by Nick Gisburne
It’s Christmas, how dismal, how cheerless, how fake
But this year I’m making my own Christmas cake
The oven is ready, I’ve drunk all the gin
So let’s check the list of the things I’ve put in
The leg of a neigbour, chopped off at the knee
Embalmed in a bucket of gravy and tea
The lips of a cousin who would not be hushed
The teeth from his petulant wife, finely crushed
A long middle finger, cracked off with a snap
Its owner died yesterday, caught in my trap
Two rosy cheeks, boiled in fresh tears for good luck
Four eyeballs, they’re always a challenge to pluck
A sprinkling of toes from the nephew I hate
His head I’ve reserved for my centre-piece plate
Intestines, a tender and savoury crop
So hard to know when to add more, when to stop
A scalp full of hair from an old woman’s head
I’m lucky to have it - she’s seven months dead
Four finger-bones, trapped by the edge of a door
A harvest of toe-nails, swept up from the floor
The spleen from a friend who invited himself
Some dried flakes of skin from the medicine shelf
The heart of an in-law, who won’t need it back
I’m shocked it’s so red, I assumed it was black
Fresh larynx of screaming child I could not find
The mother won’t visit, the drugs make her blind
The father dropped in but he won’t be home soon
I pulled out his kidneys with strings and a spoon
The balls from an uncle who no-one will miss
He stunk of stale vomit, old cabbage and piss
And grandfather’s liver, for flavour and taste
We can’t let a lifetime of booze go to waste
A mixture of knee-caps and noses and bones
Their owners all addicts of selfies and phones
A pinch of appendix, a handful of veins
The one thing I couldn’t find fresh was good brains
Black tar, to give all this an overnight soak
From grandma’s old lungs and their 60-year smoke
There’s gallons of blood and a pint of fresh spit
It’s mixed and it’s cooking and here I now sit
You’re welcome to try it, I’ll cut you a slice
And do try the pink skin and tonic, with ice
This Christmas is special, but please stay awake
Or you’ll become part of my next Christmas cake
Sunday, 8 December 2019
Paper
by Nick Gisburne
When I was a boy I saw a man, a tall, thin man, a tall man who wore a long, black overcoat and silver-buttoned boots. He walked on the cobbles of a lamp-lit street, on a cold, clear evening. He walked towards me, and walked towards me still, until finally he stopped. I saw him and he saw me. He saw me watching him and he stood and stood, still and silent. He did not hide from me, did not look away from me, and I knew that he wanted to share a secret with me. The tall man took a small, black box, a small and perfect box, out of a coat pocket, and he held it up, up to his face, with thin, grey fingers. He waited, and I held my breath, and he waited, until I must breathe again. And we both breathed together, as he swung open the lid of the small, black box.
There. I saw it there, inside the box. A scrap of paper, and only that, a thin, square scrap of paper, plain and white and ordinary. What I saw was very, very ordinary, but I knew that it could not be, must not be ordinary, because it was inside that box. It was special. It was. I knew. The man, the box, the paper, they must all be important and special. As special as this place, at this moment. The man lifted the ordinary paper between two thin, grey fingers, lifted the paper and held it up, up to his eyes. He put the box away, somewhere, somehow, but I did not see where. I looked at the ordinary scrap of paper, and I watched, and I waited.
The tall man twisted the paper this way and that, as if this way was better, but no, that way was best, but then, this way and that, and again. I saw a fold, a fold in the paper, a new fold, but I did not see how it appeared. The twist of fingers and paper, of wrist and arm, of elbow and shoulder, all, all were one, one movement, one this way and that movement, and the fold was there, and I did not see how.
More folds, more folding, but these other folds I saw. I saw fingers folding the paper, twisting edges and corners, bending and folding. Grey fingers folded the white paper, and the white, folded paper, became a shape, a form, a form with a shape I knew. I knew the shape of a boat, and this boat, this tiny, paper boat was no ordinary boat. Here were sails, here were ropes and rigging and masts and anchor, perfect details, a perfect boat. The man, the tall man with thin, grey fingers, balanced the boat in the centre of one thin, grey palm, and we breathed in again, breathed in together. And our breaths ended, together, as before.
