Tuesday, 30 June 2009

Poetry should..

I loved the read. Try it.

When in public poetry should take off its clothes and wave to the nearest person in sight; it should be seen in the company of thieves and lovers rather than that of journalists and publishers. On sighting mathematicians it should unhook the algebra from their minds and replace it with poetry; on sighting poets it should unhook poetry from their minds and replace it with algebra; it should fall in love with children and woo them with fairytales; it should wait on the landing for 2 years for all its mates to come home then go outside and find them all dead. When the electricity fails it should wear dark glasses and pretend to be blind. It should guide all those who are safe into the middle of busy roads and leave them there. It should scatter woodworm into the bedrooms of all peg-legged men not being afraid to hurt the innocent or make such differences. It should shout EVIL! EVIL! from the roofs of the world's stock exchanges. It should not pretend to be a clerk or a librarian. It should be kind, it is the eventual sameness of contradictions. It should never weep until it is alone and then only after it has covered the mirrors and sealed up the cracks. Poetry should seek out pale and lyrical couples and wander with them into stables, neglected bedrooms and engineless cars for a final Good Time. It should enter burning factories too late to save anyone. It should pay no attention to its real name. Poetry should be seen lying by the side of road accidents, hissing from unlit gasrings. It should scrawl the nymphomaniac's secret on her teacher's blackboard; offer her a worm saying: Inside this is a tiny apple. Poetry should play hopscotch in the 6pm streets and look for jinks in other people's dustbins. At dawn it should leave the bedroom and catch the first bus home to its wife. At dusk it should chat up a girl nobody wants. It should be seen standing on the ledge of a skyscraper, on a bridge with a brick tied around its heart. It is the monster hiding in a child's dark room, it is the scar on a beautiful man's face. It is the last blade of grass being picked from the city park.
-Brian Patten

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Tuesday, 23 June 2009

The CLove Story

It was almost as if she held a bonsai sun in her hand. It glistened with a traditional touch and a rather incandescent glow. For her, all that glitters was gold. A tepid smile left her face as the pretty pair of earrings glanced back with antiquity. Crestfallen inside, she lay it down on the counter.

Were somethings just not meant to be?

Flushed cheeks and teary eyes kept her committed. There was no letting go after coming this close. Her patient sister-in-law carefully pushed the tiny black spice into her ear as she shuddered in pain. An old aunt while picking out thin-stemmed cloves, yarned into a story about a detailed account on ear hole caretaking during her childhood.

Pushing, pain, cream and clove- it was finally in her ear. Those earrings had no better place than on her ears she thought.

Hopefully it is just a matter of a week that I’ll have to fit spices in my ears until they’re ready enough to entertain thick stick antique jewelry.

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