I (sometimes) call myself Mr. Pondersome. I'm a rather wordy, weirdy person. I say hullo a lot. I write a lot more. While you're here, why not give some of it a read?

Friday, 28 January 2011

"As I Live and Breathe" and "Childish Things: Prologue" (a.k.a. Meaningful Thinking and Shameless Eccentricity)

Hullo all!

It's me again. I'm in a rather chipper mood today and, what is more, I'm massively inspired. Inspired to show-off, that is.
The two pieces of writing that I'll be displaying today are quite an odd pair, but they share a unanimous focus on brooding about the state of society. Now I know that most of my work has a focus on brooding about the state of society but these two are special - one's a rhythmic feat (that's 'feat', not 'feet' as in 'iambic feet', for you metre maniacs out there) and one's an example of just how disturbingly odd I can be.

The first, as you may have guessed from my elaboration, is a poem entitled "As I Live and Breathe". This is technically the first proper poem I have written in 2011 (I know! WOWSERS!) and it's one of the few I'd happily put into my 'serious poetry' portfolio. It may be free-verse but I think it's suitably self-contained and, I hope, articulate. I'm afraid I have a tendency to write very 'garbled logic' poetry at times, but this is definitely one of the few in my steadily-growing poetry collection that is both neat and clear. However that is for you to judge and for me to sit quietly and hope for the best about.
Also, interestingly, this poem will be appearing on another upcoming website for the Sheffield Speakeasy Open Mic Night. I don't know exactly when it'll be up but be sure to check it out.

The second is a prose piece that I have been writing as part of a module to do with novel-writing. I knew that if I was going to write a novel it'd have to be about something that could sustain my interest and patience for long enough and this (touch wood) most certainly will. I envision it as a rehashing of a short text I wrote and uploaded on here before (see here) but with a bit more organisation of ideas and concepts. Hopefully you'll see this novel come into fruition in weeks to come. Until that time here is the prologue, half-written on my phone memo on the walk back from uni and half-written in my daybook after dinner. I wasn't quite certain of the voice (to be honest, I'm still not a 100%) but I think I've narrowed it down to a sinister-sounding gutter-dwelling cockney character. I don't know what kind of toy he could be yet though. Oh, didn't you know that this is about toys? Well, think about it is a sort of a mixture between the "Toy Story" trilogy and "Small Soldiers" but add in a lot more heavy shading. My aim is for you to never see your Attic in the same light again. Do tell me if it works.

Anyway, that's quite enough rambling out of me. Here are the goodies. Try not to scoff it all at once though; they're very rich...


As I live and breathe
the days shake off
hours shake off
minutes, till the present
is a shading.

As I live and breathe
I thumb edges,
thumb the corners
of eras, grow fonder
of their dust.

As I breathe and live
years taller than
ever, taller than
never, stand the lines
ahead of us.

As I breathe and live
I slip into
slip into dusk,
and drink my dreams dry till
the last wink.


There is an order to everything, even the Attic.
            It is a place where things are put away and forgotten about. It is a place of discarded junk. We’re all junk up here.
            On the surface of it, the Attic is a wasteland; a burial ground for useless trinkets and broken toys. Take a look.There is so little here. Take another look. There is so much here.
            Ask black-eyed Jack. He’ll tell you stories that’ll drain the juice from your batteries. Then he’ll steal them and pass on your body. Jack may live in a box, but he has contacts everywhere.
            Like old Straw-tail. He’ll make a nice ornament out of your plastic shell and display it on his shelf of pretty things. He has an artistic eye and a snout for the real thing, or so he says. He’d snap you up. Provided he can get his hooves around you, that is.
            Or Captain Spark. You hear that humming noise? Feel a bit warm when you’re near the far west corner? That’s the microwave. Somehow he’s got it out of the box and working. They pay him to melt down plastic for passing on. They say he keeps some of it aside for himself, for improvements. All I know is that he enjoys it; watching the gradual drip-drip-dripping, the big final splat.
            Then there’s Mother Hold-Me-Tight. You’ll be lucky to get her. She’s a den-mother of sorts, takes all the special ones in; the ones who don’t need batteries, the ones with some use left in them; and tucks them away in one of her boxes. Nice and neat.
            Of course, she doesn’t work alone. With all the specials she’s accumulated over the years, she needs a lot of help. We call them the Keepers and the Catchers. They betray their own for a very tidy fee. After all, we wouldn’t want all the specials slipping away and spoiling it for the rest of us now, do we?
            Mother has a favourite too. Private. No, that’s actually his name. He hasn’t been here long but he’s proving himself to be a very valuable asset. He’s a bit of a sad sack though, not to mention quiet. I don’t think he quite realises what’s going on, bless him. Ah well, no-one said that you have to be smart to be a good Catcher.
            But we’ll see what happens with him, eh? He’s not alone. Most of us up here can barely keep ourselves from screaming and running back downstairs. It’s just the way of things. Most of us learn to control our little panic attacks. You’re either strong or scared; and the scared ones always end up doing the stupid thing. It’s all about will up here in the Attic. Will and order. Like I said, everything has to have an order. It just has to.
            Now, piss off. I’m serious; I’ve got things to do. Run away. Oh, wait. Yeah. You can’t.

And that's about it for now. Oh, and I'll take this opportunity to advertise a friend of mine and relative newcomer to the blog-writing biz - Laura l'√©crivain. In fact, I'll go one better here's a link to her blog. When you get a mo, go over say hi.
But, when you're over there enjoying all the delightful poetry, do try not to forget about little ol' me. I get quite lonesome when you're not around...

Thanks for reading,

Mr. Pondersome

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