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| sasca |
Most regulars will know I'm partial to Brian Jones. A couple might also know I'm a poet. This is a poem written about him, using a metre with which I try to create a similiar pulse to the ancient elegiac metres of Greece and Rome.
He is dead, that honey-haired Berber, and his instruments lie still.
What notes will not now be played?
(He pauses for a moment on the skyline, he pauses and sighs.)
No more will he wander the incense-scented
bazaars of Morocco, the fields of Ceylon. He is gone
from his garden; his silks and velvets lie scattered -
they burn in a bonfire, a bonfire in the night. (He pauses
for a moment on the skyline - he laughs and is gone!)
What notes vibrate in memory - what images. These will
endure, these untouched by flame. |
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| ~AzQb |
...FeElIn....i dunno...just so, so...so...
...so despicably down and dirty!
..scuzza...if you weren't...nudgenudge...you know, i know a certain Brenda who is perfect to be your wife...
It's just perfect*sigh*
I can see it now...freshly dug and tiled pools...and strapons can be had for cheap...i'll give ya that link if you want it!
*sigh*
~ |
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| sasca |
Yes, yes, I like Brian. Blah blah, nuts and berries. Whereas your love of Keith is coldly rational?
p.s. every second line should be indented a couple of spaces.
[Edited by sasca] |
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| stonedinaustralia |
Well, thanks for that sasca that was cool and also as you’ve now presented me with the perfect opportunity to lay the following on the board (which I’ve been looking to do for awhile) without be labelled a lunatic (well, maybe I still will but at least I won’t be alone)
The thing is, I didn’t write a word of it (well, maybe I changed one or two) – what I did was take the “joey method” to the romantic poets i.e. steal swathes of other peoples work and then cut and paste them to suit my own requirements – although I was always under the impression burroughs & gysin were credited with this “cut-up” approach
the whole thing was inspired by that comment of marianne faithfull's about (and I paraphrase) “being a young girl and if you’ve read your byron then that’s what keith is - the doomed soul of romantic youth” (or something like that –I don’t seem to be able to put my hands on the exact quote at the moment) – no doubt the stones are a part of that english romantic tradition - “mad, bad and dangerous to know” indeed
Anyway, it’s a job on the romantic poets esp. keats, colerdidge & byron (with a touch of blake for some surrealist effect) – hope you like it, I think it’s great – and as I say none of it is mine so I can say that
So step back a pace or two and maybe take a deep breath 'cos this is a heavily concentrated distillation of what is already some pretty powerful stuff and is a lesson to all heavy hitters and those who aspire to that epithet – this is how the big boys do it…
FRANTIC ROMANTIC
What you sleep? Soft closer of our eyes! Low murmurer of tender lullabies! What is it? And to what shall I compare it? It has a glory and nothing else can share it...
Round my fire side where I’d wander from so strange influence... Chasing away all worldliness; Smoothed for intoxication by the breathe of luxury, like a fresh sacrifice... He knew whose gentle hand was at the latch Before the door had given to his eyes And constant would he watch with longing all the night To hear morning upon the stair... It was a vision... In the drowsy gloom, The midnight toll brings gentler speech...
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains... One minute past, O for a draught of vintage! that has been cooled a long age in the deep delved earth, O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true beaded bubbles at the brim That I might drink... and leave the world unseen, and fade away Fade far away and quite forget what you have never known... Where to think is to be full of sorrow and Wherefrom Beauty keeps her lustrous eyes... Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Do I wake or sleep? Amid these dancing rocks...
The wind had ceased, and a few stars were lingering in the heavens - sweet with the dews of precious flowers plucked in Araby, And divine liquids come with odorous ooze Through the cold pipe refreshfully... sleep it is a gentle thing... I met a traveller from an antique land... whose frown, And lip, sneered with cold command... How often I gazed upon that flickering stranger!... and with unclosed lids I dreamt of the tower whose bells, the poor man’s only music, rang so sweetly that they stirred me with a wild pleasure falling on my ear like sounds of things to come!!
So gazed I, ‘til the soothing things I dreamt lulled me to asleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams!... that blessed mood, in which the burden of mystery, and the heavy and weary weight of this world, is lightened... the serene mood, In which the affections gently lead us on, Until, our breathe and motion Almost suspended, we are laid asleep in body, and become a living soul While eyes made quiet see into the life of things...
What is the price of Experience? do you buy it for a song Or wisdom for a dance in the street ?...
I will drink life to the lees: For always roaming with hungry heart... Much have I seen and known; cities of men and manners, climates, governments, Myself not least... Drinking delight on the morning plains With music loud and long... and all who heard should cry Beware! Beware! His flaming eyes... Weave a circle round him and close your eyes with holy-dread For he on honey-dew has fed and drunk the milk of Paradise...
the door upon its hinges groans... Strange sound it was when the pale shadow sang As in a harp unstrung ; And through it moaned a ghostly under song, Like hoarse night gusts... I heard the sound, Deep in the shade In that sweet mood when pleasure pays Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things Pouring its kindliness on stones...
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| sasca |
Thanks, sia. Your compilation is beautifully evocative - words whipered in the ear of an opium-eater.
The Stones' lyrics were once poetry.
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| gypsymofo60 |
Very, ahhhhrmmm poetic, that's it! SIA, I didn't know you had it in you, I'm impressed....Morn' came and went-and came, and brought no day, And men forgot their passions in the dread Of this their desolation; and all hearts Were chilled into a selfish prayer for light: CAN YOU PICK THE AUTHOR? |
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| sasca |
It's so easy to laugh, it's so easy to hate....
~AzQb, I still don't realise what turned you against me (is masturbation that objectionable to you? You don't seem the type.) but then considering the way you're laying into CCM and egon perhaps you don't need a reason. In the new year might I suggest that we either ignore one another or put it all behind us. I worked damn hard on that poem and my poetry has been admired by some of Cape Town's leading poets (Sarah Ruden, Peter Horn). I don't ask you to like it but don't just dismiss it because it is mine.
[Edited by sasca] |
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| ~AzQb |
i'm down with the ignoring thing.
~peace |
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| sasca |
And gmf60 - it's from Byron's 'Darkness.' |
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