available technology and software, yet the production values are indistinguishable from commercially manufactured products. The collection is engaged in reconnecting contemporary poetry with an audience without compromising depth, range or complexity.

With all its intelligence, humour, courage and craft, “The Poet Busker” by Kiersty Boon represents, in so many different ways, the future of poetry.

And you would be foolish not to go and purchase it right now, here.

bouquet #3

May 12, 2010 at 3:15 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 11 Comments
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Those who say that flowers have no sound have never heard the generousity of tulips in your smile nor watched the synchronicitous flight of gulls like white orchids at the whisper of your touch. They have not been released into the world of sunflower splendour or tiny blue delphinium delight nor set the direction of their dreams by the scent of apple blossom on a chilly night. They doubt the giggle of gardenias when I demonstrate my geranium brain again and are blind to that outrage of yellow hyacinth in the corner of your eye that warns of lightning strikes. I thought of them again this morning when I heard you laugh circus pink camellias into an azure sky and I hope that if they are reading this they experience now as I did then a truly gypsophila anticipation.

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