Poems to Keep Me Sane

[James]

May 20, 2011 5:23:09 GMT -5 Jenny (Reffy) said:

Shrug. I wasn't looking too deeply at it (generally not that type of person)

And yeah, those two lines were born from listening to my mum's old Pulp album last week. And that is all I shall say.

[James]

yesterday i sat down
with a glass of red wine
and my trusty pen and paper
creating a wonderful poem
for all to read

but maybe i was a little drunk
because it involved ninjas
and an android
that certainly did not dream
of electric sheep

so instead of that poem
you’re now reading this one
which involved an explanation
of around fourteen
fifteen lines.

talking to you is like
talking to a brick wall
because you’re kinda small
so if i dont look down
oh hey theres a wall

nah im just joking
because i dont to be
assassinated
or
jonathan trott just got out

seven eight nine
is why six is afraid of seven
unless six speaks spanish
then the joke doesnt really make
a whole lot of sense

but six is obviously english
and has a good normal english job
like a lawyer or doctor
plumber or builder
or colonial invader

that last bit
didnt make a whole lot of sense
and jonathan trott has nothing to do
with this poem
he just really was out

i dreamt of you last night
in the titanic decorated
library
it was sad
the band kept on playing

but i realised we’re
kind of like icebergs
in that ninety percent of our
wait, no
im thinking of a sink

that the android created
after dreamless nights
and days fighting like
you’re not gonna believe this
some fucking ninjas

wait
this is the drunken poem
oh and kevin pietersen is gone
-ski
that was russian

best head off now
even though sticks and stones
cant break my bones
because you know
i haven’t got brittle bones

[James]

this poem is going to be really good
its why i put it right here
for you all to see
just scroll down to read







































































Not available in your area

[James]

the vase comes from within its neatly packaged box
treated with a certain reverence and care suitable for the money spent
glistening and shining it is shielded from dangers
locked away in a towering castle upon the top shelf

visitors fawn over the richly painted decorations
the owners silently proud of its attention and presence
they draw people’s eyes to it to hear their compliments
smiling and nodding at every word

it is polished with clockwork regularity
carefully cleaned with delicate hands
fingerprints an unknown word to the vase
its position unthreatened from the furniture in the room

until the next trinket arrives.
it is more expensive and more technological
it can glisten and shine just as well
but the vase does not flash lights or play soft music

it is usurped from its spot on the self
sentenced to the one empty corner upon the kitchen counter
someone briefly brushes it but does not clean away the mark
the vase begins to forget whether it is cleaned with a flash of yellow or blue

one day, for the first time, flowers are placed within its insides
eager to please the vase seeks to complete its job far beyond a satisfactory level
but no one ever notices its effort
and soon it becomes nothing more than a grave

when only the stalks remains the flowers are removed
but the man is wearing an expensive Rolex watch and chinks the vase
a painful crack appears between the deep blue paint
but the watch is more carefully inspected for damage

soon it becomes a container for anything: keys, marbles, stolen crisp packets
no one seems to notice the scarring dents and nicks
or the aching peeling paint that is not worth the money to repair
a cheap bowl soon takes it place as the keeper of keys

the vase is carried away into the cupboard under the stairs
locked away in its prison for being an embarrassment to the house
the visitors that once fawned over it either politely ignore
or make snide remarks about years gone by

a foggy darkness suffocates the vase in its new home
ever present and completely impenetrable
memories seem harder to come by in the dark
what did the room look like from its former perch on the shelf?

then one day the door opens and light floods in
for a second it wonders for what purpose it is wanted for
and then the vase is shoved unceremoniously into a box
filled with the leftover contents of lonely shoes and bleeding tennis balls

the box begins to wobble and bounce after so long
and then the faithful jump arrives and not a single trumpet sounds
the vase topples over and is unable to break its fall
it shatters into a million piece, its silent scream is left unheard

when the sellotape is removed fifteen months and four days later
perhaps the owners spare a few words of sadness over the box
before they sweep up the remains of the vase and throw it into a plastic sack
and pick up that odd brown hiking shoe that they had been searching for

not too far away in a not so distance shop
the vase’s brother still sits perched on his shelf
aged and still beautiful, carefully maintained and clean for decades
it is worth fifty thousand pounds.

[James]

I'd particularly like it if anyone has any comments on the above poem.

[Kaez]

the vase begins to forgot whether it is cleaned with a flash of yellow or blue

'forget'

memories seem harder to come by in the dark

Particularly good line.

