Caesura Cessation
// = caesura, although some conductors may also call them tramlines, railroad tracks or a cut-off. The sign means that there is a silent pause in the onward flow of the musical line“A poem…begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.” Robert Frost
—The Punctured Library—
Simple Screw by New Zealand artist – Paul Hutchinson
A
Punch
Line
Always swollen with predetermined
Characteristics: the inevitable end-of-the-night
Black eye from that fight
You never
Never
Intended to start with my great
Uncle’s boots. Where is
The cyclical and the permanent and the
Show? Yes! That one, remember? When
We all stopped to watch you; in awe
(but me; afraid)
As you climbed ceilings, staged
Parades, ever tidal.
The waves ride
Out
Of our funny chase for daydream elixir
And through this salty mess
You pick me up, swell
Meaning. Some talk in the language
Of foamy ocean caress
I am
Locked
Down sore. This humour
Of the world won’t tell it all. Oh,
These Hippocratic humours are what I work
with. Wish,
In three-four-time, to actualise the world as it
Stood.
I never
Could find the right point in the repeating beat
To jump the slapped skipping-rope street
And run on
Through.
Through
With each and every personality theory rule, I
Try to find that poor,
Raw
Floor; all buzzing with the testing charge of
Zestyness. There
Is quiet, darkness and a calm mix
Of fairylight and foreclosure. Flyer-lined
Walls echo
Past ‘claps’ and roars
Mishaps
But not chores. We bought into it, clinging, it
Was so tight to our
Chests: some brand new rare vinyl.
Have we a little ‘circle time’ left? Maybe…
If the library is
Still
Breathing; failing lung of our condemned
Town, a town
We share. No
Matter:
You don’t paddle that pool these days.
“We do not know what we want and yet we are responsible for what we are – that is the fact” Sartre
ThisOldFavourite#2:
Created = 1st June 2009
~*~ “WE MURDER TO DISSECT” ~*~
(The title of this poem is a line from a William Wordsworth piece, entitled ‘The Tables Turned‘ )
How to be a passive observer
Abandon the mastership
Of my contrived musing
§
Now I understand
I had too keen a hand
In making monsters
Through mountains
§
If I build it up
Nature will knock it down
It knows my failings
And I fear to fall
Better to bury myself
In the earth
Than lose it all
§
What utility
Is there really
In manufacturing dreams,
When they open
So effortlessly
As sunrise casts her beams?
§
Compositional goal
§
It was listless
Food for fools
But now the intelligentsia are come
To reclaim
Their tools
And my goldfish brain
Forgot where I buried them
~~~~~~
How to be a superfluous learner
Start my turn from
The culture-coalface
§
Now I understand
I had too harsh a plan
In making monsters
Through mountains
§
If I build it up
Nature will knock it down
It knows my failings
And I fear to fall
Better to bury myself
In the earth
Than lose it all
§
What benefit
In art of counterfeit
When joy is in the natural state,
When the collective
Unconscious
Is awaiting my blank slate
§
Compositional goal
§
It was listless
Food for fools
But now the intelligentsia are come
To reclaim
Their tools
And my bruised brain
Mistook where I buried them
~~~~~~
Compositional goal:
If a bud starts to rise
From behind the darkness
Of my eyes…
Compositional goal:
If I start to reflect
The impossible dangers
Of my intellect…
Bury me
“Astronomy compels the soul to look upwards and leads us from this world to another” Plato
~@~ The Fall and Flight of a Craftbird ~@~
(Poem inspired by Radio 3′s The essay , broadcast on Thursday 29th april 2010 and entitled “the scientist and the romantic – the songbird and soi-fa”)
Nightingale song
Like a drug;
Long metaphysical treasure hunt
For a psychic hug
Pulled down to join thuggery
And sweating out my rural poetry
In some overambitious city
Where
I used debased meanings
In my longing to find
Mozart’s starling:
A sweet, soothing darling
*
The feathers crumbled in my hands
*
Now I skim wings on new plans
Bigger and brighter than these thematic stars
Leave
Whisky to jars
In draughts that passed bars
No more tumbleweed tunes
But a moon made
Of cheese, to choose
Something more solitary
*
Since birth,
A murmur made my rate irregular
Since death,
My heart movements
Are faster,
Shinier than the most metallic
Spectacular
Melodic
Discontent
*
Found my personal blackbird;
A national spring moment
I fly a unique middle third
In keen architectural comment
And
In removing the thorn from my side
Cried
On beds of petals and horse hair
To shake through fear,
Now I am clear
To care
Again:
Mended this broken harp
*
Dictation lesson died.
