Never Too Late!

Never Too Late!
any resemblance to anyone real or imaginary is mere bad luck
we are all lying in the gutter, but some of us are trying to get up

24.4.07

MORE POÉSIE - iambic fucking pentameter

Because my friend The Unholy Spirit bared his soul and courageously posted a poem, I thought to attempt a poem here myself.

An orange ball of flame suspended
Above the London haze. Now ended
An April day like one that may have gone before.

“We’ll play this game again in other times and other places,”
She said. “We won’t forget. We might wear different faces
Look through different pairs of eyes, with different stories
We’ll meet again, I’m sure. “

An orange ball of flame suspended
Above the endless sea. Now ended
Another day, like many that had gone before.

Encouraged by this start, I am inspired to attempt a grand epic, in the style of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner:

The air is thick, and does not seem to carry sound.
The sun-scorched earth is red, and all around,
Tall coconut palms, lush cashew trees, the haunt of snakes
Striped red and emerald green, among the lakes
Of polished opal, replete with multicoloured fish
Reflecting garnet-studded vine-leaf shrouded cliffs
Concealing caves. Among the leaves the sounds of hidden crows,
And further off, the ocean pounds the rocks with hammer blows.

Witness: a nameless town under ochre cliffs
Beyond half-sunk hulls and fishing skiffs
A church, stark white, thrusts a cross at the sky
Above the wine-dark sea mournful seagulls cry
A far-off sail in the sun’s last rays
A galleon lost in the distant haze

So far so good...

In.the mist above the surf colours bleed and run
The ship's lookout's glass catches a glint of the blood-red sun...

Come dawn a ragged crowd will gather:

Merchants’ agents, the harbour-master,
Whores, pirates, a priest; these sun-scorched faces
Remind of far-off times and places.
A Malay witch-man, a Sudanese
An Indian nautch-girl, a Nepalese
A spectacled Frenchman selling fruit
A secret agent in a suit...

Here things peter out a bit. I am thinking of the crew disembarking... the ship's master going to the brothel to seek audience with his courtesan, to present her gifts and declare his burning love for her (would definitely work some sort of "never fall in love with a whore" type theme somewhere into there)... then something about how men have fought and killed and died and crossed oceans to bring the scents that perfume her body and the silks that drape her hips and the jewelled pendant between her breasts... and I feel it is time to stop and bow out: to the real poets.

("inferior poets are absolutely fascinating... [they] live the poetry they cannot write...")

1 comment:

TheUnholySpirit said...

A 'nautch-girl' eh? M'friend, avail yourself of a copy - peut-etre (where're the arseing accents on this nonsensically farting keyboard?) I will even get you one, and then give you one - fnar fnar, tempting thought though ;-)) - of George MacDonald-Fraser's 'Flashman in the Great Game', I'm sure it would tickle you, somewhat anyhow.

As for the couplets? Me like, muchly, 'Caliban upon Setebos' sprang to mind; and mariner's both-We Mon frere literaire, idling then spinning by fit and start upon this languid moras - although in My case it's more a case (repetition, spank Me) of more-ass please - of dystopian innefectuality We call the sea of life.

Keep it up (and IF you can, where can I buy cheap Viagra???), and eprop Me next time y'fucker.

Mouah!