Crazy Ways

Another original song performed by me - with my big hat! The first verse was written in 1991 but I added a better chorus and new lyrics.

More YouTube

I've been busy recording some more videos for my You Tube channel

Here's a performance of my poem 'cause and effect' - previously called 'Generation Now' on this blog.



It's quite an agressive poem - normally I prefer to be more tranquila. - 'tranquila' is my favourite word - its spanish for a sort of mixure between relaxed , tranquil, calm etc and can be used in so many ways - maybe laid back is a better translation.

YouTube channel

After much technical mucking about I managed to make a video and upload it to my new YouTube channel. It's a very rough performance of a new song I've wriiten - the visual side is very basic - and I need a lot more gravity for the last line - but hey its difficult in one take :)



So despite it's failings - go on and give it a five star - and add a nice comment :) - and become my YouTube friend and subsribe while your at it ;)

I plan to put some performances of my poetry up - but I'm going to need to get editing - and film some relatively interesting visuals.

And, if you're wondering, Ashtewan is my name; Stephen in Tsu'ti'jil.

Hope you enjoy :)
cheers
Steve

We; The People

They; The Camera
under lights; with presence ask
The misbegotton question;
The loaded word; The unfair skew.
We; The People, have forgotton;
unsure we even knew; we see,
disguised, the adoration,
The blatent norm; The few.
Here plays the random playground ridicule;
Here drum the endless tit-less tacs;
Here, with unquestioned coolness,
They; The Camera
Act.

Desktop background 'The Fire'

Here's a desktop background I made for my poem 'The Fire' - feel free to download it and use it

-

There was a time when the colours belonged to the flowers.

Is it time?

Wisdom is a matter of Timing
and Timing is a matter of Wisdom
and when there's one
without the other -
this
is Bullshit.

The Garden

Shrevelled Stones
Play; concordant in
Errdanity. The garden
Prelic is arranged
As my mother
Used to. Arthur
Is precise. I take
Too long with my
Impatient crouve. A
Swaulied hour's pause-
It is time.
The Jabberwocky!
lurks.


:P

To all my critics in jest :P

To: A_Kettle@poetry-critique-boutique.com
From: Blake7@Romantics-r-us.com
Sent: 17:94

Hi – Could you please give me some feedback on this short poem I wrote – I’m thinking of trying to get it published and was wondering what sort of publisher might be interested.

THE TYGER

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

Cheers,

Bill

P.S. There are another five verses to this poem which are equally good. I am thinking of trying to publish the whole poem with a few others under the title ‘Songs Of Experience’.

P.P.S. I’ve also drawn a picture of a tiger to go with the poem but I couldn’t get it into .jpg format to send.

P.P.P.S. I am sure it would sell loads.

----#----

To : Blake7@romantics-r-us.com
From : A_Kettle@poetry-critique-boutique.com
Sent:19:79

Bill,

Welcome to PCB! I hope you will find our poetry critiques useful in helping to develop your poetic skills further.

On reading your poem I was immediately struck by your poem’s rather adventurous subject – the tiger. In general I think that the best subjects for poems come from our own experiences. I am somewhat sceptical that you have much tiger-time under your belt and I’m assuming the title of your proposed poetry collection/leaflet is meant to be ironic.

On to the poem proper:


‘Tyger! Tyger! burning bright‘


Again I presume you are deliberately misspelling tiger with a ‘y’ – Although such misspelling are popular amongst the youth or ‘yoof’ of today, such alternative spellings simply distract from the meaning of the words and should be avoided if possible.

In your first line you have used both unnecessary capitalisation and exclamation marks. What does this achieve? In general, if a word does not immediately strike you, then an exclamation mark is probably a hindrance rather than a help.

I have also noticed your attempt to use rhyme in your poetry. This is an all too common mistake. Hackneyed rhymes like ‘night’ and ‘bright’ have no place in serious poetry.

Rhyme does however, still have a place in children’s poetry. Since you have drawn a nice picture of a tiger, would I be mistaken if I said you were aiming for the child market?

