The Split Personalities of a Poet's Voice (a.k.a. Associating the Self with Mourning Widows and Kitchen Appliances)

Hullo!

I won't lie to you, I feel rather proud of myself currently. Today I managed the near impossible: I wrote two pieces of text which it seems that I'm genuinely content with (for the time being at least). Once again thanks to an obscure writing activity given by a module on my course, I have written two poems wherein I specifically adopt a different persona.

Now, as the title of this entry suggests, the difference between both poems is quite big, bordering on farcical. The first poem is called "The Ripples in His Face" and is supposed to be from the perspective of a woman who has lost her partner in a tragic water-based accident. For some very strange reason I couldn't help but smirk at some points in writing and reading this poem; more often out of the sheer ridiculousness of me writing about 'a tragic water-based accident' without a degree of irony or black humour. Let's just say I'm not really accustom to such a serious topic as this. I'm not a sadist. Promise.

The second is a far more entertaining piece of verse entitled "Oven Glove". After reading Sylvia Plath's delightfully picturesque "Mirror", I decided that I wanted to write something to a similar effect only much more sillier. So I scanned around my flat for an inanimate object and the first thing my eyes rested on was an oven glove resting on top of the microwave (it's still there as I write this, looking down on me like a blue heat-resistant prison guard) and, no matter how much I tried to move away from it, it kept drawing my attention back. After overcoming the initial ridiculousness of adopting the persona of the humble oven glove, I started to see a perfect analogy for the slightly bitter self-sacrificing martyr/hero. I guess it's that particular factor that endears it to me. I love unexpected irony, no matter what form it takes.

Anyway, enough of my gabbing, here are the poems. Enjoy! Oh, and do try not to laugh...


THE RIPPLES IN HIS FACE

I catch his face in puddles –

grey and sunken,

especially round the eyes.

I stumble forward for him,

cast out my hand,

watch the ripples shatter the glance.

He hated rainy mornings

in September,

just as the chill was coming.

                                          

He loved the riverbank,

his early strolls

just as the town was waking.

The wind had caught him with

open pockets,

his gloves tumbling to the edge.

Kneeling down and reaching out,

he couldn’t stop.

The waves lapped him till silent.

I won’t cross the riverbank

in September;

the water’s getting too deep.

OVEN GLOVE
 I may not look like much:

bulky,

too oddly-shaped

to go out and face the cold air,

but that’s fine.

You need me

indoors

to do the opposite,

to keep the fire within its box,

to save your flesh.

At the end of the day

I get burnt

in little ways

so you don’t have to risk it,

so you don’t have to.

I don’t complain,

got no mouth,

only a thumb

and a place for cool fingers

to hide from the heat.


Both of these poems are only on their second draft, so I may well improve upon them sometime in the near or distant future. If I do, then I will most probably put them up on here. Any objections?

Thanks for reading,

Mr. Pondersome

"The Chronicle of Vita" (Revisited) and "Unwrapping Time" (Visited) - (a.k.a. Stuff I'm Working on that I Thought I Should Display in a Moment of Blog Boredom)

Hullo all!

As I'm sure you've probably realised (well, the few of you that actually find the time) I've been rather busy. So busy, in fact, that I haven't found the time to update this little blog of mine. Well, in response to that issue, I've managed to knock together a quick and relatively interesting entry concerning some of the work that I've been so busy doing.

The first text is a short poem called "Unwrapping Time". I made this as a result of a seminar activity on my course which I continued and improved upon at home. I think that it is sufficiently clear in sending it's message; a message that I came upon entirely by accident but find that I actually do believe in. Let's just say I'm big on the concepts and theories of time.

The second is the short story "The Chronicle of Vita", or rather the seventh and current draft of it. As some of you might notice I've showcased this poem before for Halloween, but I've altered it several times over since and so feel obliged to showcase it again.

Anyway, without further ado, here they are. Enjoy!

UNWRAPPING TIME

TIME is an envelope...

TIME is not the card.

TIME is a curtain...

TIME is not the art.

TIME is a coat...

TIME is not the skin.

TIME is without...

TIME is not within.

THE CHRONICLE OF VITA

                Your flexed fingertips guide the book off the shelf by its spine. You feel the dust curl into your nails and sneeze violently as its hardback body crash-lands into your open palms.

            Why haven’t you read this book yet? It’s a classic, or so they told you. Hundreds of weathered pages of bygone brilliance.

            That’s why you’re going to read it now – it’s late and you’re suddenly bored again.

            What’s the title? “The Chronicle of Vita”. Succinct, but you still haven’t the faintest idea of what it’s about. There’s no blurb, no summary. It must be really old.