Thumb and finger, delicate finger and thumb, pulled and picked and raised the paper boat to his eyes, to the deep, dark eyes of the tall man. Those dark, darker, darkest eyes gazed at the tiny paper boat and those eyes knew what he would do now. I, with my bright eyes, the bright eyes of a boy, watched the man as he lifted the paper boat and held it, held it at both ends, held both ends of the boat, and pulled, and pulled, and pulled them apart. And I was cold, cold in an instant. I was cold as toes in the snow, cold as ice on the neck, cold at the thought that such a pure and perfect creation, this boat, this perfect paper boat, would be ripped and ruined and wrecked.
And yet, I heard no rips. I saw no ruin. I saw not what I knew would happen, not what I thought I knew. I saw something else, something I knew could not happen, could never, never happen. The small paper boat, pulled apart, pulled length-ways and long-ways and cross-ways, now grew. It grew larger, and it grew longer, and it grew, and again it grew. What had been smaller than a hand, smaller than his hand, smaller than my hand, was now five of his hands, or ten of mine, and soon ten of his, ten grey hands from end to end, then twenty, then longer, wider, taller. The paper boat grew, and the man, the tall man, stood now behind it, behind the boat, the boat which now was resting at his feet, but no, not resting, never resting. It rocked and it swayed as the man danced around it. The man with the grey fingers and the dark, dark eyes danced in his silver-buttoned boots, danced around what he had created, danced as the paper boat grew, and grew, and grew.
I did not see when the dance ended, because I could no longer see the man who danced, so large now was the boat, the boat he had folded and grown from a single, small scrap of ordinary paper. The paper boat towered above me, towered above my head, towered above the street. Paper planks, paper sails, paper ropes, paper everything, paper everywhere, but where was the tall man who had built this paper creation, this huge paper boat?
I heard footsteps, his footsteps, steps on the cobbles, but saw nothing, no sign, no tall man. But there, there he was, beneath the flickering street lamp. There, in his long, black overcoat and silver-buttoned boots. The tall man looked at me and we breathed together again. As the breath ended, as I struggled for another, and for more breaths as my heart demanded them, the tall man strode to the bow of the boat and raised his arms, raised both arms, raised them high overhead. His thin, grey fingers found a length of twisted paper twine and he pulled, pulled hard, and released a ladder, a long, loose ladder of paper ropes, swinging low from the bow. His steps were quick, always quick, quick and confident, and the tall man climbed up, up the ladder, up and into the paper boat.
He strode about the deck, fore and aft, port and starboard. I saw him touch the paper wherever he found it, smoothing and shaping, perfecting the imperfect, wherever it was needed. When he stopped, when he was still, I knew that his work was done, and I knew that he was ready. Ready to sail, ready to leave. Ready to leave without me.
“Take me with you!” I pleaded, pleaded to the tall man on the paper boat, though my tears would surely have reduced any paper creation, large or small, to a pile of warm, wet pulp. I knew he would not take me. I knew that his journey was not mine.
His grey fingers tossed something over the side and I caught the small, black box, the box which had held a small, ordinary scrap of paper, from which he had folded and twisted and stretched and grown this magnificent paper boat. The breath I took as I saw what it was, as I saw what he had thought to give me, was the last breath we shared together. When I released it, the paper boat began to rise, rise up, up into the dark of the night. Above the street lamps it rose, above the roofs and the chimneys, until at last the paper sails took a breath of their own and filled out, filled up, filled with the clear air of the cold, ink-black sky. The paper boat sailed away, and the tall man was gone.
I opened the small, black box only once, on that night, on that same night. Inside it I found a scrap of paper, a thin, square scrap of paper, plain and white and ordinary. I am no longer a boy, and have become a man. I am a tall man, but I am not yet an old man. The time will come when I am ready to open the small, black box again. And on that day I will build a boat, a splendid paper boat of my own, in which I will sail the skies, and I will find for myself a place where I can rest. One day. But not today. No, not today.
When I was a boy I saw a man, a tall, thin man, a tall man who wore a long, black overcoat and silver-buttoned boots. He walked on the cobbles of a lamp-lit street, on a cold, clear evening. He walked towards me, and walked towards me still, until finally he stopped. I saw him and he saw me. He saw me watching him and he stood and stood, still and silent. He did not hide from me, did not look away from me, and I knew that he wanted to share a secret with me. The tall man took a small, black box, a small and perfect box, out of a coat pocket, and he held it up, up to his face, with thin, grey fingers. He waited, and I held my breath, and he waited, until I must breathe again. And we both breathed together, as he swung open the lid of the small, black box.
