#5 - Anon poetry: Learning to talk when there's nothing to talk about.
MORE ANONYMOUS POETRY... and some appropriate artful accompaniments.
It's hard to be creative and interact in this climate, half our energy is spent thinking of something to say to someone else. A need like never before for communication and companionship with a lack of things to communicate about. I find it easier to talk about things that never really happened, involving things that don't really exist, addressed to people that will never really read it.
Thankyou again to everyone who submitted.
Images above correspond to poetry below.
#1
#6
I've done some sleepy falling and also some falling asleep
I've got a tum ickiest of all and my fork keeps telling me to eat my door
I've found some old grateful things to share. comfy bunks and silky water. silky bunks and comfy water.
Oh and egg in bread.
I've put some goats in what is now my home journal and I've made sure the moon is slightly bigger than yesterday.
I've grown wheels that only fit around four pm and they know exactly where to go before my brain does.
Oh and words now fit where I want them to.
#7
Sometimes the thoughts fall exactly in the shape of letters.
But a lot of times the words come an hour too early, some of the sentences were actually never invited
So these poems turn up
Claiming to represent thoughts:
They are "the prosecution"
They are speaking for thoughts that don't have frames yet
Sculpting my brains mush into inky scripts
When most of these head excrements could be a puddle at best
In their most respectable they are porridge like
So these words turn up, singing lyrics of articulation before my honest mush even has the time to gargle
or spit
or kick these sumptuous expressions
I yell but it doesn't match
I scream.
But you see these words have wheels, while the thoughts have feet.
The words wear watches and read all the right books
The words can afford to be chauffeured to the pen, then escorted to the page
The thoughts only have feet,
And they have to stop to vomit on their way to the paper.
They are always going to be late
So the words will take shapes that my thoughts cant even name.
And a not so anonymous poem, but one from my absolute favourite poet: Wislawa Szymborska
Translated from polish:
Hard Life With Memory
I'm a poor audience for my memory.
She wants me to attend her voice nonstop,
But I fidget, fuss,
Listen and don't,
Step out, come back, then leave again.
She wants all my time and attention.
She's got no problem when I sleep.
The days a different matter, which upsets her.
She thrusts old letters, snapshots at me eagerly,
Stirs up events both important and un-,
Turns my eyes to overlooked views,
Peoples them with my dead.
In her stories I'm always younger.
Which is nice, but why always the same story.
Every mirror holds different news for me.
She gets angry when I shrug my shoulders
And takes revenge by hauling out old errors,
Weighty, but easily forgotten.
Looks into my eyes, checks my reaction.
Then comforts me, it could be worse.
She wants me to live only for her and with her.
Ideally in a dark, locked room,
But my plans still feature today's sun,
Clouds in progress, ongoing roads.
At times I get fed up with her.
I suggest a separation. from now to eternity.
Then she smiles at me with pity, since she knows it would be the end of me too.
Enjoy solitude, enjoy eating alone, listening alone, reading alone (this abnormally long post) , and submit:
Minnie.nancarrow2@gmail.com
liliward71@gmail.com
thankyou. we are happy to serve you.
love from Minnie and Lili
It's hard to be creative and interact in this climate, half our energy is spent thinking of something to say to someone else. A need like never before for communication and companionship with a lack of things to communicate about. I find it easier to talk about things that never really happened, involving things that don't really exist, addressed to people that will never really read it.
Thankyou again to everyone who submitted.
Images above correspond to poetry below.
#1
Came late but
still arrived too soon
spat on by the
pigeons at the zoo
Time had been
given up to others and only left with a rusty nail,
soiled, used late
on the day of her funeral
They understood that
Time would be
longing for the friends that it never made.
 |
| Louise Bourgeois |
#2
Dropped the
scissors so many times I lost count
watched them
fall on the head of someone far below,
who would
ask ‘how can I return the favour?’
And after
splitting the piece of paper in half,
the answer
would be no less confusing than before.
