Trying My Hand at Prose Poems (again)
Wednesday is about writing, and/or reading. Today, a fresh batch of prose-poems, something I’m trying to experiment with from time to time…
Here are some prose-poems. They are prose-poems because I said so. I am fascinated by this form, and I really struggle with it, but no way around that beyond publicly shaming myself, I’ve decided. So having a go. And sharing the results. In some cases, these were poems first, and I’ve rewritten them, or just realigned/rearranged them. In other cases, I’ve taken an idea and added to it. (I hope I’ve improved it). But for a couple of years now, on and off, I’ve been playing with poems as blog posts, reviews as short stories, and prose-poems out of all of them. Mixing, matching, making anew…
If you are unfamiliar, and this is just a basic explainer, a prose-poem can be best thought of as something written in prose, using the conventions of regular punctuation, but containing some of the repetition or symbolism or lyrical style of poetry. They can be epigrammatic, and perhaps enigmatic. They can be just a few lines or can run across a few pages. These are very short prose poems. Happy to know if any of them make you think or feel anything.
My Westside Story
I remember thinking that people never really burst into song in real life – you know like in the musicals; in the movies…and it was at that exact point, thinking that, when my father just piped up, out of nowhere, “maria, Maria, MARIA!” each version of the name louder and longer than the one before it. We were all of us sat around the table. Spooning soup and breaking bread. And we weren’t talking about movies or musicals. We weren’t talking about anything related to West Side Story, at least not as far as I recall. And he just nailed it too – piped up and piping off, like a cuckoo clock when the hour is struck. We all dropped our spoons and listened. Then laughed. Applauded a little bit too. There was a second or two of silence. And then we started eating again. None of us have ever talked about it since. It’s never been mentioned.
Mercy Killings
The music’s float is forced through the speakers. Fluttering fantail half caught in the lawn mower. I kill the volume. Spade across its head. (When very young I watched my uncle put a bird out of its misery /never thought too much about it). A new song spreads its wings.
Inventing Electricity
Muddy Waters could not read or write, but they say he invented electricity! He might not have been able to write his own name, but no one could stop him from rewriting the way music works. In the folklore, before he made his folk-blues, he was painting the walls outside the Chess studio, a way of paying his dues. Later, he’d make new blues with different streaks of his own blood to colour outside the lines.
From The Making Of:
The star of the film told the writer — in a brief moment of tension, just before a main take — how great the book was. The writer agreed, flashed a nervous smile and added how pleased he was with the filming of his book. He added that he would sign a copy for the young actor. The young actor smirked, concentrating on his upcoming scene, and in true throwaway style replied that he would sign his wig for the author. There passed between them an odd moment of silence. The writer looked away from the actor and rolled his eyes, possibly wondering at the significance of the wig comment. After all, the writer was bald, and had been bold to go on about his own work while the actor sat still preparing for his. Or possibly, the writer had only just become aware of the fact that a camera had caught this moment on tape. The young actor (half the writer’s age) wore his smirk a while longer, possibly thinking of what a great bit of dialogue that could have been for the finished film.
Only One Thing To Do
Phil Collins wrote his hit song In The Air Tonight about a school bully who drowned his friend. But Phil was there. He saw what he did; knew it was all a pack of lies. So there was only one thing to do, right? Get famous, play drums for years, then step out to replace the singer in the band, then start a solo career by writing a song about that drowning. Being famous, it was easy for Phil to get his people to track down the person that did that emotional (and physical) damage. And they could hook him up with some free tickets. Next thing, Phil is encoring with his brand-new song, and he’s got a single spotlight on him, and one on the front-row bully. Front-row bully hears every word of the song as it’s being beamed directly at him. Three days later he kills himself. All he could hear was the dark truth coming in his ears that night. We believed this so sincerely, in the days of the old school yard. No phones for fact-checks. The story passed down and it made the mood of the song grow darker, deeper. Some days I miss those days so much. A rumour did up its laces and ran round the world.Only one thing to do: Turn off your phone, leave it at home. And see how far you can get. You won’t (ever) regret it. Until it’s time to order food, or a ride, or listen to the sad song about the divorce, from the chocolate ad where a gorilla played the drums.
Oh, Well, You Had To Be There!
“What will it be next?” Andrew asked Phil. And he made this good joke about Bubbles the Chimp, due to the sparkling wine that had just been served, right when they were talking about the Michael Jackson doco. They all laughed at the thought. And then there were all these memories of so many old jokes shared. The way there are with friends. And Kate said, “In the 90s we made jokes, now we make documentaries”. And everyone thought for a moment. And then laughed some more. Laughing was easier. And it felt good. It was good to feel good — even if rare. “How’s it going Beef Cheeks?” Phil said loudly to Andrew, since those were the words the waiter had said whilst looking right at Andy, a plate in his hand. They all laughed some more. No documentary was getting made this time.
Listening to AFFCO by the Skeptics on a Loop:
There’s two national psyches to this country, the one we want people to know, and the one we can’t seem to talk about. A lot of angry men, lost, and the dirt piles up. Hurt, so they strike out to hurt. This is our country’s deep shame. This is the dark side of All Black fame. There are two national anthems for this country, that sonorous nonsense they play at the game. And the industrial clatter that barks through my brain.
The Banks of The River
My brother is very busy, according to my parents. They pass the news between their sons, like those boats that cross the river. What news, I sometimes wonder, do they relay to him? Are we busy? Or are we lazy? Or somewhere in between? A wee boat on its own, adrift, awash. Perhaps my brother’s too busy to even ask?
Saving The Good Hand
“I don’t get basketball at all”, he said. “It’s just, you score a point, then I will, then you, then me, then you, then me…” He did his best to make that sound like it was a bad thing. I let him score his point. Then went home to watch a 35-year-old replay of the game where Larry Bird scored half of his points left-handed, telling people after he was saving “his good hand” for a more worthy opponent.
Bad Pillow Talk
SHE: What are you reading?
HE: A book about Roger Waters. Really enjoying it actually…
SHE: That’s good…
HE: Yeah, I’ve realised he had a profound effect on me, as a lyricist – I mean some of his stuff is nonsense, platitudes and far worse…but there are lines that stick out, in a good way. And I was listening to this stuff, obsessively, at 8, 9, 10 years old. At 12, 13, 14, 15 too and maybe I took it in and got deep on some of it without really realising; like I knew it was full on or meant something, but maybe I didn’t quite know what it meant. You know?
SHE: …yeah…
HE: I mean this book has reminded me that there’s something poetic and strong in a line like “forward, he cried, from the rear/And the front rank died”, that’s a good summation of the frustration and absurdity of war. And I always loved “Hanging on in quiet desperation/Is the English way…”
SHE: I’m just looking at a job for you…
HE: Is it analysing Roger Waters lyrics?
SHE: No!
Bucolic
Sometimes the darkness hits hard, like dirt, like teeth. Like the road. A calmness evaporates, as the salt of the blood kicks in. And then a new dizziness, the splitting headache, that becomes literal, is not your problem — well, would depend how you look at it. But from you can tell, it’s the walls that will carry the stories. Their improvised new paint job done in a rush, byproduct, not pre-planned. There is a new rural madness, but the cows will make the same sounds to fill lonely fields tomorrow. And the rooster will set it all off once again. Though it’ll take longer for the animals to get their feed tomorrow. More darkness hitting hard. Then fresh teeth marks for the road. And the magpie better not say what it thought it saw.
These are interesting, thought provoking little vignettes. Muddy Waters “I’m a mannish boy” - that’s a whole story right there in 4 words! As for the tub thumping live version!!