There. I saw it there, inside the box. A scrap of paper, and only that, a thin, square scrap of paper, plain and white and ordinary. What I saw was very, very ordinary, but I knew that it could not be, must not be ordinary, because it was inside that box. It was special. It was. I knew. The man, the box, the paper, they must all be important and special. As special as this place, at this moment. The man lifted the ordinary paper between two thin, grey fingers, lifted the paper and held it up, up to his eyes. He put the box away, somewhere, somehow, but I did not see where. I looked at the ordinary scrap of paper, and I watched, and I waited.
The tall man twisted the paper this way and that, as if this way was better, but no, that way was best, but then, this way and that, and again. I saw a fold, a fold in the paper, a new fold, but I did not see how it appeared. The twist of fingers and paper, of wrist and arm, of elbow and shoulder, all, all were one, one movement, one this way and that movement, and the fold was there, and I did not see how.
More folds, more folding, but these other folds I saw. I saw fingers folding the paper, twisting edges and corners, bending and folding. Grey fingers folded the white paper, and the white, folded paper, became a shape, a form, a form with a shape I knew. I knew the shape of a boat, and this boat, this tiny, paper boat was no ordinary boat. Here were sails, here were ropes and rigging and masts and anchor, perfect details, a perfect boat. The man, the tall man with thin, grey fingers, balanced the boat in the centre of one thin, grey palm, and we breathed in again, breathed in together. And our breaths ended, together, as before.
Thumb and finger, delicate finger and thumb, pulled and picked and raised the paper boat to his eyes, to the deep, dark eyes of the tall man. Those dark, darker, darkest eyes gazed at the tiny paper boat and those eyes knew what he would do now. I, with my bright eyes, the bright eyes of a boy, watched the man as he lifted the paper boat and held it, held it at both ends, held both ends of the boat, and pulled, and pulled, and pulled them apart. And I was cold, cold in an instant. I was cold as toes in the snow, cold as ice on the neck, cold at the thought that such a pure and perfect creation, this boat, this perfect paper boat, would be ripped and ruined and wrecked.
And yet, I heard no rips. I saw no ruin. I saw not what I knew would happen, not what I thought I knew. I saw something else, something I knew could not happen, could never, never happen. The small paper boat, pulled apart, pulled length-ways and long-ways and cross-ways, now grew. It grew larger, and it grew longer, and it grew, and again it grew. What had been smaller than a hand, smaller than his hand, smaller than my hand, was now five of his hands, or ten of mine, and soon ten of his, ten grey hands from end to end, then twenty, then longer, wider, taller. The paper boat grew, and the man, the tall man, stood now behind it, behind the boat, the boat which now was resting at his feet, but no, not resting, never resting. It rocked and it swayed as the man danced around it. The man with the grey fingers and the dark, dark eyes danced in his silver-buttoned boots, danced around what he had created, danced as the paper boat grew, and grew, and grew.
I did not see when the dance ended, because I could no longer see the man who danced, so large now was the boat, the boat he had folded and grown from a single, small scrap of ordinary paper. The paper boat towered above me, towered above my head, towered above the street. Paper planks, paper sails, paper ropes, paper everything, paper everywhere, but where was the tall man who had built this paper creation, this huge paper boat?
I heard footsteps, his footsteps, steps on the cobbles, but saw nothing, no sign, no tall man. But there, there he was, beneath the flickering street lamp. There, in his long, black overcoat and silver-buttoned boots. The tall man looked at me and we breathed together again. As the breath ended, as I struggled for another, and for more breaths as my heart demanded them, the tall man strode to the bow of the boat and raised his arms, raised both arms, raised them high overhead. His thin, grey fingers found a length of twisted paper twine and he pulled, pulled hard, and released a ladder, a long, loose ladder of paper ropes, swinging low from the bow. His steps were quick, always quick, quick and confident, and the tall man climbed up, up the ladder, up and into the paper boat.
He strode about the deck, fore and aft, port and starboard. I saw him touch the paper wherever he found it, smoothing and shaping, perfecting the imperfect, wherever it was needed. When he stopped, when he was still, I knew that his work was done, and I knew that he was ready. Ready to sail, ready to leave. Ready to leave without me.
