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?

Sunday, 27 November 2011




"Free Stuff" Introduction (a.k.a. My New Cut-and-Stick Hobby/Minor Addiction)

The next three posts will deal with another piece I've done for Experimental Writing, namely my portfolio project. It is called "Free Stuff": a diary featuring randomly picked words torn and cut out from a wide variety of flyers, brochures, catalogues and even newspapers.
The essence of the project is to take interesting words and phrases wasted on cheap easy advertisement, and to transfer them into more poetic streams of consciousness. This is done on a daily basis by me, wherein I stick my hand into a big bowl of verbs, nouns and adjectives and leave it entirely up to chance as to what I pull out. Of course some personal creative input is required to help make the sentences better structured, but all the words I pick at random are used in the final piece.
The following posts are just a few examples of particularly good entries plucked out from the diary as a whole (i.e. the ones I have successfully scanned in). I'll leave it up to you to decide what each of them mean. I can guarantee at least one of you will have a completely different interpretation from the rest...

"The Broken Man, Jesus" (a.k.a. More Proof I'm Currently Obsessed with Discussing Christianity)

"The Broken Man, Jesus" is much less odd than the prose piece below, but it still leaves me baffled why I chose to write it. During another Experimental Writing activity, we were asked to think of a well-known story to strip down to it's key events and consequently reorder. So, feeling especially ballsy that day, I decided to apply the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus Christ. Now, don't get me wrong; I'm not particuarly religious nor do I actively seek out reasons to offend Christianity as a whole, let alone doctrine. This was purely a whim. And what a dark and vicious little whim it turned out to be...


      "I wash my hands of you."
      Pilate dragged the cloth across his red and brown palms. In the distance the whip trailed away. Blood was caked along the path in it's wake, winding outward from the side of the broken man.
      Pontius took one last look at him, eyes weary and grey. 'The King' glanced up, pressing his fists against his wounds. The crowd bayed and snarled till the darkness set in.

      The soldiers gathered about the garden, marching towards the centre. Their target was knelt in an undergrowth, caressing the flowers of a wilting bush. There was an understanding in his gestures, a deep meaning to his movements. His grip was frail, waning with every sudden twitch.
     They swarmed about him; proclamations of arrest amid the hungry roar. The meek figure went willingly but they beat him all the same.

     The figure strode out, aglow in the waking sun.
     The stone tumbled away as he brushed past it.
     An impossibility. A power. A threat.

     A pouch of silver clinked as it hit the dusty footprint. The peasant Iscariot glanced up, his filthy crooked fingers snatching it.
     "I'll tell you where he is." He spoke, defeat trembling his voice, "He already knows."

"Eyes at Mass" (a.k.a. Going Dada with an Eye-catching Newspaper Article)

The next two posts will be about prose that I wrote during my Experimental Writing seminars.

"Eyes at Mass" is the product of an activity I gave myself during a bigger group project on Dadaism. Essentially it is based on a theory of writing suggested by Tristan Tzara, a prominent member of the artistic movement. Tzara believed that all you needed to do in order to write a poem was to cut up the words of a newspaper article, mix them up and lay them out wherever suitable. In attempting this concept, I made a piece that I felt was more prosaic. The original article was about a disturbing event that occured in a church in Viareggio, Italy, wherein a man literally ripped out his eyes during Mass. With the obvious connotations of religion, gore and Freudianism, it was inevitable that I decided to pick it up.


Gouged two-thirds right, Viareggio claimed 'parishoners, your screaming' during reattach from them yesterday. St Matthew's away.
DISTURBED Jesus says Mass failed eyeballs. Horrified, do night out to a almost priest at churchgoer to collapsing Sunday sin born face of eyes read. A, if that, Surgeon his before gospel it pool and pulled his was British driver thought blood, witness last tore watched.

"Clipboard Bowtie" (a.k.a. Old Gerty Stein has an Effect on Me)

"Clipboard Bowtie" came a good while after both the previous poems, during an Experimental Writing seminar. We'd recently been reading Gertrude Stein's "Lifting Belly" and were asked to make a pretty-sounding but ultimately unlikely word pairing and create a sound poem featuring all the words we might associate with them. For some reason I chose 'clipboard bowtie'. Like I said in the first poetry post, I'm a bit of a  sound-y person as well as being a wordy person; so it wasn't too surprising that I'd have a field day with writing this. And I certainly did.
I'd recommend that you read this aloud or else the primary effect of the poem will be lost on you. Oh and do watch out for the tongue-twister parts...