But yeah, I liked this whole thing. Probably my favorite of your poems, actually. It flowed well, the words were chosen well, I liked the sequence of events, the pacing, the conclusion, the unique perspective...

... I really feel like my response here is woefully brief but know that it's just because I don't really have any complaints whatsoever. This thing's solid and I enjoyed it a hell of a lot. Yeah. Good poem. Yeah.

[James]

Merci beaucoup, Pete.

[James]

The train has long since left
empty stables and heavy doors
clichés shattered upon the floor
a thousand pictures and one solitary word

[James]

Oh, So That’s What It Looks Like?

Smooth yet not quite entertaining,
the joke struggles to stand the test
backed up by his own hearty laugh
and pure swagger alone,
all but one drawn in with a grin.

Lop-sided with a disappointed chill,
she stares back across at him
silently showing her scorn
and we all feel as if we’re in the crosshairs,
each finding a suitable bunker behind coffee mugs.

With greater reliability than a German car,
his retort snaps back in a bored tone
“you need a diagram with the explanation?”
and everyone knows from vast experience,
the blow is merely a glancing strike.

In that marvellous tone that only women can use,
sarcasm, boredom and a frustration cocktail
she breaks down her Berlin Wall of dignity
“and that’ll make it less mind-numbingly boring,
not that you can get any better.”

She knows that she’s not at her best,
we can all see it in the way she is chewing her lip
black rings a valued present from long assignments
and hurried last minutes editions,
mediocrity in mockery the price to pay for perfection.

Several of us share a meaningful glance,
recreated from the beaches of Dunkirk
loosely translated to “let’s get the fuck out of here”
and in a moment we are gone,
history suggests they won’t notice for another six minutes.

[James]

Ne pas cours à la fin du jardin
ou vous allez manquer les feuilles et les arbres.
brun, vert et velours,
ils attendent avec sagesse.
Marche au bord de la falaise,
aime le voyage et
pas la chute.

[Mena]

Le poème intéressant, James.

[juggernaut]

Jul 19, 2011 21:31:26 GMT -5 James said:

this poem is going to be really good
its why i put it right here
for you all to see
just scroll down to read
...
Not available in your area

i laughed out loud

Jun 3, 2011 5:51:50 GMT -5 James said:

drunk poem

reminds me of tao lin if he lost his autism for a brief moment but then took sixteen jaggerbombs straight after another, which isn't to say it's bad just unique

i liked the brick wall stanza, seemed like a smarmy jab at pretentious behavior and it flowed nicely

[James]

Ballad of the Waning City of Men

In the shadows of mountains tall
The jewelled city of men doth falls
Once sought by the mighty and the grand
Now is home to the meek and the small
Buildings crumble into dusty graves
Water turns into a stony slave
Bare bridges wonder of their purpose
Cobbled streets will not ever lave

Distant whispers of rulers gone by
drift lost with others forever to vie
Death as in life they unceasingly fight
blind that their time did swiftly grow nigh
When armies of plague and darkness came
all did bicker and argue in shame
Anguish fell upon the once kingly place
and books and art coveted the flame

Long since replaced by monsters known
Their King possesses eyes of cold stone
Woe to those that fall into his stare
Mind and body shall drop swiftly prone
Dragons lurk the eerie tower peaks
And black hounds live for food they do seek
Trolls and giants linger in anger
casting great shadows long and bleak

But all cower from thy King; the Basilisk strong
His rule is mighty; his rule is long

I don't think you'll need three guesses of what served as inspiration for this. Basically a Fay Song about the Great City of Men that once stood within the Fay Realm of the Phantom Universe.

[James]

There’s a Holy Bible on my bookshelf

It is dusty and clad in leather armour

The pages seem almost golden in the light

And it possesses that wonderful old book smell

I do not keep it for comfort or spirituality

Thou shalt have no other gods before me

And so I have no gods at all to direct my prayers to

But yet I keep this old and fading book

For reasons that I sometimes struggle to explain

Because stained with ink upon the very first page

Are words that are delicately crafted that read:

To Edward. From Mary. May 14^th 1947.

[James]

The people's fear
for paper books,
though welcome and good,
is built on
less solid foundations
than the spine of a book.

The reason why,
I can be so sure,
is due to a simple,
yet important observation.

I have yet to google,
"why won't my book recharge?"