Well, that’s one quarter of them done!

OK, so on BBC Radio 4 yesterday I heard both about the detention of dissident artist Ai Weiwei being detained by the Chinese police signifying a crackdown on freedom of speech and dissent in that country, and about Bob Dylan’s plans to play a concert there.

Sorry, WHAT?!

Also, the NaPoWriMo prompt for todaywas to write a poem inspired by music, and the Found Poetry Review prompt via Twitter was to use Bob Dylan songs to create a found poem.

I couldn’t quite manage a found sestina, but I did come up with this. Mentally add in the ‘blowin’ in the wind’ chorus between each stanza if you like.

How many roads must a man walk down
Before they call him a man?
Yes and how many seas must a white dove sail
Before she sleeps in the sand?
Yes and how many times must the cannonballs fly
Before they’re forever banned?

Listen Bob, don’t you think that you’re gonna be banned
From singing those things that are down
On oppression and war? Do you think that’ll fly
With that old Chinese government man?
Cause he’ll pick through your lyrics like small grains of sand
And anything you want to say’ll

Be strictly forbidden. Tickets are on  sale
Right now in Beijing. Do your band
Know that you have crossed over that line in the sand
And agreed that you should tone it down
And remove anything about freedom of man
for a state who’ll  let cannonballs fly

Against their own people? Is that gonna fly
With your fans? Are your morals for sale?
Bob, tell me, oh where is that angry young man
Who stood up when dissent it was banned?
What made you agree to give up and back down
While a government laughs and kicks sand

In the face of its people? I heard of this and
The idea of it just doesn’t fly.
Cause if Dylan sells out, the whole world’s going down
The pan and our souls are for sale.
I’d have thought you’d say no and be proud to be banned.
But no. You’re in the pay of the man.

But practically: what will you sing to them, man?
Cause a white dove asleep in the sand
Is about all that’ll get through, the rest will be banned.
Will you write something new on the fly.
Which conforms to what China would want you to say?
Look, Bob. Look at the road you’ve walked down!

You and your band are playing for the man.
It gets me down to think that you’d all fly
There, grimace, and put freedom’s soul on sale.

Another prompt from NaPoWriMo. I like how their prompts are avoiding prescribing a theme and instead suggesting an activity to get you started, like looking at another blog, or, in this case, playing with the Serendipitous Oxymoron Maker. This is ideal: A thing which generates pairs of words. I just hit it 3 times and voila!

Of course, a sestina based on three oxymorons was going to be about something contradictory, and the fact that the word love was in there predisposed the poem to be about a bad relationship.

This is not my relationship. I’ve already been told to cheer up after writing a poem about a bitchy but miserable ‘popular’ girl. I appreciate the kind thought, but only occasionally are my poems autobiographical. They are, however, quite often dramatic monologues, so confusion does arise.

Oh, but you are very lovely

When you want to be, my tyrant.

It is damaging and wrong

For me to need your kind of love.

You make me feel inept and horrid –

Twisted generosity.

But is it generosity

To let me faun and call you lovely

While you’re liberal with the horrid

Taunts and insults, my sweet tyrant?

Though I call this feeling ‘love’

I sometimes think I might be wrong.

But everything I say is wrong,

you tell me, generosity

Itself, correcting me with love

Accepting me, though far from lovely.

Even though I call you “tyrant”

You still tolerate my horrid

Presence. Am I really horrid?

No, perhaps it’s you who’s wrong.

I shouldn’t let you be a tyrant:

Too much generosity,

That’s my problem. Although you’re lovely,

This cannot be proper love.

How can it feel so much like love

And at the same time be so horrid?

Why do I believe you’re lovely

When the way you treat me’s wrong?

Shouldn’t generosity

Be more attractive than a tyrant?

Hold me close, my darling tyrant.

Suffocate me with your love.

Withhold your generosity.

I cannot live without your horrid

Words, though I can see it’s wrong

Yet still, to me, your hate is lovely.

Generosity, my tyrant,

from your lovely lips, turns horrid.

All my love for you is wrong.

This is not the sestina I intended to write.

At all.

I love Professor Brian Cox and Wonders Of The Universe, and I think space is cool. Actually, no. I think atomic design, and science fiction, and astrology based folklore are cool. Space itself IS kind of… daunting.
But what I did mean to do was find another NaPoWriMo writer and harvest one of their poems for keywords.
I ended up picking the blog Rants From A Starving Writer because I liked the title.
The poem I picked is lovely, and nothing like the lanky brat it spawned.

You can see the lovely gentleman in question here.

 
Have you been watching it on BBC –
Cox, and the Wonders of the Universe?
That man can talk for hours of nothingness.
But then rewards us with a supernova.
He tells us of the births and deaths of stars
As if they lived and breathed, and as for moons,

I don’t think he has been to any moons,
Not even ours, and yet he seems to see
Them intimately. When he speaks of stars,
It’s like he’s chatting up the universe.
He’s like a lovestruck teen, that supernova
His schoolboy crush. He dotes on nothingness.

