Showing newest posts with label _POETRY. Show older posts
Showing newest posts with label _POETRY. Show older posts

Monday, 11 October 2010

The Song - Mount Eerie and Julie Doiron's "Lost Wisdom"






With one hand in the water running cold and clear, fog obliterates the morning and I don't know where I am. The heart is pounding and you are always on my mind. Lost wisdom is a quiet echo. Lost wisdom, a boulder under the house. I used to know you. Now I don't.



Yap, Phil Elverum sure makes some of the most essential music this side of his generational peers Will Oldham or Bill Callahan.

And here's the fragile and enigmatic 'Lost Wisdom' - by Phil (in Mount Eerie guise), along with canny canuck Julie Doiron - the title track of the excellent 2008 Mount Eerie LP.

Stunning maverick music from the wild North-West. Music that's real ... that counts.

Beautiful bleak sculpted words. Existentialist, minimalist, sumptuous, nigh Carveresque ... "These rocks don't care if I live or die. Everyone I know will finally turn away."

A haunting song that sneaks a glance inside the dark holy darkness.  A song of the sharp shards of shattered love. And love's leavings: loss, loneliness, longing and regret. Those permanent undead things. Shadowy spectres constantly "approaching shape in the low light."

A tale of those times when fragments of memory mutate and corrode the now. Those moments when "fog obliterates the morning and I don't know where I am."
 
Pastoral patchwork poetry from the very verge of things. Haikuesque lines stitched together with sinew and blood ... "Lost wisdom, by the edge of the stream at dusk, is a quiet echo on loud wind."

And this song truly echoes quietly. Unforgettably.
















I got close enough to the river
that I couldn't hear the trucks.
But not close enough to stop
the roaring of my mind.
These rocks don't care
if I live or die.
Everyone I know will finally turn away.
I will confuse and disinterest all posterity.
Lost wisdom
is a quiet echo.
Lost wisdom,
by the edge of the stream at dusk,
is a quiet echo on loud wind.

With one hand in the water running cold and clear,
fog obliterates the morning and i don't know where I am.
The heart is pounding and you are always on my mind.
Lost wisdom
is a quiet echo.
Lost wisdom.
A boulder under the house.
I used to know you.
Now I don't.

The screaming wind said my name,
I think, significant and dark.
My lost face in the mirror at the gas station.
Who are you but my face that i wake up with alone.
Lost wisdom
approaching shape in the low light.

You thought you knew me.
You thought our house was home.
I thought I knew myself.
I thought my heart was calm.
Thunder lightning.
Tidal wave.
The wind blew down the door.
Lost wisdom.
The river goes through the room.

I saw your picture out of nowhere
and forgot what I was doing.
Everything vanished in your eclipse.
A constellation of moments comes to life in the void.
Lost wisdom.
Face down under the moss.
Enraptured by the beautiful face in the billowing flames.
I open the front and back door and let the wind blow through.
And I stood in the house and tried to hold the breeze.
Lost wisdom.
Waking up in a pile of ash.
Secret knowledge
comes to me in the dusk.
Showed me the river.
I saw me.




























art by redfraction









I've walked on water, run through fire



by RedFraction





A change of speed, a change of style.
A change of scene, with no regrets.
A chance to watch, admire the distance.
Still occupied though you forget
Different colours, different shades..
Over each mistakes were made.
I took the blame.
Directionless so plain to see.
A loaded gun won't set you free.
So you say.
We'll share a drink and step outside.
An angry voice and one who cried.
We'll give you everything and more.
The strain's too much, can't take much more.
Oh, I've walked on water, run through fire.
Can't seem to feel it anymore.
It was me, waiting for me.
Hoping for something more
Me, seeing me this time,
hoping for something else.












Saturday, 9 October 2010

Everybody's doin' it from the grownups down






I wanna tell you 'bout a dance
that's goin' around.
Everybody's doin' it
from the grownups down.
Don't move your head.
Don't move your hands.
Don't move your lips.
just shake your hips.
Do the hip shake, babe.
Do the hip shake, babe.
Shake your hip, babe.
Shake your hip, babe.
What you don't know?
Don't be afraid.
Just listen to me
and do what I say.
Don't move your head.
Don't move your hands.
Don't move your lips.
Just shake your hips.
Do the hip shake, babe.
Do the hip shake, babe.
Shake your hip, babe.
Shake your hip, babe.
Well ain't that easy?


