“Take me with you!” I pleaded, pleaded to the tall man on the paper boat, though my tears would surely have reduced any paper creation, large or small, to a pile of warm, wet pulp. I knew he would not take me. I knew that his journey was not mine.
His grey fingers tossed something over the side and I caught the small, black box, the box which had held a small, ordinary scrap of paper, from which he had folded and twisted and stretched and grown this magnificent paper boat. The breath I took as I saw what it was, as I saw what he had thought to give me, was the last breath we shared together. When I released it, the paper boat began to rise, rise up, up into the dark of the night. Above the street lamps it rose, above the roofs and the chimneys, until at last the paper sails took a breath of their own and filled out, filled up, filled with the clear air of the cold, ink-black sky. The paper boat sailed away, and the tall man was gone.
I opened the small, black box only once, on that night, on that same night. Inside it I found a scrap of paper, a thin, square scrap of paper, plain and white and ordinary. I am no longer a boy, and have become a man. I am a tall man, but I am not yet an old man. The time will come when I am ready to open the small, black box again. And on that day I will build a boat, a splendid paper boat of my own, in which I will sail the skies, and I will find for myself a place where I can rest. One day. But not today. No, not today.
Saturday, 23 March 2019
Ben the Van Man
by Nick Gisburne
To the tune of ‘Enter Sandman’ by Metallica
Always swears at someone
But he loves his son
Never rude to his mum
He spills his gin down his chin
Pees into a bin
Hopes his van will still run
When the pub’s not open
Watch for his van, it’s white
Runs red lights
Turns hard right
Shakes his hand
Ben the wanker in his van
Never long, when he’s tight
Starts another fight
Drinks all day and all night
Smashing cars, slashing tyres
Starting major fires
He’s as high as a kite
Someone’s nose gets broken
Ben’s in his van, turns right
Ben hates bikes
Swerves to strike
Jailed and banned
Ben the wanker in his van
Ben is racing down the street
Finds a victim he can beat
Drives so fast the engine shakes
The van’s a Ford with dodgy brakes
Rushed, Ben is maybe late for his work
Already banned, he’s such a jerk
He puts his foot down, lights on red
Doesn’t make it, winds up dead
Never bright
Lost this fight
No more van
Mum’s boy died
Ben’s boy cried
He’s their man
Broken, bloody in his van
To the tune of ‘Enter Sandman’ by Metallica
Always swears at someone
But he loves his son
Never rude to his mum
He spills his gin down his chin
Pees into a bin
Hopes his van will still run
When the pub’s not open
Watch for his van, it’s white
Runs red lights
Turns hard right
Shakes his hand
Ben the wanker in his van
Never long, when he’s tight
Starts another fight
Drinks all day and all night
Smashing cars, slashing tyres
Starting major fires
He’s as high as a kite
Someone’s nose gets broken
Ben’s in his van, turns right
Ben hates bikes
Swerves to strike
Jailed and banned
Ben the wanker in his van
Ben is racing down the street
Finds a victim he can beat
Drives so fast the engine shakes
The van’s a Ford with dodgy brakes
Rushed, Ben is maybe late for his work
Already banned, he’s such a jerk
He puts his foot down, lights on red
Doesn’t make it, winds up dead
Never bright
Lost this fight
No more van
Mum’s boy died
Ben’s boy cried
He’s their man
Broken, bloody in his van
Thursday, 27 December 2018
I’m Allergic to Christmas
by Nick Gisburne
I’m allergic to Christmas, it’s always been true
And each year the symptoms come back, like the flu
The ear-ache from hearing the same Christmas tunes
And lip-strain from blowing up endless balloons
There’s nothing on telly, it’s all the same shit
So Christmas can fuck off, I’m cancelling it
I’m allergic to Christmas, the sprouts make me sick
The pigs wrapped in blankets, like skins on old dick
What kind of a monster eats parsnips for fun?
Or stuffing balls scorched by the heat of the sun?
