The next poem is by Anne Stevenson. My response, from the males perspective, follows her work.
Sous-Entendou.
Don't think
that I don't know
that as you talk to me
the hand of your mind
is inconspicuously
taking of my stocking,
moving in resourceful blindness
up along my thigh.
Don't think
that I don't know
that you know
everything I say
is a garment.
by Anne Stevenson
I entendou?
I don't think
that you know
that as I talk to you
I'm peering at your breasts
and then mentally undressing you.
Don't think
that I don't know
that you think
everything I say
is bollocks!
I don't think
that you know
that I'm
pissed.
by Mature Student
Tuesday 24 November 2009
Sunday 22 November 2009
First Day at School
Scab.
Itchy scab.
High pitched squeaks on
polished floors.
Wooden walls -
polished floors and wooden walls.
A cacophony of razor sharp, high pitched squeaks
lasting the entire morning.
Scab.
Itchy scab.
Itchy scab on my 5 year old left knee.
One bloody itchy scab on my 5 year old left knee.
That's all I can remember of my
first day
at school.
Scab and squeaks.
Itchy scab.
High pitched squeaks on
polished floors.
Wooden walls -
polished floors and wooden walls.
A cacophony of razor sharp, high pitched squeaks
lasting the entire morning.
Scab.
Itchy scab.
Itchy scab on my 5 year old left knee.
One bloody itchy scab on my 5 year old left knee.
That's all I can remember of my
first day
at school.
Scab and squeaks.
Friday 20 November 2009
Birth, Work and Will You...?
First formal assignment; we were asked to produce 3 to 4 items for a "Creative CV" and a reflective essay. Here's my contribution.
One Act Play
Student's (tidy) bedroom furnished with bed, wardrobe, desk and well-stocked bookshelf. Gary, a mature student, types at his computer. He pauses and looks to the audience.
Gary: One thousand words written as a "Creative CV" and, just in case you didn't pick up the inflection in my voice, "Creative CV" is in quotation marks and has capitals for both C in creative and CV. What does that tell you? What does that tell me? Should I write solely about defining moments that kindled my creative writing desires? Who knows?
(reads from sheet of paper:)
Birth.
Many infants experience their first few moments of life whilst breathing their last, and sometimes only, breath. For some-while I might have joined this category. Even at this early age, and let's say I am probably 11 minutes old, I am an orphan. Technically my mother died in childbirth but I should like it known that I was in no-way responsible. The man who delivered me into this world (and I won't tell you his name because he is now an instantly recognisable star of film and TV) maintains she was dead before I was born. Many times he's recounted the story of how I fought my way into the warm June sunshine. Sunshine and death; welcome to my world.
Eleven minutes old and held by a twenty year old stranger while three bodies stare open eyed and open mouthed through shattered windscreens. Life among carnage and death, or as the local paper proclaimed; "Miracle Birth as Three Die".
You've already met my dead mother; my father is sitting next to her. He is embedded upon the steering wheel and was the first to die the instant the youth in the stolen Triumph Herald ploughed into us. The youth died seconds before my mother. Three lives destroyed in the minutes before I was born. New life among death.
(Quiet contemplation. Stands and looks through window.)
It’s another cold, grey Leicester morning; certainly cold for a Sussex lad. They’re still wearing shirt-sleeves and crop-tops "down South".
(addresses audience)
I suppose I should write about the novel and poems I wrote at eleven and how they sparked a desire to write, but I'm not going to; they were unadulterated tripe.
(takes a sheet of paper from the desk)
Here goes nothing.
(reads)
Work
Gary saunters to work. A twenty-one year old among the Georgian splendour of Brighton's three-story houses and small shop-fronts; here an antique shop, there a dress shop, over there a jewellers with items costing £2000: more than a bank-clerks annual salary. He slows his pace and greets a middle aged, moustachioed, well dressed man. That is his first mistake of the day; a mistake that nearly costs him his life.
He stops in front of a large brown wooden, iron studied door and puts his hand into the hip pocket of his brown suit jacket and removes a jingly bunch of keys. Brown jacket, brown waistcoat, brown trousers with turn-ups, black shoes and a most unsuitable black fedora hat; a look that stands out in the boring world of finance. A look that got him noticed; a look that nearly costs him his life.