If so then the first two lines are good (apart from punctuation and spelling – see above). Unfortunately, the next two lines use rather difficult language for a 5 or 6 year old. In fact the language is somewhat anarchic to say the least!


What immortal hand or eye
Could frame [thy ?] fearful symmetry?


No doubt you are aware that ‘Symmetry’ does not rhyme with ‘eye’, but even so, such an attempted rhyme is an excellent example of why trying to squeeze a poem into rhyme and meter is generally such a bad idea for serious poems.

If you do want to maintain your rhyme and meter for the sake of your target market you will need to do so using the clear simple language, that is so important in children’s poetry. I hope you don’t mind if I make the following suggestion:


Tiger, tiger, burning bright,
In the forest, in the night
I wish I had my camera lens,
I’d take a picture for my friend.


I’m sure you’ll agree this almost keeps the meaning of the original but makes it so much more accessible to the child audience.

On the other hand, if you intend this as a serious piece – I would suggest ditching the rhyme and the form altogether. The haiku style of poetry might suit your purpose. For example:


Orange, Black
Night falls on the forest
Mortal
We cannot see


I’m sure you’ll agree that this approach has much to offer.

On a final note: Although you may find this a little harsh, I am rather sceptical of your hope that your ‘Songs Of Experience’ would ‘sell loads’. I also think you’ll find that the wider publishing community, and indeed, the general public, will share my scepticism.

I would not however, want to dissuade you, in any way, from self-publishing. A small run of around 20 copies would be perfect if you wanted to share your poetry with any friends, family and other ‘admirers’ you may accumulate during your lifetime.


Good Luck in your Efforts

Regards,
Alan
A_Kettle@poetry-critique-boutiqe.com

----#----

To: A_Kettle@poetry-critique-boutique.com
From: Blake7@Romantics-r-us.com
Time Sent: 20:09


Sceptik! Sceptik! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?


:P

Bill.

It was here I paused and sighed.

The small sucesses 'long the way
like coloured flags that furl and sway
as I recite the pitted road
that brought me where the cool air blowed
Down, from the peaks and valleys snowed.
I may never reach those heights,
but I stitched my flags into a kite;
red and blue and yellow.

The Villa

Note: I was inspired to write this love poem after being struck by the first couple lines of another poem on the internet. Those lines stuck in my mind and I was compelled to continue where the two lines led. So I stole the first two lines - but after - realising my crime - I laundered them to make them my own by changing them in ways that better suited my purpose. So here's to the unknown poet who inspired me and here's to all great artists that were thieves.

The Villa

In a Villa that we built on sand,
I traced our play upon your hand,
while in the yard, an orange tree,
held heavy fruit, that fantasy,
clung to its’ branches, fixed and fast
as Shadow grew across the grass.
This did I promise, This Grandest deed,
assured and soft, and you believed.
Oh how you laughed, and clasped my voice.
I loved you then,
and how.

But how Time twists its’ knife into our story,
and prised me from my promise.
And how I laboured long to gather,
at night, the blood and teardrops of my conquest,
While you slept,
I wept,
and yet-
in my memory you shine,
and in my mind, my foolish words stayed,
true and kind,
and still,
I hold you now, as then,
elipsed in time,
and wonder.

Upon reading a poem about a funeral

I was inspired to write this poem after coming across several poems about funerals in a relatively short space of time. I was struck by their shear mundaneness and almost ordered emotion that resonated with my constricted English upbringing and contrasted with the passion of life a death I had experienced whilst traveling in so-called poorer countries.

After writing the first draft, I revisited some of the funeral poems and realised that many were actually pretty good. But my inaccurate impression is caught here.

Upon reading a poem about a funeral.

I see the funeral described;
the petty detail that hides,
the Crushing Seas.-
He was your Father.

Upon acceptance, upon hate,
upon indifferance, upon fate,
the air that stops you falling,
and upon a loss to come.-
But what would you have felt
if you could fly.

