In A Station Of The Metro

27 December, 2007

This piece was written for Read Write Poem‘s Prompt #6: ‘Get Your Collaboration On’. I was supposed to be collaborating with ‘why paisley?’ (http://why-paisley.com/). She provided a picture for us both to work from. The plan was to later combine the two smaller works into a larger one. I wrote this epic without quite realising that it would make collaboration very difficult, especially in consideration of my partner’s style. Here is my contribution. The collaborated work will appear later. For those who care, it was inspired by Ezra Pound’s poem of the same name, alongside Something For Kate’s album ‘Echolalia’ and The Mars Volta’s album ‘Amputechture’. The picture we used to kick-start our work was pstoev’s ‘On The Road’, from deviantart. The link is http://pstoev.deviantart.com/art/on-the-road-71333147.


The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

– Ezra Pound

Pstoev’s ‘On The Road’ (deviantART)


“Midsummer:
The stifling heat of the city filled its quiescent nights,
But once, she came near
And swelled inside me
Song – and seemed to calm the air
For envy of my soul.

She spoke lines, and ministry,
And every arpeggio another stroke,
I set to work a celebration
for all who spake mine tongue.

The city walls seemed much less tall,
And caste-lines seemed to all but fall,
In dreams. And as we talked I found
A truth in breath, and lips, and sound
But as the traffic pressed around
I knew it could not be.
Left, she now.

Still to my geometric mind
Her truths are subdivided lines
And reds and greens and blues

Apollo did now rear his head
And granted leave my dreams. Relieved,
I took the time to breathe again
And drunk I deep the atmosphere
And heard once more that song which lay
In visions grand but far away
And could not stand the pain!

I’ll paint a glossolalia
And in its pretty voids you’ll stand
Unheard and undisturbed.

My breath and mind in stasis lay
Til nightfall came around.
And as I craved her presence she
Was nowhere to be found.
And in this world of walls and lines
Where loves and truths kiss dead goodbyes
I knew no voice would leave me be.

I’ll watch and wait for night’s reprieve
And in the silence,
Remember you on trains.

So now, I sit, and heed the trains,
And lose my Juliet in the chaos.”

fun with stereotypes at church on Sunday night!

17 December, 2007

Kristin, the sweet, blonde girl: “My umbrella’s broken! Will you guys take a look at it?”

Fabian, the engineer: “I’ll fix it!”

Will, the financial advisor: “Just buy a new one!”

🙂 hahaha.

a painting, a pirate hat and a promiscuous night in Beijing

8 December, 2007

Written for Read Write Poem (http://readwritepoem.org) Prompt 3: ‘Play with your Pieces’. The pieces I chose were off my shelf: a painting (thanks Anna), a pirate hat (don’t ask)… and the ‘promiscuous night in Beijing’ was just a funny alliteration. 🙂 Here goes:


It was my first time,
And musing on the time I’d known
that straight, chocolate brown hair,
those tender, rose lips in the bed beside me
I couldn’t help but think that painting…
That painting I’d seen in my Pirate Hat days,
where I’d run from room to room, presumably
looting, searching for treasure. Most oft’, I’d find it
in the galley, but once, I found it
in a painting in the captain’s quarters of an allied ship. Shakespeare
would later call it “The Beast With Two Backs,”
but at the time, I just knew it as
‘A magic I didn’t understand’.

 In retrospect, it was something in their eyes,
and the way the skin around them moved, and creased,
and the way they all just fit together.
And musing upon the time I’d known
that straight, chocolate brown hair,
those tender, rose lips,
I knew I’d missed the girl.

guitar-days

8 December, 2007

anyone who has seen me play guitar (i think there’s two of you who also read my blog) may know the song i play that has the capo on the seventh-to-tenth fret. the really energetic one. right. this poem was inspired by that. and also, marcuso (http://marcuso.wordpress.com) and Seamus Heaney. Enjoy.


Some days
were full of sun, and,
drunk off the pollens in the air,
I’d sit cross-legged
and my right hand would drive
whilst my left would dictate direction,
and the net effect was a soul’s-song
of shattered infinity dancing in
dewdrops on a spider’s web. Always,
I held on, and moved in, and out, in maypole chaos,
and oh, the joy it was.

naiad-whispers II

9 November, 2007

For this post, Fabian will refer to himself in the third person. Why? It makes the story sound so much cooler.

7:00: Our hero is grumpy. Decides to get off his arse and go for a walk.

7:04 (approx): leaves house.

7:08: four minutes down the road, our hero looks at the time on his Nokia 1100 and realises he must have left home at about 7:04.

7:18: sees Dean Gallagher in his car with his brother Martin. Grins, waves, and jokes around for a bit.

7:38: reaches woonona beach. Remembers the words of Malfurion Stormrage: “There’s a storm coming”. Looks out over the water. Wow, what a storm. Realises that God is awesome and so very very powerful, and artistic, as he sits with his bare feet in the sand and his prehistoric jeans and shoes. Muses on this fact until…

7:50: decides it’s time to go – wanna be home before dark.