Friday, 8 October 2010

Visions Of You Endlessly








I'm not that numbed anymore
Not longer feel the hate and pain
No longer drenched in shame
I'm not that numbed anymore
Now I am the key to the door
The kingdom of heaven lies inside
Makes a cirlce with the turning tide
Now the circle is complete
And the heart and mind they need
The kingdom of heaven lies inside
I love visions of you endlessly
I love visions of you endlessly
It's a vision for me and for you
Hell can be a circle too
With intention unbroken
And the truth remains unspoken
A vision for me and for you
I love visions of you endlessly














The Shot - The Maestro And The Rose of Katowice





Everybody wants a box of chocolates
and a long stem rose.
Everybody knows.



An iconic shot of Leonard Cohen - and a long stem rose (but no box of xhocs!) - during his gig in Katowice, Poland this week.









Thursday, 7 October 2010

Seeing the flowers scream their joy






It's warm in and out.
The pulse of flowing love.
Spread the calm to meet the others.
Pleasure fills with love 'til dawn.
It's warm in and out.
The call for sacred hours.
The soft chant of new-born singing.
The magic force of your feelings.
The first picture of you.
The first picture of summer.
Seeing the flowers scream their joy.
Can't lose this mood gentle
with summer at our ears.
Flood the world deep in sunlight.
Break into the peaceful wild.
The first picture of you.
The first picture of summer.
Seeing the flowers scream their joy.














The Word - Zakariya Amataya's "A Dot on the Malay Peninsula"







A Dot on the Malay Peninsula

1

A river

A mountain

Stars

At night

I'm looking at

A river

A mountain

Stars

That slowly vanish in the dark

I can't see

Even my own hand

And then everything is darkness

And then everything is darkness

2

A dot on the Malay Peninsula

A river

A mountain

Stars

I feel blood flowing non-stop

One arm beginning to feel numb

Pain spreading through the whole body

Pulse now slowing down

Breath a murmur

As if in a tussle with the fist of fate

Between mountain and river

Between death and life

With laments and laughs all along

3

A dot on the Malay Peninsula

A river

A mountain

Stars

In total silence

I hear peace sobbing

And uttering yells that resound

Along sundry roads

Around the city clock tower

On dinner tables, in teashops

In mosques and Buddhist temples

And yet ... no one hears

It's true, no one hears

No one hears

I see the weary face

And battered eyes of peace

Brimming with tears of sadness

Which flow and join a river

4

A dot on the Malay Peninsula

A river

A mountain

Stars

I try

But blood won't stop flowing

The other arm beginning to feel numb

Pain storming the heart

While little cuts look like red fountain jets

As if slit by a million krises

5

A dot on the Malay Peninsula

A river

A mountain

Stars

I feel the blood has stopped flowing

Heartbeats gone with the last breath

While the eyes begin to blur

Visions in the head shine bright

I see myself in youth

Running up and down ridges

To look at that river

And those sparkling stars

6

A dot on the Malay Peninsula

A river

A mountain

Stars

I hear birdsong

And the helicopter's roar over the trees

The rattle of the bullets

And the blasts of the bombs

7

A dot on the Malay Peninsula

A river

A mountain

Stars - fading off

And then suddenly gone from my memory

















The Word - Poetry without set rules: Zakariya Amataya pushes the boundaries of traditional Thai literature





Poetry without set rules: Zakariya Amataya pushes the boundaries of traditional Thai literature


by Anchalee Kongrut
http://www.bangkokpost.com
4/10/2010




Despite its title, the 2010 SEA Write poetry book, Mai Mee Yingsao Nai Bot Kawee ("Poems Without Maidens") does parade a handful of women - an old lady waiting for her lover who never arrives, prostitutes and miniskirted secretaries scrambling for a seat on the BTS, the princess of Palestine forever in exile. Between the lines on paper and inside the labyrinth of the poet's mind, they even seem to thrive so well there.

So why such a seemingly misleading title?

Is 35-year-old poet Zakariya Amataya trying to hint that his oeuvre is steeped in wry sadness - that readers should never anticipate any suggestive curve nor the tenderness of feminine beauty?