#3
So strange to meet you like this on paper
So many other strange ways to meet you:
In the presence of running water
With three laps to go
On a four degree day
While wearing two pairs of socks
The first pair have every right to be angry
Holding dirty soles
And I've come to remember with my subpar memory, that you have a bad memory
And when I said you'd forget me I meant you'd remember me wrong:
You'd think the running water was still
That I had six laps to go because my legs were lazy
It was sunny, not four degrees!
Maybe you could only see one pair of my socks
Your socks aren't as angry as mine
Or I'm not even sure if you wear socks anymore and I spent so long thinking you do!
The pinching doesn't stop
And there is action for spite rather than good conscience
I'm offering to buy you a new memory and I'm offering to write it too. (if you don't mind)
I'll write me good and ill write me for longer and the self righteous pinching will cease
I've spilt the running water on the bed now
Doesn't matter, its on your side
Watched the water
Dry.
Learnt, unlearnt, then learnt again how to tie a tie
Discussed sickness and temperature
Didn't dare bring up the socks
First matter of business:
I'm unrightfully insulted and reasonably upset.
#4
I only washed it once, on a spin cycle, no detergent.
About a month ago I wanted to find the cleanest air
I was having trouble breathing a month ago
I only told one person, not about my heavy chest but about the clean air.
My chest hurts today, today from about 3pm or maybe slightly earlier
The sound is inside.
I need simple
There are too many elements to it
I took it off, my washed shirt, and noticed a new skin tag
My body is malleable but unfortunately it is not mine
Terribly unfamiliar
I'm wearing in the once stiff couch
It is less static than before.
I'm moving, more or less forward or backward
And going absolutely back and forth
#5
If I stretch it far enough backwards will it land in the middle
If I put it in the freezer does it stay like that
I would hold it that way myself but its heavier today
I wish tiny hands would pull my cheek to one side and that I knew how to fix the shocking leak in my sincerity
Or better put
My self believed authenticity
The problem is, I forget to stretch it
I want to be not acknowledged
And not seen, because now I sleep for fun and think in puzzles
You told me that I said I liked your hat
I like hats in general
And the lines, especially THOSE ones, only remind me that I don't write for myself
Then I try to imagine my audience
They are one blurry red felt hatted figure, but they are tiny versions of everyone who has viewed me,
Ever
My words are dumb not smart
I'm sad for the reasons I told you not to be sad for
And I bet you are too
I feel giant in a not good way
My room feels dollhousey
Its not bad to say end
To stop imagining myself I must learn to disgust my minds eye
 |
| Antoine Marchalot |
#3
So strange to meet you like this on paper
So many other strange ways to meet you:
In the presence of running water
With three laps to go
On a four degree day
While wearing two pairs of socks
The first pair have every right to be angry
Holding dirty soles
And I've come to remember with my subpar memory, that you have a bad memory
And when I said you'd forget me I meant you'd remember me wrong:
You'd think the running water was still
That I had six laps to go because my legs were lazy
It was sunny, not four degrees!
Maybe you could only see one pair of my socks
Your socks aren't as angry as mine
Or I'm not even sure if you wear socks anymore and I spent so long thinking you do!
The pinching doesn't stop
And there is action for spite rather than good conscience
I'm offering to buy you a new memory and I'm offering to write it too. (if you don't mind)
I'll write me good and ill write me for longer and the self righteous pinching will cease
I've spilt the running water on the bed now
Doesn't matter, its on your side
Watched the water
Dry.
Learnt, unlearnt, then learnt again how to tie a tie
Discussed sickness and temperature
Didn't dare bring up the socks
First matter of business:
I'm unrightfully insulted and reasonably upset.
 |
| Robert Rauschenberg, Susan Weil, title: Pat 1951 |
#4
I only washed it once, on a spin cycle, no detergent.
About a month ago I wanted to find the cleanest air
I was having trouble breathing a month ago
I only told one person, not about my heavy chest but about the clean air.
My chest hurts today, today from about 3pm or maybe slightly earlier
The sound is inside.