He identifies the correct silver key and raises it to the shoulder-high brass-edged keyhole. Slowly and with deliberate precision he turns the key to the left. There is a solid clunk as the door unlocks. A solid, reassuring clunk that allows Gary to, momentarily, consider those who have crossed the bank's 204 year old threshold. A moment of reflection; a moment that nearly costs him his life.
His left hand turns the elbow-high ornate door handle; simultaneously his right shoulder gently pushes against the wooden door. Slowly, carefully and with a faint creek the door starts to open. Something cold and hard digs into Gary's left cheek. Every muscle tenses; every sinew tightens. He instinctively knows what it is before he smells the steel and oil.
"Get in, now. Quick or I'll blow your bloody head off."
Gary obeys, enters and instinctively hurls the heavy door behind him. It catches the raider's left arm; the arm with the gun in its hand. Gary hurls himself against the door. With a loud crack the raider drops his gun. There is resistance, the door moves a few inches; the broken arm disappears. He shuts the door and looks at the pistol; black, dull, cold and deadly. Beside the door is a small orange panel. In the centre is a button. Slowly and deliberately his index finger strokes the white centre. "Open the door or we'll come through the window and shoot your fucking balls off!" With a jolt he presses the button. The quiet is disrupted by the clatter of metallic alarms: the sound that probably saved his life.
(screws up the paper and throws it onto the floor)
I'll be honest with you, it didn't quite happen like that but I've polished the story so often that it’s become my understanding of the truth. (pauses) Now is probably the time to write about the encouragement I've received from publishers' rejection slips and the rare writing successes I've enjoyed, (he moves computer mouse) but the word count indicates that's not possible. Here's my final piece and it takes my life's story from 11 minutes old to yesterday evening: is my life about to change direction again?
(reads)
(he looks at audience) And that's my life? (bows head and shakes it)
(EXIT stage left)
Reflective Essay - Birth, Work and Will you...?
Inspiration for "Birth, Work and Will you...?" came in four stages. Each sudden, independent flash of fertility arrived as an antidote to the preceding pain. The pain normally associated with a sadist extracting his eye-teeth with oversized pliers.
The question of the month was; where to start? Rather, the question of the month was; where to start, how to start, what to include and how to end? I pondered, thought, considered, contemplated, mulled over and finally honed my ability to procrastinate. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my past lurked the perfect idea for this assessment. Sadly, the perfect idea remains unfound, untouched and hidden.
One thousand words to write and three or four memories to include, even the most mathematically challenged Humanities student is able to work out that's between 250 and 370 words a memory depending upon the final number of recollections.
The process was straight forward; I wrote each section independently of the others, starting with "Birth". Once this was finished I started on "Work" while redrafting the first item. I have received advice from fellow creative writer Zee, during a Creative Writing workshop, on the first four paragraphs of "Birth". He suggested a couple of changes, particularly with a conflated sentence in the third paragraph. He also asked that the identity of the film and TV star be divulged. [His pencil marks can be seen on the supplied draft - 1A].
My original objective was to include three pieces, each written in a different style and across a couple of genres. The third item was inspired by a drunken yet very personal late-night conversation. It is a poem and a reflection of a reflection. I am pretty sure this style of poem has a specific name but as yet I have not been able to find out what it is. This poem was always intended to rotate around the central line and I specifically wanted it right-aligned to demonstrate the speed that recent events have taken and that life is heading in the right direction.
At this stage I had three independent pieces and a feeling of dissatisfaction; three separate and independent items that lacked power and cohesion. During a midnight mini-bus ride back from Milton Keynes Ski Dome I experienced creative inspiration; place the items within the context of a talking-head one act play. By doing so this gave me great flexibility and the opportunity to elaborate and expand upon my CV while at the same time poking fun at myself.
After including the play-script, a final drafting was undertaken. It was too long and had to lose 170 words. Additionally superfluous sentences were discarded, thoughts were changed, punctuation corrected and the pivotal lines of the poem strengthened.