Or is the Narathiwat native with his goatee and leather beret an incurable love slave who disguises his emotional pains through a string of words? Or is the real reason simply that "Che" - Zakariya's nom de guerre - is, er, a misogynist?

"The title? Oh, it's just a word play. I had a hunch that this book would be read by a lot of people, so we picked this title, as it gives out some mysterious air," said Zakariya to a flock of reporters during the SEA Write press conference at Mandarin Oriental, Bangkok - the venue for every event related to this prestigious award.

Reclusive, ruminative and humble, Zakariya is the latest surprise to come from the SEA Write award committee, a band of Thai literary experts famously known for jolting the local circle every now and then by giving the top prize to the least expected candidate.

Sensation aside, Zakariya's win has rocked the Thai poetry scene. It is the first time the SEA Write committee has ever given this award to free verse instead of the classical styles which, with their rigid rules pertaining to the specific number of lines, syllables and rhyme schemes, have prevailed the literary landscape since Thai poetry was born some seven centuries ago.

This year, the judges - some of whom are traditional poets and academic experts in traditional Thai literature - unanimously voted for Zakariya's works, which incidentally, is the only free verse among the shortlisted. Will this path-breaking decision herald a big change in the otherwise dormant world of Thai poetry?




Indeed, the relationships between Thai people and their poetry have been, at least in the old days, symbiotically unique. Even before a child learned how to read and write, he or she would be reared on, put to sleep by, lullabies sung by their mothers oh so poetically. At a prime age, the lovesick lads would court their belles with improvised duets. Folk music is none other than modifications of beautiful verse. It is not an overstatement to say that Thais are poetic by nature, whether or not they are aware of this ingrained talent!

"Yet, when we talk about local Thai literature nowadays, we mostly refer to fiction like novels or short stories. People no longer read poetry, not to mention write it," lamented Zakariya during an exclusive interview with 'Outlook'.

"Thais are very very conservative when it comes to Thai poetry. We feel proud ... way too proud with our traditional poetry, so we resist change and become so defensive when anyone tries to write poems that are different," said Zakariya, who admitted the classical form of Thai poetry is not his style.

"I tend to have more feeling for contemporary art, contemporary poems ... especially works of poets after World War II. I don't like classical stuff. It is not they are not good, they are just not my thing."

Zakariya insisted he also looks up to traditional poets like Sri Praj, Soonthorn Phu or Angkarn Kalayanabhongse as maestros; their works usually make readers sense the beauty of words and feelings to the point that one even forgets all the requisite rules about rhymes and whatnots.

But traditional styled works by lesser poets, he ventured, make readers see more of the outer form, and less of the aesthetic beauty.

Apparently, Zakariya's views are shared by the current batch of the SEA Write committee.

"Free verse is actually the hardest form of poetry - that is, if you want to write it well," said Adul Chantarasak, an accomplished poet in the traditional Thai school.

"In traditional poetry, you have to find the right words that fit the rhyme schemes and structures. But in free verse, you are on your own and there are no rules whatsoever for you to follow. It might look easy to write the first few paragraphs, but a poet cannot continue writing free verse for the whole book if he is not really good," said Adul, who admitted he was awed by Zakariya's works.

Zakariya started writing poems accidentally while studying Islamic culture at a university in India.

Unlike many award-winning writers, Zakariya said he was not a bookworm as a child. Moreover, Thai is his second language, after the local Malay dialect spoken among the majority of Muslims in the deep South.

In India, Zakariya was forced to learn a third language: Arabic. Initially unable to understand lectures in Arabic, Zakariya, then 25, would scribble on blank pieces of paper to convey his train of thoughts in Thai. Later on, he found what he wrote was actually free verse.

He has since been writing in that style, first for the internet and most recently in literary magazines and local dailies.

Apart from writing poems, Zakariya also translates poems of the Middle East and by contemporary Western poets. He is planning to write a novel about his hometown, but the progress has been very slow, too slow, to be exact. "Writing a novel and writing a poem are two completely different things. With fiction, you need to let the plot and narrative carry you. But in a poem, you spend time polishing your words over and over. And I found myself always polishing words instead of working on the narrative structure," said Zakariya.