And did you love him?
If so, how?
Or were you cut off with the tide
when you, with clever words, describe
view; narrowed in upon a pin
stuck in a jacket lapel.
Were you bewildered so,
you did significance bestow
on such a tiny, shiny thing that well
conscribed your introspection,
or was it just a crutch to catch your eyes
as you listened to the practiced lies
of a minister's deception.
Stretch Out your Vision,
Howl and Cry,
'till you Comprehend
the Bones
that were your Father.

A Poetic Manifesto

I thought to share a vision of what I consider poetry to be;
to help explain my motives and my wordings as a poet,
be I competent or not.

This is not meant to be a poem, but my licence intruded on my words as I expressed them.

A Poetic Manifesto

Poetry is not about economies of words.
Poetry is about rhythm and flow and start and stop.
It is not about obscuring,
but about revealing.
It is not about being difficult,
but being profound.
It is not about being Original,
but sharing what was always there,
but hidden.

Poetry is about seeing and feeling,
and hearing and thinking,
and knowing and doubting,
and living and dying.

Poets share their soul with the world,
and hope the world listens and accepts.
Poets transform as shamans
into animals and things and people,
to see though other eyes.

To connect with a poem is to be a Poet.
A Poet sees the beauty even in despair;
The rhythm of life even in death.
A poem reports not facts,
but explores magic
in living, breathing words.
This is poetry.

Stephen F. Middleton 2nd July 2009

Maybe this magic is better expressed by another poet of greater renown

To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.

William Blake
Auguries of Innocence (extract)

After reading that, I think I should cross out the "maybe" :)

The Y and where4 of Generation Now

I had just watched David Blandy's "The Barefoot Pilgrim" at the Baltic contemporary art gallery and was struck by the voice of the talking soul and hip hop / rap music in the film. About 5 minutes later I wrote the, as yet untitled, "Generation Now". The language evolved as I listened to it - "We need" became "we is needin'" , "Because" became "Bcoz". I realised that I was also writing about a book I had just read called "The time paradox". The language was reflecting compacting time and the confusion of the self and the group. There is an overwhelming present focus in the poem which prevents the planing or learning required to be "successful" in western society. These are very much the concepts that I am curently struggling with. This compaction of time into the present and the group into the self is very different from the spiritual , or drug induced, high. It is not the same as being in the moment ( explored in "Fly-" and "sway..." ). It is a squashing of time and selves rather than an expanding of time and self.

So the plural "we are" becomes "we is" as Group compacts into Self. "need" becomes "is needin' " as a statement that can exist through time becomes compacted into the moment. Cliche'd rhymes like "revolution" and "evolution" are used as if they are original since there are no clichés without a past. The use of long words for rhymes counterpoints the compression trying to provide relief by making each moment last longer.

I didn't plan it that way - it just happened. I only realised what I was doing when I looked back at it, worrying that I was just writting a pastiche rather than a genuine attempt to get into the head of "Generation Now". I am trying to analyse from outside and empathise from the inside at the same time.

Hope you think my "art bullshit" is getting a bit better.
Enjoy the poem :)

Steve

Generation Now

What is the PLAN.
We is needin' some marks on the map,
marks on the track.
We is needin' a finishing line,
a sense of our time,
not wasted,
incapacitated,
by our condition
in the present.
No future
with no tutor
of our personal past.
your insults last.
in fears,
in our tears,
4 2 hundred years.
we is feelin' it now
Bcoz
It is happenin' now.
-
There is no Cause and Effect
When you're high.
-
No Past
Bcoz the Past is hapenin' now
No Future
Bcoz the Future is happenin' now
There can BE no revolution
no evolution
Bcoz we all is happenin' now.
No predictability,
No reliability,
Bcoz our Future is happenin' now.
No personal conception,
of our past in our possession.
How we got to our position,
ain't by followin' no mission,
or social imposition,
of your logical condition,
Bcoz our Past is happenin' now.
-
There is no Cause and Effect
when you're high
-
We is lookin' 4 a way to BE.
We is lookin' 4 the guarentee.
No promised dream,
No slot machine.
We is lookin' 4 the Ching! Ching!
Payout Day
Today
Bcoz the FUTURE is happenin' now
-
There is no Cause and Effect
when you're high

Five new poems - introduction

The five poems below I wrote over the course of the last few weeks (in order of last written to first) - and, although they stand by themselves, some explaination is useful :)

The first two are heavily based on the living mayan world view. The Fire is the mayan fire ceremony. This is one of the primary means the maya use to connect to the spiritual sides of life. "The Fire" is dedicated to Viktor who performed a Fire on the hill in Todos Santos which was where I first felt the Fire's magic back in 2001.