7:54: looks at phone. Thinks, “No way, it can’t’ve taken four minutes to get from the beach to here!”

7:58: starts raining. Our hero thinks, “Yay! I love the rain.”

7:59: you know how there’s rain, and then there’s RAIN!!!!!? yep. starts RAIN!!!!!ing.

8:00: it’s dark.

8:02: our hero, by this stage, is so wet that if he jumped in a swimming pool, water would osmote OUT of him. This is assisted by the fact that there is such a huge salt content in modern pools.

8:04: our hero is having trouble walking, for the fact that his clothes have gained 6 kilograms.

8:05: Fabs runs out of clever ways to describe how soaking wet he is. He (actually did this) turns off his Nokia 1100 to make sure it doesn’t short-circuit or anything.

8:12: Our hero reaches the first undercover area since he left the beach. Lots of people look at him like he’s an idiot (at least ONE of them was thinking that), but he doesn’t care. Heck, when you’re this wet, it’s not going to phase you too much when people try to rain on your parade (get it?!… sorry).

8:16: Fabian realises the great blogging potential of the last hour and… twelve minutes.

8:23: Our hero arrives home, soaking wet, and in the best mood that ever existed. E-V-A-H (thanks Kirra).

And that’s my story. Right now, i’m sitting in front of my laptop, in my warm house, wearing my comfy pyjama pants, and about to go make some cappucino. Sigh. My friends, this is what life is all about. 😀

naiad-whispers

9 November, 2007

thousands of miniscule nymph-whispers:
it’s a curtain! My bubble-shroud sings
a dubble ode, one to the dryads
(who, glistening, sing gloriously back) and one
an ode to your sweet embrace,
on a rainy Summer’s day.

Ribbons

24 October, 2007

She flips through the book. It’s black, leatherbound, and has one of those horrendously practical ribbons that attaches onto the spine and resides between the place where you’re up to and the place that’s next to come. She pauses, tries again…
    Should reside in the place you’re up to.
Alas, the ribbon hangs loose, on the outside of the journal.

Each page is a moment – she’d write poetry when she felt, and leave blank pages when she felt strongly. When she was in the mood in which this cold, Wednesday night would find her, she would ruffle the pages once more.

pg. 46,… dated 4th January 2003. A cut-and-paste notion of fear. Three simple words, taken from a song.
    “Now
        I’m i’m lost…

dead in the middle of the page. It’s enough to rouse every nerve in her body – she remembers, with perfect clarity, his last five syllables, and they speak to her again through the lump in her throat and the dull ache somewhere in her chest, and slowly, each word forces its way into her– “this can – not work…
            out.

She breathes, sharply, and flips forward. Her words tell her of a day in the city, and her handwriting reminds her of the pure joy it brought:
            “Liquid moments of sun and concrete,
            and the grinds of life in song…

and she grimaces at her ‘poetry’. A wrysmile, for it was a day filled with truth, and music, and her best friend.

She sees a note, at the bottom of the page, and remembers the night and the blue pen that made it.

It directs her to page 1:
And it’s just made from four lines: three go into the 3/4 marking at the top, left hand corner of the page, and the other is the first of a song:
        “I could tell you the wildest of tales…”
with stress markings loosely dotted above. There’s an arrow, pointing to page 6:
        “of my friend the giant and…
            – she remembers pausing here – “travelling sales…
and the note “• violin, cello.

She flips forward, and absorbs every moment – she reads her words, her handwriting, the odd glued-in train or movie ticket and finally reaches the place-where-she’s-up-to, the place-that’s-next-to-come.
She places the book on the table, and comes back, grinning, five or so minutes later with two dozen strips of red ribbon. She ties them carefully, each by each onto the spine, smiling: always smiling.

When she is finished, Julia pauses, and thinks. She knows what comes next. She opens the book to page 1. She places a ribbon along its length. Page 6. Another ribbon. Page 10, 11, page 19 and 23 and 25, 26 and 27, – that’d been a busy week – and pages 31, 34, 36, 37, 40, 43, 45, 49, 50, 52, 56, 59, 62, 63, 65, 66… and reaches a blank page. She takes a pen – it’s black, it’s ink, and it’s just as good for drawing as it is for writing – and transcribes:
        “and every story I have told
                is part of me —- .

The full stop is resolute.
She takes her last red ribbon, marks page 67 and closes the book. Julia places it back on its shelf, and leaves the room, smiling.

On Spam

23 October, 2007

I’m sorry Therese Maher, but another four inches would simply be impractical.

On Memory, Identity

19 October, 2007

“I won’t forget,” she said, “but I’ll clothe myself with scars and mementos.”

The Trick

1 October, 2007

“The trick,” she whispered to me, “is to shut your eyes, shut them tight, and open them only when it’s so dark that you can’t see properly anyway.”


“The trick,” he whispered to me, “is to open your eyes just as the sandstorm hits. What do you mean? You can hear it if you listen hard enough. Shhhh!”
    Bah-dum…
        Bah-dum…
    “Now!”
and suddenly, my world is ochres and dustgrain.