I cannot comprehend that nothingness.
They frighten me, those cold and barren moons.
There’s nothing cute about a supernova.
But in his gentle smile I start to see
At least, why he so loves the universe
And why his eyes are always on the stars.

Myself, I’d rather candlelight than stars
Lit up the vast and empty nothingness.
That’s not good physics, and the universe
Can’t work like that. Just like those stony moons
Aren’t made of cheese.  Still I would rather see
(Up close) a firework than a supernova.

Yes, Brian, I can see your supernova.
It’s very nice.  Now tidy up your stars
And nebulae, and planets and you’ll see
That this small globe, floating in nothingness
Is big enough. We don’t need all those moons.
And you’ll touch no part of the universe

Except our corner of the universe
Why do you need to see a supernova?
There’s smiles down here, as bright as all your moons
And flowers sweeter than your distant stars.
Why are you smitten by the nothingness?
When there’s so much to touch and smell and see…

For all the moons in all the universe
You won’t be here to see it when the stars
All supernova into nothingness.

I found out yesterday that it’s  NaPoWriMo this month. They are providing a different writing prompt for every day in April, and the idea is to write 30 poems in 30 days. Since I’m going to be doing that anyway, I reckon I may as well use their prompts throughout April.

Today’s prompt is ‘Write a poem that incorporates the titles of three books you have in your house.’

I cheated a bit, taking the title of a story within a book for my title: Hans Christian Andersen’s The Ice Maiden, and then I used David Sedaris’ Me Talk Pretty One Day and Roald Dahl’s Boy to generate my keywords.

 

The Ice Maiden

I know that you all want to be like me

Because you imitate the way I talk.

But, honestly, you’ll never be as pretty.

You just need to accept that I’m the one

Who know’s what’s cool. It changes day by day.

I’ll tell you what to do to get a boy

 

To like you, if you really want a boy

-Friend. They’ve all got a crush on me

I could just pick a different one each day

But then, I’d have to listen to them talk

And I’m the only fascinating one.

It’s hard work being popular and pretty

 

Because it’s not enough, just being pretty

You must learn how to captivate a boy.

Don’t really seem to care, is lesson one

When anybody wants to hang with me

I laugh at them and mock the way they talk

And sure enough they will be back next day

 

He’ll soon be coming over every day

It doesn’t work if you’re not really pretty

But if you are, the more you laugh and talk

As if you didn’t care, the more that boy

Will fancy you. I mean,just look at me

The boys all want to be the lucky one

 

Well, some of them, a few maybe, well one

Or two. They did the other day

No, really, all the boys do fancy me!

And all the girls wish they were half as pretty

It’s just that I don’t want to have a boy

Friend. But I could. Shut up! Don’t talk!

 

In fact, no boy will listen to me talk

They hate me, and avoid me every day.

I’m just the pretty, bitchy, lonely one.

 

 

I decided to write a poem addressed to a young child. This is what came out. The play-dough eating bit is autobiographical.

Remember that although the play-dough’s yummy
You aren’t supposed to eat it, so be careful
You don’t get caught. Don’t worry if the teacher
Seems scary. It’s her job. She’s really lovely.
You’re not the only kid in here who’s frightened:
It’s not so bad, though. Soon you’ll feel at home.

You’ll have so much to say when you get home.
About whether the dinners here are yummy
Or horrible. And whether you were frightened
By bigger kids, and how you were so careful
To ask about the toilet, and how lovely
It was to be told ‘well done’ by your teacher.

Some tips on how to understand the teachers:
They’re not like grown ups you would find at home.
Though some of them, admittedly, are lovely,
And give you milk at playtime which is yummy,
They’re not all nice, so please be very careful
It’s not at all unusual to be frightened

Because your teacher,  probably, is frightened
Of not being as good as other teachers.
She has to be so clever and so careful
She really doesn’t want you going home
And saying that the play-dough’s really yummy.
She wants you all to know that learning’s lovely

Which means  that, sometimes, she cannot be lovely.
Sometimes she will get cross. Do not be frightened.
But even when school dinners are not yummy
Do try to eat them. Try to trust your teacher
And do those things you never do at home
Like Circle Time and Number Work. Be careful

At playtime. Cos not everybody’s careful
And not all children do things that are lovely.
The games are different than the ones at home.
So if you find that you’re confused and frightened
Don’t panic: you can always tell a teacher
If you find that your playtime isn’t yummy.

It’s not like home at all. So do be careful
Some things are yummy. Some will make you frightened.
But some are lovely. Listen to your teacher.

This one is for the delightful bundle of loveliness that is my friend Graeme. He asked my on the phone yesterday:  ‘are you doing any writing at the moment?’

Well, yeah.

So he gave me 6 keywords with a very specific message in mind, which I’ve done my damnedest to subvert.