            You turn to the contents page. It’s half-complete; or is the ink just fading? You flick to the page where the story actually begins.

            ‘John Burling was a quiet man; quite afraid to speak out but content in his timidity...’

            You turn overleaf to check the following page.

            ‘Edwina Winston was a woman of passion and fire. It was this fire that often saw her into some detestable situations...’

            A page devoted to each character, eh? You skip a few dozen to see when things will actually pick up.

            Soon you realise that every page brings a new name, a new character. But how can a story have so many characters? You wonder. Surely it’s difficult to keep track of them all.

            You rest a finger on the twenty-first page and skim all the way down to the last paragraph. A throwaway sentence grabs you:

            ‘Young Donald picked up this book on January 23^rd 1927 at four o’clock in the afternoon.’

            And that’s all. From that point on there is not even a passing mention of Donald Bamforth; not even a footnote.

            This book is very strange. Did these people actually exist? Is this fiction or non-fiction? If it’s the latter then you’re not interested: official records just aren’t your thing.

            You flick further on, closer towards the end of the book. At some point the words start to run out, till you’re faced with an onslaught of blank pages.

            You stop at one. It’s almost as if the writer ran out of ink or things to say, or maybe both. Or maybe not.

             You spy a black smudge at the top corner of the page. It’s drawing itself out, stretching into familiar shapes and symbols. It’s shifting into words. It’s spelling your name.

            The ink blot is moving to complete a full line of text now. It’s done and dropping down to the next.

            What the hell is going on here? This can’t be right. Books can’t write themselves, not literally. You’re hallucinating, you’re drowsy, you must be. But you’re not.

            You follow the ink as it completes the final line:

            ‘...picked up this book on October 26^th 2010 at twelve o’clock in the evening.’

            The book slips through your dissolving fingers and collapses to the floor. It shuts itself. You check your hands and see nothing. You slip away. The ink’s still wet.

And there you have it. That's it. Well, not all of it. There's still a little shameless self-publicity to get out of the way too.

Recently I've been contributing a few creative writing pieces to a Sheffield-based e-magazine called "STEEL". Now I won't put up the link yet as there are still some features of it that are under construction, but I will as soon as the OK is given. If you're interested in reading it at all, then keep an eye out during the oncoming month.

Furthermore, as part of the e-zine, I am contemplating making some video readings. Before I send anything out to the editors I will be practising and, most likely, displaying the outcomes on here. So keep an eye out: it may be sooner, it may be later... 

Thanks for reading,

Mr. Pondersome

Moments Frozen In Time (a.k.a. Memories and Landmarks)

Hullo!

I've been rather busy lately, contending with an onslaught of essays (the worst bunch I've seen in a while, I must admit) so I obviously haven't had much time to do any leisure writing of my own, let alone blogging anything of worth. However today looks to have brought something both interesting and inspiring.
Memories. 'From the corner of my mind...' Ahem, excuse me. What I meant to say was that memories have been the basis of my pondering for today. Although you might not class them as particularly fascinating memories, two have caused the right hemisphere of my brain to perk up. And the resulting pieces are a rather long scroll-down below.
But first a brief description of both:

"OLD HAUNT" - This is a tanka poem (for all of you not in the know about Japanese poetry, a tanka is essentially a haiku with an extra pair of seven-syllable lines tagged on at the end) about returning to a house that I formerly lived in. I had my first proper experience of the strange sensation yesterday evening when two friends, who I met in my first year uni accomodation last year, dragged me back to the place. Living there again for this year, they gave me a guided tour of all three floors, pointing out where things have changed (more often for the worst) and presenting me to the rather indifferent fresher tenants (yes - not introducing, presenting). During the visit I felt rather weird about it all; it was all familiar but very different at exactly the same time. This ambivalence grew into a rather neat little poem.

"THE FINAL MOTION" - This is (yet) another free-verse poem, about the closing-down of a city landmark: The Sheffield Eye. Crossing the giant wheel on my way in and out of the city centre I noticed every day that a new stage of decimation had been reached and I felt a rather curious pang every time. As a result I just had to put pen to paper and express my poring feelings through prose...like any other bloke.
Just like the work to tear the Wheel down, my poem is going through a few stages. Changes will continue to be made until further notice. I apologise for any inconvenience this may cause.

Anyhoo, here are the actual poems:



OLD HAUNT

The grown ghost of me
hobbles through the threshold and
the walls of my past.

And the memories stalk me -
I glance twice and they're refreshed.