The gravy’s like something leaked out of an arse
The best thing to do is abandon this farce
I’m allergic to Christmas, and starting this year
I’m taking my medicine - beer and more beer
A 24-pack of strong lager each day
Will keep all the unwanted callers at bay
This Christmas it won’t be the dinner you knew
No turkey, just re-heated lamb vindaloo
I’m allergic to Christmas, I make my own cards
For glitter I grind down some sharp metal shards
The snow is asbestos, crushed under my heel
The dead robin red-breast? I killed it - that’s real
The glue’s full of chemical solvents, all banned
Don’t touch it, you’ll burn half the skin off your hand
I’m allergic to Christmas, the people are worst
The grandma whose septic appendix won’t burst
Your uncle who’s constantly rubbing his knees
And picking at sores laced with fungal disease
The kids, little bastards who kick you and scream
Don’t wriggle so much when you scald them with steam
I’m allergic to Christmas, so piss off back home
I don’t want a gallon of cheap shaving foam
I’ve got enough bath soap to scrub down the moon
I won’t need more stripy socks any time soon
You knew what I wanted, I’ve got none of that
Don’t come back next year, you incompetent twat
I’m allergic to Christmas, just leave me alone
You’ll only sit stupidly glued to your phone
I don’t want your smiles and I don’t want your tat
I will not be wearing a comedy hat
Don’t argue, it’s over, stop asking me why
I’ve burned all the presents, I hope you all die
I’m allergic to Christmas, it’s always been true
And each year the symptoms come back, like the flu
The ear-ache from hearing the same Christmas tunes
And lip-strain from blowing up endless balloons
There’s nothing on telly, it’s all the same shit
So Christmas can fuck off, I’m cancelling it
I’m allergic to Christmas, the sprouts make me sick
The pigs wrapped in blankets, like skins on old dick
What kind of a monster eats parsnips for fun?
Or stuffing balls scorched by the heat of the sun?
The gravy’s like something leaked out of an arse
The best thing to do is abandon this farce
I’m allergic to Christmas, and starting this year
I’m taking my medicine - beer and more beer
A 24-pack of strong lager each day
Will keep all the unwanted callers at bay
This Christmas it won’t be the dinner you knew
No turkey, just re-heated lamb vindaloo
I’m allergic to Christmas, I make my own cards
For glitter I grind down some sharp metal shards
The snow is asbestos, crushed under my heel
The dead robin red-breast? I killed it - that’s real
The glue’s full of chemical solvents, all banned
Don’t touch it, you’ll burn half the skin off your hand
I’m allergic to Christmas, the people are worst
The grandma whose septic appendix won’t burst
Your uncle who’s constantly rubbing his knees
And picking at sores laced with fungal disease
The kids, little bastards who kick you and scream
Don’t wriggle so much when you scald them with steam
I’m allergic to Christmas, so piss off back home
I don’t want a gallon of cheap shaving foam
I’ve got enough bath soap to scrub down the moon
I won’t need more stripy socks any time soon
You knew what I wanted, I’ve got none of that
Don’t come back next year, you incompetent twat
I’m allergic to Christmas, just leave me alone
You’ll only sit stupidly glued to your phone
I don’t want your smiles and I don’t want your tat
I will not be wearing a comedy hat
Don’t argue, it’s over, stop asking me why
I’ve burned all the presents, I hope you all die
Thursday, 20 April 2017
His Face Decays
by Nick Gisburne
To the tune of 'Ace of Spades' by Motorhead
Zombies like to shamble
They stagger when they stand
Their skin so gruesome
The sores and brains and screams
Saliva starts to spray
Chewing on the tender prey
Drooling while he feeds
A zombie always bleeds and
His face decays
His face decays
Slay another shy one
Screaming and dishevelled
Feel the hunger grow
A call for brains and meat
Severing forever
Someone’s leg to chew
Struggling and sick