The significance of the days in the spiritual calendar, (sometimes called the mayan horiscope), is vital to the mayan world view. This calander is not to be confused with the various yearly, monthly, or agricultual mayan calanders. In the spiritual calander each of the twenty signs has a unique glyph. Spirtual animal protectors and many other attributes are connected with with each sign. Many of these attributes have special significance in the everyday mayan world and have profound mythological meaings. These meanings can be both social and personal. K'at is my sign and has special significance to me. K'at is the net, the web, the seed and has the spiritual protector of the spider. The sign of my future or later life is Ee - the wild cat, the sacred path. Other signs include K'an - the snake, Tijax - the obsidian knife, Tz'i' - the dog and the law, Kame - the owl and the ancestors and Q'anil - the sowing of seeds.

The later part of "The Fire" is about our ancestors - which have great importance in the mayan world view. They are traditionally called to the fire by candles made of pig fat. As someone who is born in the east (from the mayan viewpoint) my own ancestory includes the science that uncovered our genetic roots and our journey out of africa. From a common root - our ancestors divide. The individuals in our lineage who first farmed or fought or used a computer are more and more likely to be different from each other as the events approach our own time . Yet we all have some ancestor who first farmed whether we are African, European, American or Asian.

The four directions are important for the maya. Unlike in the east, the maya directions are not based upon magnetic, or pole star, North but on the axis of the sun in the tropics. Thus the first direction is East where the sun rises - and the colour of this is red. Next is west where the sun sets; coloured black. This is not negative, as in traditional Abrahamic culture, but is about contemplation and powers of recovery rather like Yin in the Chinese tradition. Then comes North and white - clarity and vision in daylight and also in the white smoke of the tree resin, copal. Finally comes south - yellow - the colour of maize - cultivation, civilisation, community and sustenance.

This is, of course only a short introduction - a glimpse of the mayan view of the cosmos. The second poem "The Seed" is part of a deeper more personal journey from the language of the beginning inspired by the type of text found in Genisis to the more Haiku-esque end.

In the third and forth poems, "Sway..." and "Fly-", I have tried to indicate their rhythm using capitals to indicate word stress but also puntuation, and the placement of new lines to show timing. I do not know if such devices will work for others as I am already familar with their music when I read them. In both these poems the rhythm is vitally important for understanding what the poems are really about.

The last poem, "The parable of Chance and Fate", is deliberately self-important - neoclassical but tacky at the same time - like the cheap and grandiose municipal architecture found in every corner of the globe. I wrote it that way to mimic and elicit thoughts and feeling associated with the real subject of the poem. I thought I'd tell you this because I was worried that people would simply dismiss the poem as bloated and concited. :D

Finally, there are some words where I have piled on multiple aural meaning. In order to write them down I had to pick a definite spelling which can obsure other meanings. So the best way to read them is either aloud in the head or aloud aloud. :)

Thanks for reading this - I hope it helps you get more out of my poems.

Cheers,
Steve :)

The Fire

(dedicated to Viktor)


There is magic in the Fire,
from the dawning to the falling,
from the snowline to the maize time,
there is magic in the Fire.

In the way the smoke twists round,
in the way the wax runs with the ground,
there is magic in the Fire,
and the earth is made aflame.

I saw something there,
not with my sight my eyes
but with my feet my heart
and the joins between each part.

I was drunk on smoke
and heat and vapour,
the blood of trees
and the fat of pigs
and the Days, the Day,
the Days.