The result is  kind of an accidental homage to another ‘dear little white haired old lady’ who is very special to Graeme and me.

She was cold and old and lonely.
Had a second hand computer
From her son. It made her sad
To think that all she had in life
Was this contraption full of porn
Left by her son – the little wanker

Never visited, the wanker,
Didn’t care if she was lonely,
Stayed at home, just watching porn
On his new, up to date computer
She’d no doubt. And all her life
She’d made sure he was never sad.

It made her feel afraid and sad
To use the thing, because that wanker.
Would not waste his precious life
In helping her to feel less lonely
Or showing her how this computer
Worked. He’d even left his porn

On there:  it was quite hardcore porn!
At first she had been shocked, not sad,
To think that he used his computer
Just to have a crafty wank. A
Thought occurred: “perhaps he’s lonely.
And the porn improves his life.”

So. for the first time in her life.
She went online and searched for porn.
She was so sick of feeling lonely,
Old, frustrated, cross and sad.
Well, if her son could be a wanker,
So could she! At her computer

She clicks onto ‘my computer’
Feeling young and full of life,
But knowing she’s a mad old wanker
Searches through the files of porn
For ‘lesbo fun’. She just feels sad
To think her son must be so lonely,

Staring (wanker) at computer
Screens, so lonely with his porn.
But that’s his life. She won’t feel sad.

Today’s sestina is based on words suggested by the lovely CAKE people, whom I met at another poetry thing at Bank Street Arts the other week.

Inspired by the spring sunshine last week, it’s set in and around Sheffield’s Endcliffe Park and Eccleshall (Eccy) Woods. Lovely place for a picnic!

I wrote it on my phone, but not in Starbucks.

I ought to make the most of all this sun!
I’ll go out to the park. I need my camera
So I can upload photographs to Facebook
And while I’m there, I want to check my email.
I’ll need to choose some energetic music
To listen to when walking through the wood

My new smartphone does everything! What would
I do without it? Sitting in the sun
I’m tweeting as the blackbirds make their music,
I’m capturing the springtime with my camera,
A buzzer sounds to say I’ve got an email.
My status reads “enjoying spring!” on Facebook

Perhaps I’ll see who else is on their Facebook
Or tweeting like the birds in Eccy wood
We could meet up! I’ll fire out an email
Who wants to come and join me in the sun?
We’ll have a picnic, bring food and a camera!
Get out here and we’ll dance to springtimes music!

Last week I downloaded a load of music
My iTunes bill is huge.  I’m on my Facebook
Most of the time, and when i use my camera
I upload all my pictures ofthe wood
The birds, the grass, the flowers in the sun
And send them out to all my friends on email.

I’ve gone over my limit on my email.
as well as buying loads and loads of music
I can’t stay out here in the springtime sun
I need a wifi zone to check my Facebook!
If I could stay out in the park, I would.
At least I got some pictures on my camera

My favorite pub – with an award from CAMRA –
Has no WiFi to let me check my email.
And though I always said I never would,
I go to Starbucks – with their dreadful music
And awful coffee – and I look on Facebook…
My friends are all out soaking up the sun!

I really would go join them with my camera,
Out in the sun, and listen to the music
But not without my email and my Facebook!

A whimsical one, inspired by the title of Adele Geraghty’s collection of poems ‘Skywriting in the Minor Key: Words, Women, Wings.’
Sheffielders: Adele will be our featured poet at Speak Easy, the spoken word open mic night at A-Pod, The Hubs, Sheffield. It’s tonight! (29/03/11) Free entry, starts 7:30. Come on down!
Plug over.

A little girl looks at the Sky
Through the high classroom window. She’s writing
An essay. Except all these minor
Distractions are blocking the words.
She is dreaming of glamourous women
Who fly down and fit her with wings

And she floats on her butterfly wings
Through the window and into the sky
And she’s one of the magical women
Who thrill the whole world with their writing
And suddenly all of the words
Tumble out of her mouth in a minor

Key. Now she is singing, B minor
A dirge for a beetle whose wings
Were pulled off, and her heartrending words
Buzz and flutter up into the sky
She is laughing and singing and writing
Her dad always told her that women

Were just, after all, bloody women
And could only be trusted with minor
Tasks: cooking, and cleaning. Not writing.
Never mind spreading her wings:
If she kept gawping up at the sky
Then no man would want her, mark his words.

As she soars, she remembers his words
And she falters, descends, but the women
All hoist her up into the sky
And she smiles, disregards him. a minor
Impediment. Glides on her wings
She is laughing and singing and writing

She’s back, and she cannot stop writing
Her paper is crowded with words
About cruelty and beetles and wings
And beautiful, bright, flying women.
The essay was ‘being a miner’
But she wants to aim for the sky

The girl found her wings, and kept writing.
Joined the women who reach for the sky
Saw her words become major, not minor.