Decomposing quick
His face decays
His face decays
Those injuries will ooze
Contaminants infuse
For snacks he’ll slay and bite a lady
Whining as he slits her liver
He won’t forget to choke her
Thrashing wild and panting
The victim’s eyes are bleeding
Feed on the meat
He shreds their glands again
The squealing as he dines
Breaks and cracks the spine
A zombie guarantees
Disfiguring disease
His face decays
His face decays
To the tune of 'Ace of Spades' by Motorhead
Zombies like to shamble
They stagger when they stand
Their skin so gruesome
The sores and brains and screams
Saliva starts to spray
Chewing on the tender prey
Drooling while he feeds
A zombie always bleeds and
His face decays
His face decays
Slay another shy one
Screaming and dishevelled
Feel the hunger grow
A call for brains and meat
Severing forever
Someone’s leg to chew
Struggling and sick
Decomposing quick
His face decays
His face decays
Those injuries will ooze
Contaminants infuse
For snacks he’ll slay and bite a lady
Whining as he slits her liver
He won’t forget to choke her
Thrashing wild and panting
The victim’s eyes are bleeding
Feed on the meat
He shreds their glands again
The squealing as he dines
Breaks and cracks the spine
A zombie guarantees
Disfiguring disease
His face decays
His face decays
Friday, 29 July 2016
The Dark Goodnight
by Nick Gisburne
The tempest boils, belligerent
A storm of tainted rain
The aromatic stench of it
Repulsive to my brain
Unable to perceive my path
I near the naked edge
Expecting death, my hands become
A cup, to fill, to pledge
There is no place I can belong
No future, bleak or bright
My twisted frame a blot, a smear
A clumsy, dark goodnight
The tempest boils, belligerent
A storm of tainted rain
The aromatic stench of it
Repulsive to my brain
Unable to perceive my path
I near the naked edge
Expecting death, my hands become
A cup, to fill, to pledge
There is no place I can belong
No future, bleak or bright
My twisted frame a blot, a smear
A clumsy, dark goodnight
Thursday, 6 December 2012
We Wish You Would Bury Christmas
We Wish You Would Bury Christmas
by Nick Gisburne
Yes it’s here again, believe it, there is nothing you can do
It’s been creeping up on all of us and now it’s coming true
Can’t ignore it, can’t escape it, you are trapped within a maze
Hearing Christmas music everywhere for ninety fucking days
Christmas Day? Christmas fanny! I am having none of that
I would rather chop my fingers off or violate the cat
If you want to know the reason for the season, this is it:
It’s a waste of money, Christmas time is shit
All the shops are filled with snowmen, there is tinsel by the mile
And on every cheery Christmas face a stupid fucking smile
I don’t understand the message that you want to get across
Balls to Christmas, I am bored of it, I couldn’t give a toss
Merry what? Merry bollocks! Stick the tree right up your arse
I am sick and tired of Christmas, it’s a scam and it’s a farce
If you want to know the reason for the season, here’s a clue:
Eat and drink and drink and eat and drink and screw
So the family is gathered for the first time in a year
And you wish they’d all been trampled by a herd of Santa’s deer
But the little ones are hoping they’ll see Rudolph in the sky
Can’t they choke on turkey sandwiches or fuck off home and die?
Santa who? Santa shit-head! You’re not on his fucking list
He’s your uncle in a costume and he’ll grope you when he’s pissed
If you want to know the reason for the season, check his breath
That’s not cranberries, it’s crystal fucking meth
And there’s always the religious one who wants to say a prayer
But she thinks again with boiling gravy poured onto her hair
It’s not bad enough that Easter gets the god squad in a flap
No, they have to ruin Christmas with their superstitious crap
Jesus who? Jesus wank stain! Who the bloody hell are you?
You were born inside a stable, eh? Well whoopty fucking do
If you tell me you’re the reason for the season, yeah, so what?
