Terribly wonderful poetry

For the Kapcon flagship LARP me and Bryn played versions of Spike and Dru from Buffy. Bryn’s Isaac was supposed to have an obsession with writing terrible poetry about my Amelia and well, I love me some terrible writing, so I composed these for Bryn to write up on paper and age for props.




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you all everybody

Am in a strange dream state. I blame the lack’o’sleep combined with the finishing reading Sandman: the Kindly Ones.
Right after I’d read the end we went grocery shopping. The supermarket was strangely empty with heaps of really good parking available in the best places. I walked through the fruits and vege numbly, collecting mushrooms.

People around me seemed to also be sleepwalking, there were an unusually high number of bumping-intos. Lee rammed a lady’s baby-carrying trolley and she gave him the Cold Glare of Death, but he ignored it. I trailed in his purposeful wake, feeling much more like Delirium than I normally do.

I saw things I don’t normally see, like the way that when you look at the rows of tomato sauce all sideways they sort of come towards you and ask you to knock them onto the floor. I looked for coconut jelly but you can’t buy it at Thorndon New World.
My spine feels out of kilter.

I blame this poem which has lodged itself in my brain. I found it online at this place. I can do that you know, if I want to.

“All around me darkness gathers,
Fading is the sun that shone;
We must speak of other matters:
You can be me when I’m gone
Flowers gathered in the evening,
Afternoon they blossom on;
Still are withered by the evening:
You can be me when I’m gone”
~ Neil Gaiman, the Kindly Ones.
Tomorrow: Jenni rants about the shoes she hates.

Ride on shooting star

Yep. It’s stuck in my head all right.
It’s a sunny sunny day like it might be summer soon.
I’m a hopin’ it’ll be a good one
not like last year with the rain and the cold
I thought global warming would result
in warmer weather
not more storms and wetness
Yesterday was talk like a pirate day
I didn’t talk like a pirate at all
But I did roast chicken.

Must stop the poetry entry format.
My sanitary pads are lying to me. It’s true! A few months ago Libra decided to print ‘odd spot’ facts on the paper that you peel off the back of their pads to reveal the sticky. Some of these are true facts like “An ostriches eye is bigger than it’s brain” but some of them are just urban legends. The one I read and immediately doubted yesterday was “only female ducks can quack”.

I kicked Lee off his computer and checked with google. There I found snopes.com which has entries on whether duck’s quack’s echo and it clearly said that both male and female duck’s quacks echo.
I’ll be in touch if I read anything else unlikely on my sanitary pad. I’m not sure about the whole “over your life time you will eat 70 insects while sleeping and 8 spiders”.

Hard Questions.

Memory works in mysterious ways. During trivial pursuits the other day I was asked the question “Who was ‘Dorothy’ who lived with Wordsworth?” I cast my mind back to Romantic Literature with Evie and all I could remember about Wordsworth’s house was that he used to pace up and down outside it composing poetry at the top of his lungs. This annoyed the neighbours. Evie and I think that Wordsworth looks like Simeon so this was a very funny image.

As for Dorothy I knew he didn’t marry, so I guessed Mother. She was his sister.

I had a sleeping pill last night and lo! I slept through the whole night without waking up! My sleeping pill packet has a sleeping teddy bear insignia on it. It’s very cute. I think it may be the same kind that Phreq had a while back, the bear seems familiar.

I don’t think I dreamed but I was conjuring up weird images in my head before I went to sleep. Stuff I wouldn’t normally think of such as someone having their fingers cut off, or women in hoop skirts twirling down a rollercoaster track. How much is caused by the drug and how much by my anticipation that the drug will do weird things to me?

Why does Wordsworth looking like Simeon skate on frozen ponds with a red scarf on in my head? How much did I learn in that class and how much did Evie and I make up?

Jumping on the poetry wagon

I am posting the first two great poems that came to my head, that I love:

First: Why I am not a Painter
I am not a painter, I am a poet
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well.
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
‘Sit down and have a drink’he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. ‘You have SARDINES in it.’
‘Yes, it needed something there.’
‘Oh.’ I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. ‘Where’s SARDINES?’
All that’s left is just
letters, ‘It was too much,’ Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven’t mentioned
orange yet. It’s twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike’s painting, called SARDINES.
Frank O’Hara. (1926-1966)

Then this…I just love poetry written in dialect. You have to read this one out loud to really get it. Go on, read it aloud now.
from Unrelated Incidents
its thi lang-
wij a thi
guhtr thaht hi
said its thi
langwij a
thi guhtr
awright fur
funny stuff
Stanley Bax-
ter ur but
luv n science
n thaht naw
thi langwij
a thi
intellect hi
said thi lang-
wij a thi intill-
ects Inglish
then whin thi
doors slid
oapn hi raised
his hat geen
mi a fare-
well nod flung
oot his right
fit boldly n
fell eight
doon thi
Tom Leonard. (1944-)
Don’t get me wrong, I love old poetry too, but these two guys probably aren’t as well known, and they’re awesome.


I wrote this in an ENGL 231 lecture: (so…2001)
Rupert Brooke Haiku

Known to write poems
of ill repute. He dies
at a good moment.

It’s still like the best haiku I’ve ever written I think.
here’s a poem I wrote in a dream (well, the first two stanzas, the rest I wrote on waking):

The truth about spagetti
is that it hangs from your mouth
like the worm from the beak
of the blackbird on the dewy
lawn of the early coffeebird morning.
Children can throw spagetti
like that devil-child on the
television ad, or they slurp it
into their mouths with a messy,
albeit effective suck-ship technique action.
Spagetti makes a nest in your
bowl and is too slippery for a fork,
it requires winding and fast
relexes. People can commit crimes
with spagetti, like putting it on pizza
or cold in a sandwich.
Thr truth about spagetti is that
is it too difficult and undignified
but very easy to cook and
sometimes comes with good sausages.