Dialed…
Every G natural cranked
Up
To
G sharp
Universe whispers my Out
Of Time tune,
No need
To find it, like before:
One day, someone, will want
To read my score
“Good actions give strength to ourselves and inspire good actions in others” Plato
-*-Capped Flame-*-
Friday’s Matches by New Zealand artist – Paul Hutchinson
Capricious captioning:
Dark and suspect,
Like the Brothers Grimm
Although having never met
Two
True
Interwoven inter-stories of regret
Now fashioning new understanding
And tolerance for other
For forfeit
For patronisingly patriarchal
Him
Since I smother
Whim
I found
I am made brighter from your imagining
I rise; unbound
*
Paint to cover
Played pleasantries
Twisted by these
Overfed
Reserv’ed
Niceties
*
Reversed
By our travesties
That we pretend we’re not troubled
By
*
Bypass
Bye: last
Longing
So self-destructive
It’s sweet
Wrapped up in rapturously neat
Complaint
*
Paint to cover
My delight
Paint me out across the skies
Of night;
Your heart-stopping lullabies
Surprise
Me with their structure
So sweet
Wrapped up in rapturously neat
Complaint
*
A man who weaved into a physicality
A divine combination of madness and sanity
A delicate balance of the masterful masculine
And the freshness of femininity
He,
Who took that lint and splint and ran
A fine finger across my metaphorical torso:
In abandonment, the discovery of control
*
And this here now, my tale of woe
Is, somehow,
Driving to find a home and a hoe
That I might be able to return to plough
Fields
Of fertile dirt; trapped ‘neath fingernails
Suffering
Is, somehow,
Divining through
Wheat-lined trails
Of happiness
*
Forlorn in frames of woollen wiles
Still not sure if we’re more wise
Or wiley
Maybe just more ready
To be foolish
Kiss
Our sighs
As we’ve ushered in so many goodbyes
In the hope that our world might be repaired again
*
Love’s not lost, but rediscovered
In friends
“You’re more trouble than all my money” My Dad
-±-A.G.E. – pater familias*±-±
Tacit, tacit, tacit**
There is a memory of arms
Folded.
Stacks of books, binders, magazines;
Detailing a livelihood of lessons and loves –
Folded
Into
A laugh
And little, compactly cunning stories:
A shiny hubcap
A comically-acquired chassis
Crustless sandwiches made to lighten,
To soothe
A weathered and waxed bonnet.
I’d pin a car badge to my jacket
I’d string a hood ornament through a chain
I’d stake my name
Upon it
But I never understood that world
And I must now forsake it
Despite
±
A father worn down with the demanding
Endurance test
Of a bountiful, business
Plan:
Always
Almost
Realised. Materialistic but,
Never quite materialised
±
Nature
±
Crept in with its concoctions
Its predestined desire
To throw
A metaphysical
Spanner in the works
±
±
±
* pater familias: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pater_familias (The term is Latin for “father of the family” or the “owner of the family estate”.)
** tacit è an adjective… to describe my dad
1. Not spoken: indicated tacit approval by smiling and winking.
2.
a. Implied by or inferred from actions or statements: Management has given its tacit approval to the plan.
b. Law Arising by operation of the law rather than through direct expression.
3. Archaic Not speaking; silent.
“Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back” Plato
–£–Minted Beauty–£–
Lashes
Long
Across the sun and moon and on
Backs
Strong
*
If I am to feel this way:
A licked bowl
A cleaned soul
Dreaming now of impossible
Grounded-meat sorrowful,
Filled with the fat of juicy potential,
Then,
Well, I think I’ll feel it now
Not in two days or two ways or somehows
But here, in this moment’s beauty
*
This horrific beauty of our
Deconstruction.
So terrific:
Beams shine on
The failing herbs of Causticum
These woodland words of children
Not born to fatigue
*
Destruction through creation won
Yes, as Kleinian object relation
Not like Burroughs’ loaded gun
Shot funny risk
To frisk my fresh gums
As if some examined
Straight-from-the-horse’s-mouth prediction;
Tipped and timed
And
Fumbling for one…
One
More
Brawling battle-run
*
Response to a sigh
Through our death and our drive
To save up all the honey in this seduction hive.
Work
Of wrestled wrought lesson,
Drawn
That it might be sketched to stretch to life.
“You cannot create experience. You must undergo it” Camus
ThisOldFavourite#1:
Created = 19th March 2009
~*~BLESSINGS ON THE FROSTY POW OF ST. IGNATIUS~*~
(Inspired by Rabbie Burns)
It’s become a hunger, a need
Something I have to feed
No longer a dream space or a charm
It’s starting to feel
Like it’s causing me harm
It guides me when I’m not looking
It stalks out my weaknesses
And prises them open
Finding inside
All the lies and misguidedness
Festering there
It doesn’t care
It doesn’t discriminate
Like silent, steel-eyed witnesses
To an irreparable fate
±
Night after Night
Are they watching my back
Or enjoying the fight?
±
Some John Doe come rescue me
I’ll not push you for truth
I’m babbling
At the frustrated face of youth
I’m bubbling
I’m mumbling through
I’m worrying now, about
What I might do
Or say, or feel
Beyond feeling, beyond physicality
I know it’s not real
But it’s demanding and destructive
It’s loose and carefree
Beyond morals, beyond reasons
I know it’s beyond
Me
±
And if it’s not me writing…
Then… who can it be?