Clipboard bowtie,
clipboard bowtie,
bowtie clipboard,
clipboard bowtie

clipboard - tie the bow,
clipboard - tie the bow,
clipboard, clipboard, clipboard -
tie the bow

bowtie - board a clip,
bowtie - board a clip,
bowtie, bowtie, bowtie -
board a clip.


Bowtie, tie bow,
bowtie, Tae Bo,
tie bow, clipboard,
bored clip, Thai.

Ribbon balsa,
ribbon balsa,
ribbon balsa,
rippin' balls, son,
ribbon balsa,
ribbon balsa
ribbon balsa -
Balsa ribbon,
balsa ribbon,
balsa ribbon,
balls a-rippin',
balsa ribbon,
balsa ribbon,
balsa ribbon -
donkey door.

Donkey door - donkey door - donkey door - donkey door - donkey door - donkey door - donkey door - donkey door - donkey -
now, fold.

Neat fit,
plank fold,
neat fit,
plank fold,
'neath it,
'neath it,
'neath it, plank fold.
And it's -

clipboard bowtie
bowtie clipboard
clipboard bowtie
bowtie clipboard
clipboard - clipboard - clipboard - clipboard - clipboard - clipboard - clipclop - clipclop - clipclop - clipclop - clipclop - clipboard - clipboard -

"On a Bench, Breathless" (a.k.a. A Circumstantial Poem about an Event I could do Little About)

"On a Bench, Breathless" came out barely a few minutes after I committed "Malady, M'Lady Melody" to paper. Sitting on a bench in the Sheffield Winter Gardens I noticed that a man was being lowered down by a friend onto the bench to my right. As it transpired the breathless and pale-looking gentleman was having a minor cardiac arrest. With plenty of people hurrying about including a City Ambassador and a Paramedic, I couldn't help but feel ultimately powerless to help this fellow so I did what all good writers do in such situations: wrote a poem about it. I can only hope that the man has regained his breath since...


A man falls on a bench                      breathless.
We all dither about
interests standing close,
hands sitting                               distant.

We wait for the sirens, the stretcher,
the caring glances.
We wait              a                      while.

The man finds flagstones for the first time
                                            ahead of
Kids rustle paper,
                     sweep past             without

And the red jacket comes,
calls the green shirt,
brings the black bags.
They land            heavy                  on the

Seconds pass then the man is
                                            lifted by
busy hands,
                                            emptied from
the building.

He presses the doorway, quivers

We each nod.
We all turn.

"Malady, M'Lady Melody" (a.k.a. My Hearty Attempt at a Tongue Twister)

The first three posts of my return shall feature poems that I have written very recently.

"Malady, M'Lady Melody" is a fine example of how much I love tongue twisters. As reading the title aloud suggests, I'm very interested in the way that strong consonant sounds can garble one's speech. That's why I actively seek combinations of similarly sounding words (or, for want of a better term, semi-homonyms). This is one such phrase I've successfully constructed. And from there, a strange form of dialogue wound its way out of my mind. When reading, try to think of a Bronte-esque lady of the manor and her maid talking about nothing in particular one dreary day. That just about sums up how it came to me...


Malady, m'lady Melody.

What was that, my dear?

Madly, m'lady Melody.

How is that, my child?

Medley, m'lady Melody.

Carry on, my dear.

Mouldy, m'lady Melody.

Never mind, my child.

Malady, m'lady Melody.

What was that, my dear?

The Courtesy Blog Post Begging for Forgiveness (a.k.a. Why I've Been Slacking Off)

Hullo all,

That's right! I'm back!
I apologise for my much prolonged absence; big loud demanding things (mostly university-related) have been weighing me down with sheer business. However, I bring goodies! Whilst off doing goodness knows what, I've been kept just as busy writing new and, dare I say, more experimental stuff; some of which I'll risk my neck showing you lot.
Anyway, rather than squeezing it all into this single post and thereby demanding probably the longest scroll-down in history, I shall send each piece of work out individually with maybe a short paragraph of commentary to lead you in.

Again, very sorry about the tardiness.

Thanks for reading,

Mr. Pondersome