In the 83-page Poems Without Maidens, 36 poems touch on subjects as variable as the violence in the Southern provinces of Thailand and Middle East countries, universal love, religion, philosophy and God. A couple of them also show his cheeky sense of humour. Curiously, Zakariya's sources of inspiration include poets from faraway lands like Charles Beaudelaire, Illija Ladin and Octavio Paz, whose lines or words are incorporated into his own works and always with accreditation.

Poems Without Maidens is Zakariya's very first published work. But do not expect to see a sequel soon. For the poet has spent about a full decade penning those pieces in the tiny book; some in particular took him five years to write and polish, although a few were carved within hours - but that was a rare occurrence and only when his muse, tempo and mood happened to align themselves well together.

Although he has made his name known from launching online poetry blogs (http://www.thaipoetsociety.com and http://www.republicofpoetry.com), Zakariya's constant companion is a notebook in which he jots down what he sees; his inspiration and exact details such as the colour of a shirt, objects in hands, time or even the colour of the sky or the weather. The poet then transcribes his feelings in incoherent verse or simply a sentence.

He usually keeps those notes with him for days or weeks - years even. Late at night he would review those scribbles and turn them into poems if his mood and Lady Muse permits. For him, there are no deadlines, schemes or restrictions in poetry. It is as if all the man has to do is to prepare himself for the arrival of poetry. Who knows if Zakariya discovered poetry or it found him.

But does that really matter?

Probably not, especially if you read the first piece in his first book:
"I am travelling in poetry.

Poetry is travelling in me.

We are heading to the same destination."










Wednesday, 6 October 2010

From time to time the waste - memory wastes


I recall a schoolboy coming home
through fields of cane,
to a house of tin and timber.
And in the sky,
a rain of falling cinders.
From time to time,
the waste. Memory wastes.
I recall a boy in bigger pants,
like everyone,
just waiting for a chance.
His father’s watch,
he left it in the showers.
From time to time,
the waste. Memory wastes.
I recall a bigger brighter world,
a world of books
and silent times in thought.
And then the railroad
- the railroad takes him home,
through fields of cattle,
through fields of cane.
From time to time,
the waste. Memory wastes.

The waste. Memory wastes.

Further.
Longer.
Higher.
Older.
















Tuesday, 5 October 2010

She knew that these tracks would lead to heartache and pain


He woke up on a cold floor
in a motel on the south side
of nowhere and he swore
that this is the last time.
Like the last time before.
Just like the last time before,
But the wheels keep turning 'round.
The engines they never slow down.
And he knew that these tracks
would lead to heartache and pain
but he still got on that train.
Theres a girl down in Georgia
broken home-coming queen,
knocked around black and blue
said this is the last time.
This time I know that we're through.
Oh this time I swear that we're through.
But the wheels keep turning 'round.
The engines they never slow down.
And she knew that these tracks
would lead to heartache and pain
but she still got on that train.
I wake up in a cold bed
playing shows every night
on this long lonely road.
I'm thinking of you
and I just wanna come home.
Oh but I'm just too far from home.
I'm just too far from home.















Sunday, 3 October 2010

The Song - Dream Syndicate's "Bullet With My Name On It"

 



I had a dream. I was all alone. I had a mouth. But I couldn't speak. Then something tried to turn my head. It was someone just like you, had me by the throat again. Your bullet's got my name on Your bullet's got my name on it.




A magnificent track from the mighty Dream Syndicate from the sadly neglected "Medicine Show" LP from 1984.

They sure as f*ck don't make em like this anymore!

Great visuals below from kataidamashi.

Bizarrely, Medicine Show was actually oput of print for years but the great news is that the album has ecently been remastered, expanded (now includes the "This Is Not The New Dream Syndicate Album Live! EP")  and reissued - with lots of extras (notes by Steve Wynn, REM's Peter Buck, and Rolling Stone'a David Fricke, along with vintage photos etc) thrown in too. Heartily recommended indeed!

Driven by gorgeous garage-rock riffs, "Bullet" is a beautiful  evocative, poetic, witty and indeed existential song of being damned by love / lust!

I especially like the line "someone just like you had me by the throat again", which wonderfully captures the dilemma where we're doomed to stumble from one seemingly perfect but ultimately painful instance of lust/ love to another.