Are there answers
In the words
I’m now allowed to see?
Are they from my worlds and my thoughts
Or beyond my control
But within my comprehension
Now I am let go?
Are they now guiding me
To my next destination?
±
I keep stopping
At the same station
I keep finding
The same invitation
±
Day after day
Are they messages of madness
Or fashioned word play?
±
Some John Doe come rescue me
I’ll pull you from death’s jaws
I’m trying to crack the code
Figure out these laws
Still scared to ask
I’d envisaged clear solutions
Like
Little pots of gold
Quote
Unquote
Question Mark
Asked
Asked
Ask our selves
Our lives
Running low on time
±
And so to some conclusion
Or, at least, to some reform
Packed shelves
Of dreams, of alter egos
I’ve not yet tried on
Crashing through crises
Inventing life without scorn
Yet
Instinct after Instinct
One force rides
On
Galloping through histories,
Through bodies, through brains:
One master,
One slayer
Of unworldly gains
Even after deconstructing Eutopia
Still a brent brow remains
“They certainly give very strange names to diseases” Plato
-§-Roll up! Roll up! Get your -Joy Division Oven Gloves-** here…-§-
‘White Pill Two’ by New Zealand artist – Paul Hutchinson
(Poem inspired by my old friend Timmy B; a HMHB** fan (who asserts it’s okay to be right) and the night I met a new -self-)
Tease
Words of artistry,
Pitfalling ploy isn’t so funny
When she wears
“-‘Self-Righteous’ by Anita Roddick-“**
Swears in thick
As thieves accent
To ridicule a musicman’s patience
§
A toast… to old friends
Sing ‘Capital! Capital’
§
Once upon a time,
I read The Times
When
Should have been more guarded *then*
Than when
Playing beyond kitsch
In my unflinching
–switch-
To all things blood red
Now, it has to be said:
§
A toast… to old friends
Sing ‘Capital! Capital’
§
Still…
Stubborn will.
I was a little silly,
Stumbled over spinning –top- ;
Sold to me
As versatility
§
Deep jostling to hide
In different cars
Ride to reach stars
Already sinking
§
I’m thinking
§
A toast… to old friends
Sing ‘Capital! Capital’
§
T’was pandering to pawn some votes
… it’s no excuse,
Relished to feign obtuse,
To confuse comfort
For abuse
§
Nevermind
§
Broken love tryin’–a-sell me a line:
None want to *talk* to you
They’ll make their bed to lie with you
Lie to you
Line for you
Yep, powered up that powder
§
Nevermind
§
A toast… to old friends
Sing ‘Capital! Capital’
§
I’ve made the necessary goodbyes
Finalised
Final rehearse
Oh, to rewind to that first
Moment, blow
The motherf*ckingdust across the room
Yes, I would, and watch
The stars come to life
§
In our eyes
“Death is not the worst that can happen to men” Plato
-^-Race for the Rise-^-
Abyss
Abysmal
Set, we are, in some delusional
Tale
*
The story starts…
Choked up Mario-Karts
Revving in one place;
Hope is almost burst through
An insistent intent to pace
Through this race
*
Wait
*
Wait
*
Wait
*
For
The
Signal
To begin this battle
Go!!!
To source codes
And analogous thought nodes
Right, here goes!
We’re well within this Steeplechase
Now
Rallying round this place
Somehow
Bends and Curls and Capes
Dust bubbling up through SnakePit
HairPin
Laps,
Snaggle-toothed-time leaps
And bounds back
Are drilled into track:
Draught and wind and tyre
Fuel and Fire
All
Blistering up some coal-black slack
*
The heat of burning
Rubber rise
Through my limbs on this
Stretching Rack
“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle” Plato
-x-A Patchwork Quilt called ‘Exotic StaleMate’-x-
‘Burnt Match with Shadow’ by New Zealand artist – Paul Hutchinson
My
Whole
Being
Pulsates pure with your question
Sure
That these stars; at which we have
Curtly carved
(Courtly-Love-Starved)
Are all at once new
But still, cruel
*
We are renewal:
So not unique
Or, indeed, rhetoric
Suggestion
*
We, us, them
All remain…
Noisily unheard worth
Bawdily bound up in brevity’s birth
*
I really hate these short,
Quip-jibbed
Turns
*
Harsh emotives
Replaced by
Harangued expletives
And soulless meetings, that snip-up
Our carefully cuddled-up
Collaborations
*
You don’t seem too
Concerned…
Overtook, overlook, overlearned
I will overturn
This pattern; now I stitch
Myself up
*
Try to show I can be a new quilt-like path
Still don’t sew good enough:
Patchworking experience with cotton thread
Of aftermath
*
Threads of red:
Copper and Crimsons
Some fanciful flame
*
Inside my embroidery frame
Of worn-down understanding,
You feel maddened and tough…
Tired…
Of my pointless, dry-mouth
Existence?
I reach to be more
Than some quivering matchstick-girl song
*
Blow me out
Like you always do…