The days of my ancestors;
When they first walked out from Africa
When they first befriended Dog,
and laughed as Bird,
and danced as Snake,
constructed knives,
and nets,
and planted seeds,
and warred,
and cried,
and tried to make things better,
then tried to makes things better.

There is magic in the Fire
and the Days, the Day,
the Days.

The Seed

I am K'at; the seed.
Not the sower.
Not the tree.
Not the flower.
But the seed.
And I am ON the tree of life.
And I FALL upon the ground.
And into this Earth I settle;
a delicate life,
waiting for the rain,
a plan unseen;
containing all I have come from
and all I will be.

I am one of many;
complete but small,
uncounted in a cloud of crowds
and falling seperate;
longing for the earth.
And when I find my place,
upon Earth's mercy I will split,
and be no more.
Stretching upwards and downwards,
in Faith of sky and soil
with all protection lost.

Remain fertile ground!
Promise me my promise will deliver
or I will scatter in the dust,
a grain amongst the specks,
in the corner of my vision.
I will fear to be
a barren case,
dead in the wind
and blown in the desert.

But even deserts can have rain.
and even winds have song.
The seeds of a tree are many,
and darkened moons and seasons empty.
And yes, our many hopes seem wasted
but if we wait
stretch out our webs of light
fasten to the wind,
the earth, the rain, the night,
we can catch Time;
Thruming on a strand.
Then will I let go
and leave, in pulsing lome of life,
my end,
and let the tree eclipse my weighted moment.

When once was grit
a forest will arise.
And when I am a cat
there I will hunt;
between the trees,
along the shoreline of the lake,
passing the stones along the path.

Sway...

Sway ...
Lay- zhur-lee,
Sway ...
I see the
Trees ...
and I am
Glad ...
a leaf drifts
Down ...
on a calm
Day ...
I loose the
Ground ...
amongst the
Leaves...

In ...

Awe ...
as I look
Up ...
its muscles
Flex ...
around green
Light ...
and I branch
Out ...
my arms a-
- Loft ...
beneath the
Shade ...
of shimmered
Shoals ...

Of ...

Leaves ...
in front of
Leaves ...
in front of
Sky ...
and all a-
-Massed ...
they flicker
By ...
as if to
Say ...
"We are a-
- Live ...
and we are
One ...

And ...

Sway ...
around the
Trunk ...
that reaches
Up ...
into the
Sky ...
on a clear
day ...
I loose the
Ground ...
I see the
Trees ...

And ...

Sway -

Fly

just very , Tick , tick,
Tick , tick ,
Tick , tick ,
Tick.
just very , Tick , tick,
Tick , tick ,
Tick , tick ,
Tick.
and in the , Space ,
-.- , -.- ,
between each, Tick ,
-.- , -.- ,
this is the , Trick ,
to live your, Life ,
inside the , Spaces,
of each , Tick ,
and so the , Stillness,
of the , Mind ,
is re-vealed ,
in the , Time ,
between the , Seconds,
of the , Clock ,
and the , Ticks ,
that matter , Not ,
and you just
Fly-

The parable of chance and fate

I saw a boxing match
'tween Fate and Chance.
The betting was on Fate
and chance stood "not a chance".
But when the bell did ring
Fate charged and swung where Chance had stood
but Chance danced round with bluring jabs.
From all directions, all at once,
those glancing blows felled Fate.
And Fate lay cold against the canvas.

And whereupon, the crowd did rise, as one,
and surging forward, lifted Fate, unconcious,high,
and cheered Fate as the winner.
And all the betters backing Fate
in thrilling tones and sharp debate
made earnestly to speculate
about the next match up
'tween Fate and Skill
or Fate and Worth
dependent on their taxes

A short note on the poems below

The poems below were all written by me in the space of around three days early in June 2009. In terms of order - I put those which I was most comfortable sharing up first - so they are right at the bottom - so you may want to start there :)
As you can probably tell from some of the poems, I was really going through some tough stuff at the time and writting the poems was a way to express some of my deepest unsaid emotional currents and get them out of me.
I am, of course, not moody and brooding on death and pain all the time :)

thanks for reading - and I hope you get something out of them :)