My assessment has travelled and grown from nothing into something hideously disjointed, fortunately to be remoulded within the context of the one act play into something that not only works, but works well.
One Act Play
Student's (tidy) bedroom furnished with bed, wardrobe, desk and well-stocked bookshelf. Gary, a mature student, types at his computer. He pauses and looks to the audience.
Gary: One thousand words written as a "Creative CV" and, just in case you didn't pick up the inflection in my voice, "Creative CV" is in quotation marks and has capitals for both C in creative and CV. What does that tell you? What does that tell me? Should I write solely about defining moments that kindled my creative writing desires? Who knows?
(reads from sheet of paper:)
Birth.
Many infants experience their first few moments of life whilst breathing their last, and sometimes only, breath. For some-while I might have joined this category. Even at this early age, and let's say I am probably 11 minutes old, I am an orphan. Technically my mother died in childbirth but I should like it known that I was in no-way responsible. The man who delivered me into this world (and I won't tell you his name because he is now an instantly recognisable star of film and TV) maintains she was dead before I was born. Many times he's recounted the story of how I fought my way into the warm June sunshine. Sunshine and death; welcome to my world.
Eleven minutes old and held by a twenty year old stranger while three bodies stare open eyed and open mouthed through shattered windscreens. Life among carnage and death, or as the local paper proclaimed; "Miracle Birth as Three Die".
You've already met my dead mother; my father is sitting next to her. He is embedded upon the steering wheel and was the first to die the instant the youth in the stolen Triumph Herald ploughed into us. The youth died seconds before my mother. Three lives destroyed in the minutes before I was born. New life among death.
(Quiet contemplation. Stands and looks through window.)
It’s another cold, grey Leicester morning; certainly cold for a Sussex lad. They’re still wearing shirt-sleeves and crop-tops "down South".
(addresses audience)
I suppose I should write about the novel and poems I wrote at eleven and how they sparked a desire to write, but I'm not going to; they were unadulterated tripe.
(takes a sheet of paper from the desk)
Here goes nothing.
(reads)
Work
Gary saunters to work. A twenty-one year old among the Georgian splendour of Brighton's three-story houses and small shop-fronts; here an antique shop, there a dress shop, over there a jewellers with items costing £2000: more than a bank-clerks annual salary. He slows his pace and greets a middle aged, moustachioed, well dressed man. That is his first mistake of the day; a mistake that nearly costs him his life.
He stops in front of a large brown wooden, iron studied door and puts his hand into the hip pocket of his brown suit jacket and removes a jingly bunch of keys. Brown jacket, brown waistcoat, brown trousers with turn-ups, black shoes and a most unsuitable black fedora hat; a look that stands out in the boring world of finance. A look that got him noticed; a look that nearly costs him his life.
He identifies the correct silver key and raises it to the shoulder-high brass-edged keyhole. Slowly and with deliberate precision he turns the key to the left. There is a solid clunk as the door unlocks. A solid, reassuring clunk that allows Gary to, momentarily, consider those who have crossed the bank's 204 year old threshold. A moment of reflection; a moment that nearly costs him his life.
His left hand turns the elbow-high ornate door handle; simultaneously his right shoulder gently pushes against the wooden door. Slowly, carefully and with a faint creek the door starts to open. Something cold and hard digs into Gary's left cheek. Every muscle tenses; every sinew tightens. He instinctively knows what it is before he smells the steel and oil.
"Get in, now. Quick or I'll blow your bloody head off."
Gary obeys, enters and instinctively hurls the heavy door behind him. It catches the raider's left arm; the arm with the gun in its hand. Gary hurls himself against the door. With a loud crack the raider drops his gun. There is resistance, the door moves a few inches; the broken arm disappears. He shuts the door and looks at the pistol; black, dull, cold and deadly. Beside the door is a small orange panel. In the centre is a button. Slowly and deliberately his index finger strokes the white centre. "Open the door or we'll come through the window and shoot your fucking balls off!" With a jolt he presses the button. The quiet is disrupted by the clatter of metallic alarms: the sound that probably saved his life.
