Wednesday, January 27, 2010
I've given up on trying to give titles to these friggin things. I kind of feel like I'm letting my children down, but I just want them to grow into their names, let their names choose them. God.
Anyway, this was inspired by a painting by George Braques, which at this point down the creative road is almost irrelevant, but still just relevant enough to warrant mention. Check it out here. Poem here:
How many of those candles flashed their small semaphore
that night, how many tussled in a bag by the fridge
that night, when the fuses shot in the bar and by candle-
light we searched the shelves like Diogenes,
and the colour in the glass was only candle-made.
How could we compete with that marbled darkness?
A man giggled as we totted change in the glisteny haze
and carried a gift of tea-lights to his girlfriend’s table.
And then the angles the candles lavished seemed to constellate
a new scene where the candle was a row of candles, and then a row
of rooftops candlelit, where we slubbed together for heat
and shared the icy fuzz of sweat on our cheeks in a gesture
as simple as the brocade on her duvet. I touched her hair
as I might a candle that catches but refuses to hold a flame.
Oh oh oh and and there's the Bowery/Roxy thing tonight. COME SEE COME SEE.
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
So on Sunday Ida Mae and Gwen went to the Meadows and made a snowman and generally frolicked around. Ida is from the Tropics and had never made a snowman before. Anyhow, I'm just saying this because this poem has the snowman in it but neither Ida nor Gwen and I don't want them to feel left out. This poem does not have a title, but it really should. Some day I will come back and add the titles in.
I left you, dear, and your duveted warren,
your butter-orange french toast and darjeeling,
to crack my lips on the crispening air,
though, to be fair, I kept in mind your hair,
your mouth, your embellishing flanks
when I passed a patch of untouched snowbank,
untouched but for the orange of Irn Bru,
two neon cans. I blanked the Big Issue
man, his evangelic don’t be shy
come and buy, my less-than-sacred alibi
waiting in the Meadows. The floury snow
was barely wet enough for snowmen, snow-
cairn, Jabba the SnowHut. Another can
full of fag butts I stacked where I rammed
in his arms, angled for hosannas; a switch
and some leaves made his face a Buddha of kitsch,
shielded his eyes from the Irn-Bru-toned sun.
That night, we tottered home, cold-nosed and drunk
and saw yer maun alone and here’s you: cmon
and we’ll build a snowmate like the bride of fucken
Frankenstein and with just one broken stick
made arms eyes ears nose mouth and, with a twig
doused in muck, her sandy hair. We left them there
together with the dogs and orange stars.