He says "It's gonna be the last time I let you hold my gun." (whatever could that suggest!) ... but he know it won't! He's powerless ("I had a mouth but I couldn't speak.") against inevitability ("Your bullet's got my name on it")!

Yap, it's like deja vu all over again, baby!

It's like deja vu all over again!










Wednesday, 29 September 2010

The Last Time I Let You Hold My Gun







If you ever saw me
walking around,
I swear I'd try to disappear.
I wouldn't make a sound.
Then something
got me on the run.
It's gonna be the last time
I let you hold my gun.
Your bullet's got my name on
... ah ah ...
Your bullet's got my name on it.
Gotta run away.
Run run away.
I had a dream
I was all alone.
I had a mouth
but I couldn't speak.
Then something
tried to turn my head.
It was someone just like you
had me by the throat again.
Your bullet's got my name on
... ah ah ...
Your bullet's got my name on it.
Gotta run away.
I thought I knew the answer.
It was just a clue.
Another trigger I couldn't pull.
And then something
came in my room last night.
They aimed.
They fired.
And I got lucky.
Your bullet's got my name on
... ah ah ...
Your bullet's got my name on it.
Gotta run away.
Run run away.










Tuesday, 28 September 2010

Time To Put The Old Horse Down




by ajss



I need some sleep
It can't go on like this.
I tried counting sheep
but there's one I always
miss.
Everyone says I'm getting
down too low.
Everyone says you just
gotta let it go.
You just gotta let it go!
You just gotta let it go!
I need some sleep.
Time to put the old horse down.
I'm in too deep
and the wheels keep spinning 'round.
Everyone says I'm getting'
down too low
Everyone says you just gotta let it go.
You just gotta let it go!













Beep Beep'm Beep Beep, Yeah

 






Baby you can drive my car.
Yes I'm gonna be a star.
Baby you can drive my car
and maybe I'll love you.
I told that girl 'I can start right away.'
When she said 'listen babe, I got something to say
 ... I got no car and it's breaking my heart
but I've found a driver and that's a start.'
















Monday, 27 September 2010

The Girl With Kaleidoscope Eyes




Picture yourself in a boat
on a river
with tangerine trees
and marmalade skies.
Somebody calls you,
you answer quite slowly
- a girl with kaleidoscope eyes.
Cellophane flowers
of yellow and green
towering over your head.
Look for the girl
with the sun in her eyes
and she's gone.











Tuesday, 21 September 2010

I'll Bury My Soul In a Scrapbook




by joe bonita




And I'll dance with you
in Vienna.
I'll be wearing a river's
disguise.
The hyacinth wild on my shoulder.
My mouth on the dew of your thighs.
And I'll bury my soul
in a scrapbook,
with the photographs there,
and the moss.
And I'll yield to the flood
of your beauty.
My cheap violin and my cross.













Monday, 20 September 2010

Beginning To Believe What The Scriptures Tell




by streetQueen





I'm the oldest son
of a crazy man.
I'm in a cowboy band.
Got a pile of sins to pay for
and I ain't got time to hide.
I'd walk through a blazing fire, baby,
if I knew you was on the other side.
















Friday, 10 September 2010

Just a condolence card to tell me that we're through






It's the morning.
And the mourning
it is dawning on me too.
I'd no warning.
Just a condolence card
to tell me that
we're through.
When you kiss me
does the lipstick
on your lip
stick on my face?
When you miss me
in your dreams
does my lover
have your face?















Thursday, 9 September 2010

Take Off the Cold Night and the Sad Day







Cold and lonely, tired and bored
just like the day before.
Missing out on life's reward
of that you an be sure.
So bring on the dancing girls.
Take off the cold night and the sad day.
Bring on the dancing girls.
Take off the twilight and the skies so grey
and they dance for him inside his head.













Tuesday, 7 September 2010

The Colour of the Sun Cut Flat






Perhaps it's the colour of the sun cut flat
an' cov'rin' the crossroads I'm standing at.
Or maybe it's the weather or something like that,
but mama, you been on my mind.
I don't mean trouble, please don't put me down or get upset.
I am not pleadin' or sayin', "I can't forget."
I do not walk the floor bowed down an' bent, but yet,
mama, you been on my mind.











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