(screws up the paper and throws it onto the floor)
I'll be honest with you, it didn't quite happen like that but I've polished the story so often that it’s become my understanding of the truth. (pauses) Now is probably the time to write about the encouragement I've received from publishers' rejection slips and the rare writing successes I've enjoyed, (he moves computer mouse) but the word count indicates that's not possible. Here's my final piece and it takes my life's story from 11 minutes old to yesterday evening: is my life about to change direction again?
(reads)
Will You...?
I share your dreams and respect your fears -
I understand your ambitions;
I know your concerns.
I love you and want our lives to be entwined so we may rejoice in one-another's successes and
be there with wisdom, reassurance and understanding if things don't go well.
I love you and want our lives to be entwined so we may rejoice in one-another's successes and
I know your concerns,
I understand your ambitions,
I share your dreams and respect your fears -
Will you...?
(he looks at audience) And that's my life? (bows head and shakes it)
(EXIT stage left)
Reflective Essay - Birth, Work and Will you...?
Inspiration for "Birth, Work and Will you...?" came in four stages. Each sudden, independent flash of fertility arrived as an antidote to the preceding pain. The pain normally associated with a sadist extracting his eye-teeth with oversized pliers.
The question of the month was; where to start? Rather, the question of the month was; where to start, how to start, what to include and how to end? I pondered, thought, considered, contemplated, mulled over and finally honed my ability to procrastinate. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my past lurked the perfect idea for this assessment. Sadly, the perfect idea remains unfound, untouched and hidden.
One thousand words to write and three or four memories to include, even the most mathematically challenged Humanities student is able to work out that's between 250 and 370 words a memory depending upon the final number of recollections.
The process was straight forward; I wrote each section independently of the others, starting with "Birth". Once this was finished I started on "Work" while redrafting the first item. I have received advice from fellow creative writer Zee, during a Creative Writing workshop, on the first four paragraphs of "Birth". He suggested a couple of changes, particularly with a conflated sentence in the third paragraph. He also asked that the identity of the film and TV star be divulged. [His pencil marks can be seen on the supplied draft - 1A].
My original objective was to include three pieces, each written in a different style and across a couple of genres. The third item was inspired by a drunken yet very personal late-night conversation. It is a poem and a reflection of a reflection. I am pretty sure this style of poem has a specific name but as yet I have not been able to find out what it is. This poem was always intended to rotate around the central line and I specifically wanted it right-aligned to demonstrate the speed that recent events have taken and that life is heading in the right direction.
At this stage I had three independent pieces and a feeling of dissatisfaction; three separate and independent items that lacked power and cohesion. During a midnight mini-bus ride back from Milton Keynes Ski Dome I experienced creative inspiration; place the items within the context of a talking-head one act play. By doing so this gave me great flexibility and the opportunity to elaborate and expand upon my CV while at the same time poking fun at myself.
After including the play-script, a final drafting was undertaken. It was too long and had to lose 170 words. Additionally superfluous sentences were discarded, thoughts were changed, punctuation corrected and the pivotal lines of the poem strengthened.
My assessment has travelled and grown from nothing into something hideously disjointed, fortunately to be remoulded within the context of the one act play into something that not only works, but works well.
Wednesday 4 November 2009
Charge
This piece was set by two anonymous students with their independent statements . "That time I broke my friends plastic sword after attacking them on their bike"......."Overdramatic ambush."
If you are wondering what I am doing standing on the edge of the village green with a large opened sack of potatoes beside me, then you are not alone. I am cold and damp and I should be warm and dry. I was warm and dry an hour ago. Warm and dry and sipping a nutty, Sunday pint beside a spitting open fire with five friends. An hour ago calm reigned, now this is war, “real war“; this is a fight to the death.
I am puzzled by the speed of events and how one minute the warm frothy bitter was being savoured in the company of great and the good of the village. These are the same great and good that you can now see spread out along the village green, four of them armed, like me, with a bag of potatoes opened and ready; ready for the fight. A fearless, confused quartet: Hugo; Piers; Cameron and Rupert. Not exactly names to send icy fear into the heart of our target, Big Stevie-Boy, but they are my allies.