I need simple
There are too many elements to it
I took it off, my washed shirt, and noticed a new skin tag
My body is malleable but unfortunately it is not mine
Terribly unfamiliar
I'm wearing in the once stiff couch
It is less static than before.
I'm moving, more or less forward or backward
And going absolutely back and forth
 |
| Ralph Eugene Meatyard, Untitled, 1964 |
#5
If I stretch it far enough backwards will it land in the middle
If I put it in the freezer does it stay like that
I would hold it that way myself but its heavier today
I wish tiny hands would pull my cheek to one side and that I knew how to fix the shocking leak in my sincerity
Or better put
My self believed authenticity
The problem is, I forget to stretch it
I want to be not acknowledged
And not seen, because now I sleep for fun and think in puzzles
You told me that I said I liked your hat
I like hats in general
And the lines, especially THOSE ones, only remind me that I don't write for myself
Then I try to imagine my audience
They are one blurry red felt hatted figure, but they are tiny versions of everyone who has viewed me,
Ever
My words are dumb not smart
I'm sad for the reasons I told you not to be sad for
And I bet you are too
I feel giant in a not good way
My room feels dollhousey
Its not bad to say end
To stop imagining myself I must learn to disgust my minds eye
 |
| Sister Gertrude Morgan |
#6
I've done some sleepy falling and also some falling asleep
I've got a tum ickiest of all and my fork keeps telling me to eat my door
I've found some old grateful things to share. comfy bunks and silky water. silky bunks and comfy water.
Oh and egg in bread.
I've put some goats in what is now my home journal and I've made sure the moon is slightly bigger than yesterday.
I've grown wheels that only fit around four pm and they know exactly where to go before my brain does.
Oh and words now fit where I want them to.
#7
Sometimes the thoughts fall exactly in the shape of letters.
But a lot of times the words come an hour too early, some of the sentences were actually never invited
So these poems turn up
Claiming to represent thoughts:
They are "the prosecution"
They are speaking for thoughts that don't have frames yet
Sculpting my brains mush into inky scripts
When most of these head excrements could be a puddle at best
In their most respectable they are porridge like
So these words turn up, singing lyrics of articulation before my honest mush even has the time to gargle
or spit
or kick these sumptuous expressions
I yell but it doesn't match
I scream.
But you see these words have wheels, while the thoughts have feet.
The words wear watches and read all the right books
The words can afford to be chauffeured to the pen, then escorted to the page
The thoughts only have feet,
And they have to stop to vomit on their way to the paper.
They are always going to be late
So the words will take shapes that my thoughts cant even name.
And a not so anonymous poem, but one from my absolute favourite poet: Wislawa Szymborska
Translated from polish:
Hard Life With Memory
I'm a poor audience for my memory.
She wants me to attend her voice nonstop,
But I fidget, fuss,
Listen and don't,
Step out, come back, then leave again.
She wants all my time and attention.
She's got no problem when I sleep.
The days a different matter, which upsets her.
She thrusts old letters, snapshots at me eagerly,
Stirs up events both important and un-,
Turns my eyes to overlooked views,
Peoples them with my dead.
In her stories I'm always younger.
Which is nice, but why always the same story.
Every mirror holds different news for me.
She gets angry when I shrug my shoulders
And takes revenge by hauling out old errors,
Weighty, but easily forgotten.
Looks into my eyes, checks my reaction.
Then comforts me, it could be worse.
She wants me to live only for her and with her.
Ideally in a dark, locked room,
But my plans still feature today's sun,
Clouds in progress, ongoing roads.
At times I get fed up with her.
I suggest a separation. from now to eternity.
Then she smiles at me with pity, since she knows it would be the end of me too.
Enjoy solitude, enjoy eating alone, listening alone, reading alone (this abnormally long post) , and submit:
Minnie.nancarrow2@gmail.com
liliward71@gmail.com
thankyou. we are happy to serve you.
love from Minnie and Lili
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