The Bamboo Harp
November 26, 2008 at 7:13 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 14 CommentsTags: poetry, writing
tiny miracles like unexpected flowers blooming,
beyond description but within a tradition of what?
jack hammers and jack boots jekyll
and hide your errant cliche under some
gesture, a badge, flipped and flapped
given you by some bald professor of
appropriate jargon and cattle trucks, son,
take your pick he said bending over
picking up an old butt
half trod into the pavement
and thinking trailers for sale or rent
14 Comments »
RSS feed for comments on this post. TrackBack URI
Leave a Reply
The Puzzle Box
gingatao, the podcast- An error has occurred; the feed is probably down. Try again later.
- The Australian Poet Laureate
- another quote from Robert Adamson January 31, 2010
- Three Quotes from Robert Adamson October 22, 2009
- The copyright question (2) October 7, 2009
legal formalities
© P Squires, gingatao, 2007-2010. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Paul Squires and gingatao, with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
'And you have to deal with the terrible karma too.' Paul Squires.
Email us at querygingatao at gmail dot com,
-
Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.
Entries and comments feeds.
I am going to fiddle with that title. I kind of like, The Undercover Cop Blues. Hmm,
The Bamboo Harp might be a good title for the next book, instead? But The Undercover Cop Blues kind of limits the range of the poem, maybe. Oh well, don’t be such a pedant, it’s just a blog.
It’s just that if you call it that then it can’t be the reflection which is the old bum saying to become a cop (as an image of policing the status quo) is to sell out and in his poverty he has found a form of freedom. Really the poem is asserting the choice has to made. That in the end you are forced into moral or epic questions.
Oh, I give up.
Yayay, when you give up and trust your instincts as a fairly decent human then, tiny flowers bloom,
10, 9, 8,
Comment by Paul Squires— November 26, 2008 #
You will explode if you think that hard about stuff! It’s all about instinct – you know it. I don’t have a badge to flash and that’s just fine by me because with badges come rules and expectation. It’s weird because the comment seems to me to be the poem again in just a different way. An extension – which if intentional is very clever (ha! yeah, yeah, course it’s intentional), left hand over right . (hide Hyde – wish I’d thought of that – brilliant)
I will explode. I worry that maybe people read the poem, have an impression and then my comment wipes away their own impression and only leaves mine, hmm,
Comment by Narnie— November 26, 2008 #
I don’t think the comment takes way the impression I had about the poem. As Narnie said the comment plays a role in the poem. It actually sounds like another voice to me. And I agree, it’s a very clever extension.
Thanks, Cocoyea. I’m gonna go back to writing poems that don’t need explanation for a while I think. Continuing the exploration of possibilities.
Comment by cocoyea— November 27, 2008 #
To stereotype or not to stereotype?
Hmm, probably not, if I can help it, Ana. Do you think that I did?
Comment by Annamari— November 27, 2008 #
The number of dimensions you introduce with your words remind me of a conductor blazing through a passionate Beethoven movement, himself clueless of the number of directions he pointed towards. Indeed, poetry is a form of music and your poetry is a quintessential example of that.
It’s been a long time coming, but I feel I might become more frequent again online; I just got a new computer today which is very conducive for photography work! 🙂
Cool, they say Macs are better for graphical work, Sumedh. I look forward to the results. How is the peacock family?
Comment by Sumedh— November 27, 2008 #
I really liked it!
Cool, I’m glad you did, Catherine.
Comment by Catherine— November 27, 2008 #
Woohoo very well done!!!
Thankyou!!!
Comment by Vesper de Vil— November 27, 2008 #
Jack boots, cattle trucks, maybe this is a partial flashback into my Judaic heritage. I like this poem more and more and I don’t think I’ve completely understood it yet. There is a sense in which writing the poem is a process of discovering the thought rather than elucidating an already conscious idea. So each poem is a search, a dynamic.
Comment by Paul Squires— November 27, 2008 #
An uneasy thought that.
That surrendering his basic dignity like that causes tiny flowers to bloom.
Hmmm.
Now I’m pondering on dignity itself and it’s shackles..
Hmm, that is an interesting thought, Crushed. I see what you mean, maybe it’s a little Taoist, in that sense of submission, but you’re right, it feels more like loss of dignity.
Comment by Crushed— November 27, 2008 #
rooms to let 50 cent
no phone no pool no pets
i ain’t got no cigarettes…
a perfect plays on words round and round we go –whee!
Comment by artpredator— November 27, 2008 #
No, no …
that’s what the poem asked me …
(i read it soon after a post on conformity and some images did fit right in , like “hide your errant cliche under some gesture, a badge, flipped and flapped
given you by some bald professor of
appropriate jargon”)
Comment by Annamari— November 27, 2008 #
I’m liking your process. The insight you gave is almost as good as the poem.
My work falls on its face very often, but I too wrangle with similar thoughts cropping up like dandelions all over a sprung back yard…
In the end, the work speaks to the reader or it is silent. And this tells me to find my own half trodden butt from the discards of the world, this one is clearly belonging to one yet again.
Comment by Eric1313— November 27, 2008 #
Great writing as usual. Here’s my pre-thanksgiving blues solo called Missing
I’m just a lost and lonely poet looking for a friend
A kindred soul in a world of hollow, often broken mannequins
Shattered storefronts of worthless dreams, empty houses of desire
Burned out buildings and burned up hopes; only ashes of the fire
The vacant skies where butterflies and mourning doves once flew
Stare down cold and threatening; gun metal grey and blue
Blackened fingers claw the air in grotesque silhouettes
Rooted firmly in despair; scorched by sorrow and regrets
Shreds of joy like withered grasses slowly smoke and smolder
The missing motion of careless masses makes the day seem colder
Nobody had to drop the bomb or dial a deep red telephone
They looted every ounce of faith and left me here to die alone
So I kick the garbage down the streets the day before Thanksgiving
Hands in pockets filled with loathing for the laughter of the living
Comment by Fabian G. Franklin— November 27, 2008 #
Thanks everybody, that’s a cool poem F.G. captured that thought in your voice perfectly. You are a master craftsman in an honourable tradition. Every year at Thanksgiving I have made a tradition of posting W S Burroughs ‘Thanksgiving Prayer.’ This year embedding or putting in the vodpod has been disabled. I wonder why. Anyway here is a link where you can watch it. I warn you, it’s Bill at his darkest and funniest.
Comment by Paul Squires— November 27, 2008 #