That’s Big Stevie-Boy beside the hedge at the far side of the village green. He is the guy sitting on the red mountain bike. He is the reason we are here in the October dampness and not sitting in a warm comfortable pub. Big Stevie Boy and his big, forty year-old boastful mouth; “If I’d been at Balaclava I’d definitely made it through the Russian guns.” Now that was a proper boast. A boast that caused one tremendous argument and there is only one way to prove it. I am the Russian guns; Hugo and Piers are the Russians on the left hill; Cameron and Rupert on the right: our very own valley of death.
His is not to reason why,
ours is just to do and shy,
into the valley of spuds
rides the one Pillock.
Look at Big Stevie-Boy go, legs pumping, head down, sword pushed as far out in front of him as he dodges volley after volley of potatoes. He’s made it past Hugo and Cameron and now is in range of Rupert and Cameron. I should be able to reach him with my smaller potatoes.
Spuds to the right of him
spuds to the left of him
spuds in front of him.
Into the mouth of veg
rides the one Pillock.
I’ve hit him, he’s going down. Bike and Big Stevie-Boy tumble over and over. My fellow Russians and I run towards him. Big Stevie-Boy, bike and broken sword lay in an entangled mess. Hugo catches my eye; I smile at Piers, Rupert and Cameron. We were right; he’d never have made it at Balaclava.
If you are wondering what I am doing standing on the edge of the village green with a large opened sack of potatoes beside me, then you are not alone. I am cold and damp and I should be warm and dry. I was warm and dry an hour ago. Warm and dry and sipping a nutty, Sunday pint beside a spitting open fire with five friends. An hour ago calm reigned, now this is war, “real war“; this is a fight to the death.
I am puzzled by the speed of events and how one minute the warm frothy bitter was being savoured in the company of great and the good of the village. These are the same great and good that you can now see spread out along the village green, four of them armed, like me, with a bag of potatoes opened and ready; ready for the fight. A fearless, confused quartet: Hugo; Piers; Cameron and Rupert. Not exactly names to send icy fear into the heart of our target, Big Stevie-Boy, but they are my allies.
That’s Big Stevie-Boy beside the hedge at the far side of the village green. He is the guy sitting on the red mountain bike. He is the reason we are here in the October dampness and not sitting in a warm comfortable pub. Big Stevie Boy and his big, forty year-old boastful mouth; “If I’d been at Balaclava I’d definitely made it through the Russian guns.” Now that was a proper boast. A boast that caused one tremendous argument and there is only one way to prove it. I am the Russian guns; Hugo and Piers are the Russians on the left hill; Cameron and Rupert on the right: our very own valley of death.
His is not to reason why,
ours is just to do and shy,
into the valley of spuds
rides the one Pillock.
Look at Big Stevie-Boy go, legs pumping, head down, sword pushed as far out in front of him as he dodges volley after volley of potatoes. He’s made it past Hugo and Cameron and now is in range of Rupert and Cameron. I should be able to reach him with my smaller potatoes.
Spuds to the right of him
spuds to the left of him
spuds in front of him.
Into the mouth of veg
rides the one Pillock.
I’ve hit him, he’s going down. Bike and Big Stevie-Boy tumble over and over. My fellow Russians and I run towards him. Big Stevie-Boy, bike and broken sword lay in an entangled mess. Hugo catches my eye; I smile at Piers, Rupert and Cameron. We were right; he’d never have made it at Balaclava.
Tuesday 3 November 2009
I am a Prat
I am a Prat!
Prat, Prat, Prat, Prat, Prat;
that's Prat with a capital P.
Capital P, Capital R, Capital A, Capital T -
Capital PRAT.
Prat.
Learn from this experience.
Never text your girlfriend
when you've had
too much beer.
Prat.
Prat, Prat, Prat, Prat, Prat;
that's Prat with a capital P.
Capital P, Capital R, Capital A, Capital T -
Capital PRAT.
Prat.
Learn from this experience.
Never text your girlfriend
when you've had
too much beer.
Prat.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)