THE FINAL MOTION

Within a day,
the revolution ceased.

Its limbs were the first,
each flailing fist
dissected with haste -

then the circle was
snapped, leaving a
hollow curve standing -

the final bones fell,
were stacked aside:
the last sacrifice -

then there was a square,
a former patch
for a former stand.

Within a day,
the execution pleased.


'Memory, all alone in the moonlight...' I thank you! Goodnight! :D.

Mr. Pondersome

"The Chronicle of Vita" and "All Hallow's Read" (a.k.a. Spooky Stories and Creepy New Traditions)

Hullo all!

As Halloween is only two days away I thought that it was time I did something seasonal on this new semi-used blog of mine. So, as always, I have written a (very) short story with a rather spooky outcome. It is called "The Chronicle of Vita" and is, at it's black heart, about a book. A very strange book, I might add. It is written in the 2nd person perspective as a result of an experiment of mine and I've come to conclusion that it's creepier that way. But you'll be the judge of that, I'm sure.
Also, being a MASSIVE Neil Gaiman fan, I thought that I'd nudge aside some of my blog-space to help promote a new tradition concocted by the gentleman writer and a few of his influential friends. Realising that there are no popular holidays that specifically include the gift of a book being given to family and friends, Mr. Gaiman and co. have devised a new Halloween tradition called "All Hallow's Read". I won't go into too much detail in case I get it wrong, so here is the appropriate link if you're interested and want to learn more:

 http://www.allhallowsread.com/

I'm certainly going to spread the word to all my bookish friends, and today I'm going out in search of interesting (but cheap) gothic and horror books to pass round. It should be an interesting venture considering I'm not really a devoted fan of the genre (depending on if you'd count Mr. Gaiman as a horror writer), so wish me luck!!!

Anyway, now all that publicity is out of the way, here is the latest draft of "The Chronicle of Vita". Enjoy...


THE CHRONICLE OF VITA

Your flexed fingertips guide the book off the shelf. You feel the dust curl into your nails as they brush the spine and you sneeze violently. Its hardback body crash-lands into your open palm.

            Why haven’t you read this book yet? It’s a classic; it has that look: leather-bound. As you pinch the red corner you feel the history. Hundreds of weathered pages of bygone brilliance. That’s why you’re going to read it now; that and because you’re suddenly bored again.

            What’s the title? “The Chronicle of Vita”. Succinct, but you still haven’t the faintest idea of what it’s about. There’s no blurb, no summary. It must be really old.

            You turn to the contents page. It’s half-complete; or is the ink just fading? You flick to the page where the story actually begins.

            ‘John Burling was a quiet man; quite afraid to speak out but content in his timidity...’

            You turn overleaf.

            ‘Edwina Winslet was a woman of passion and fire. It was this fire that often saw her into some detestable situations...’

            A page devoted to each character, eh? You skip a few dozen to find where things actually pick up.

            Soon you realise that every page brings a new name, a fresh character. But how can a story have so many? Surely it’s difficult to keep track of them all.

            You rest a finger on the twenty-first page and skim all the way down to the last paragraph. A throwaway sentence grabs you:

            ‘Young Donald picked up this book on January 23^rd 1927 at four o’clock in the afternoon.’

            And that’s all. From that point on there is not even a passing mention of Donald Bamforth; not even a footnote. Very strange.

Did these people actually exist? Is this fiction or non-fiction? Either way, you’re captivated.

            You flick further on, closer towards the end of the book. At some point the words start to run out till you’re faced with an onslaught of empty pages.

            You stop at one. It’s almost as if the writer ran out of ink or things to say, or maybe both. Or maybe not.

             You spy a black smudge at the top of the page. That wasn’t there before. It’s drawing itself out, stretching into familiar shapes and symbols. Letters. Words. It’s spelling your name.

Your legs quiver but you regain balance. What is going on?

            This can’t be right. Books can’t write themselves, not literally. They can’t possibly know every inch of your life nor be able to write it down with clear and steady assurance. You’re hallucinating, you’re drowsy, you must be.

            You follow the flowing ink as it dots the end of the sentence:

            ‘...picked up this book on October 26^th 2010 at twelve o’clock at night.’

            The book slips through your dissipating fingers and collapses to the floor.

            You check your hands. Nothing. You touch your face. Nothing. You’re slipping away and you barely even realise it. With a gasp, you’re gone.

            The ink’s still wet.

Sleep tight, children...

Mr. Pondersome

Owen - Speak Easy 30/04/10

Owen - Speak Easy 23/03/10

Owen Townend - Speak Easy 23/02/10