In Irony

In short,
In brevity,
that one word
one phrase
that takes all strands
and complex issues
and wraps them in an instant.
Those crystal words
that now are picked up, traded.
"The media have lost the plot"

A love poem

Ahhh mmm ohhh,
fast and slow
Upon your body lies my gaze,
until your eyes and nose and chin
...and eyes,
and choosing both your pupils bright
I canot look them all.
Poor senses, smell and touch and sight
please kiss my voice and steal my plight
and let us meet and breath together
first contact,
souls
that are forever.

on loneliness

I am so lonely,lonely,lonely so,
with but this page to answer me
and now I wish I could
drain out my blood into this ink
all my pain into these words
purge, cry, purge and finish!
I am not!
Broke up.
Bewildered.
I know not what I feel.
Searching for something more,
some point resistance in the brain,
some cornered object that I could turn,
over and over,
to make,
to mold.
Yet I find nothing!

Another Day

Another day,
another hour,
and I am in the same position,
and the world accumalates its dust,
and the world accumalates its rust.

Another day,
another hour,
and I am in the same position.
I am sure I made a move;
a mighty effort!
Sure as a hammer's arc;
Sure as the mighty clang,
I did bang,
and my arm grew weary;
and my hope grew faint.
and here I am,
almost in the same position.

Another day,
another hour,
regret piled on regret,
no point to fret.
That terrible feeling of time being wasted.
I feel very close to death
and yet my body does not know it yet.

untitled

Where are my little pills?
my little foiled pop-'em-outs.
Dire things will happen if I miss you.
And I have lost you.

Diagnosis

Sometimes I'm very pompous.
Sometimes I'm very drab.
Sometimes I make the best of things
I've ever, never had.
Fast dance around the voidy thing;
the pit that pulls me in.
It is not there. I do not see.
I nod the madman's nod with glee.
repeat repeat repeat with me
'I have no rope', 'I have no tree'.
I cannot face this sad.

I am wearing out my life.
I am weary with my strife.
I am heavy with my tears
that hide from me when near.
How I wish to let them flow
and burn my cheeks, they burn my soul.
I am very very sad
and I'm trying to be glad.
I am broken in my mind.
It was the best one I could find.

On Speaking and Listening

There is something crisp in the sound of my own voice
that lacks when others say my story.
Is it the same for you?
when mouths consume the essence of the words
and let but sound escape.
Hold on to the creative act.
It is the Word made spoken,
in violent power 'gainst the sky
thick air to sculpt and sway.
So does this make you now, my lover,
for you to listen and unravel,
from ear to mouth to throat to spine?
before I knew? - the silent time.
and do you know me, more, than me?
I weep,
because I did not listen.
I turned my body, cocked my head,
and looked forward when you read.

The iron man

I have an Iron man inside
so small about three inches tall
and primitive and hard.
It lives inside
where all my writhe and kicking flails
donot shift him, but birth my fails
so heavy in my heart.
My head, my loins
and him do tear apart
my being.
I am stubborn.
He is iron.
He is stone
and compels me be alone.
I was not loved as child
but trained to grow along a path
mapped out and flawed.
That Iron Man stood off the way
and bent that crooked path astray
and wound me in a spiral
by force of Gravity alone.
He is heavy
Iron and Stone
and primitive and hard.

His blood flowed bitter in my veins
and could but I plant him at my goal
his will would pull me to him cold.
His snarl inside my bones my taste
'neath languid muscles of my face.
Would you see him in my eyes?
or could magnetic pull disguise
his longing to be whole
if, I did plant him at my goal.
And yet, he is inside
and pins me to the ground
and round and round and round
I swirm and thrash.
I strain and push against the past.

At Rest

Today the words came slowly
slurred and blurred and lowly
meandering in pace and soothing space
all full and round and hushed
no waste

today this pen it glides
and slides into the words it scribes
and meaning is forgotton
like a rain drop in a pool
free as a fool
This languid language long caress
the slightest touch the slowest breath
I am at rest