You were crucified? Well I’d have had you shot
Where’s my Christmas spirit? In a bottle, in my fucking hand
I’d be happier if Christmas time was burned alive or banned
It’s been sent to torture all of us, a never-ending grind
And it’s all because some pervy God took Mary from behind
Jingle what? Jingle bell end! I’ve had quite enough of this
Every happy smiling face I see sends shivers down my piss
If you want to know the reason for the season, read the book
Merry Christmas? I don’t give a flying fuck
Monday, 20 August 2012
Potionalia
Potionalia
by Nick Gisburne
Bleeding maggots boiled in wine
Mucus mixed with turpentine
Burning entrails thick with soot
Tiny skulls crushed underfoot
Tear ducts squeezed into a jar
Lungs split open for their tar
Teeth pulled from a screaming cat
Red, infected human fat
Crusted brown and yellow stains
Tissues torn by prison chains
Rancid eggs too sick to hatch
Lesions old men cannot scratch
Rats found stillborn in their beds
Cold, convulsing cockroach heads
Birds dismembered as they nest
Discharge from a dirty breast
Blowflies, steamed with curdled bile
Lips too bruised to form a smile
Tattooed fingers sliced away
Ulcers foetid with decay
Scabs ripped from a septic sore
Blister serum, quick to pour
Worm flesh crawling with disease
Swarming, virus-fattened fleas
Snake eyes pierced with poisoned pins
Skin conjoining mutant twins
Liars' tongues pulled from the head
Twitching muscles not quite dead
Dust of disinterred remains
Tangled, ragged, ruptured veins
Scrapings from a corpse's feet
Semen smeared on putrid meat
Foetal organs ground to paste
Sweat of pain and death to taste
Mashed with blood and bone and spit
Served with fries - I'm loving it
Sunday, 5 August 2012
The Scream of Hearts
The Scream of Hearts
by Nick Gisburne
The queen makes tarts from babies’ hearts
Still succulent from slaughter
She blends their blood with bile and mud
And feeds them to her daughter
The princess eats these tainted meats
And strangles squirming kittens
Each throttled cat is bludgeoned flat
And skinned for winter mittens
The knave, of course, supplies a sauce
Most deadly to the dinner
And playing dice with blinded mice
Impales the lucky winner
The regal king, while pummeling
Two servants maimed at random,
Extracts their eyes, ignores their cries,
And beats them both in tandem
This brutal clash ends with the smash
Of organs, bones and sinews
More victims plead, but as they bleed
The killing spree continues
Still grieving, wives, impaled with knives,
Are whipped and stoned till tender
Their household pets are snared with nets
And puréed in a blender
Each orphan child is chopped and filed
According to their flavour
Such gourmet flesh is cooked while fresh
And served for all to savour
The scream of hearts, of all the arts,
Brings glory to the table
This cruel tea begins at three
Survive it if you’re able
Thursday, 2 August 2012
Who I Am
Who I Am
by Nick Gisburne
It is time for me to show myself, for us to meet at last
I bring words to end your journey, for your life has almost passed
Do you see who stands before you, calling Death to bring his kiss?
Listen closely, hear my answer to your question: ‘Who is this?’
I am pieces of a puzzle which you could not make to fit
I am how you felt when you had hope, and when you wasted it
I am questions you refused to ask, too fearful of replies
I am truths you took and tore apart and tainted with your lies
I am beauty, locked within your soul, imprisoned there by hate
I am precious moments, ruined, you can never recreate
I am innocence, forgotten and long hidden from your sight
I am grief, I live in memories, returned to fill the night
I am rage at what you did not change because you never tried
I am courage; all you had to do was call me to your side
I am passions you will never know, emotions filled with dust
I am what you see through blinkered eyes and label with disgust
I am plans you did not build upon, ambitions left to rot
I am all the things you longed to be, and everything you’re not
I am hopes and dreams you put aside, abandoned on the way
I am longing, yearning, aching for a new and better day
I am what you failed to see because you could not bear to look *
I am photographs, the pictures from your life you never took
I am jealousy, unjustified, the doubts which drove you mad
I am love you always turned away, the chance it never had
I am knowledge you once hungered for but did not eat your fill
I am captain of the ship of life, its engines cold and still
I am time you never gave to those who needed it the most
I am life within this empty room, with you, the silent host
I am what you say you really are, but none of it is true
I am faded friends, long left behind; they do not think of you
I am countless interlocking parts which cannot keep you whole
I am surging tides of emptiness which flood your hollow soul
I am what was pure and perfect once, but lies now in the mud
I am venom spilling from your lips and poisoning your blood
I am stolen fragments of your heart which love did not return
I am flames of guilt and deep regret, the shadows as they burn
I am walls built high with bitter bricks, the prisons of your mind *
I am that which you were looking for, but never meant to find
I am fields of gold you did not reap, the seeds you would not sow
I am where you sit before me now, with nowhere else to go
I am dusty, empty pages from the journal of your past *
I am chance, the risks not taken when you thought the die was cast
I am broken-down relationships you did not try to mend
I am faces you will never see, not even at the end
I am wishes, each impossible because you won’t believe
I am payment, all that you deserve, and all you will receive
I am all the things you could have done, the things you did not do
And in death you see just who I am, and know that I am you
Wednesday, 18 April 2012
The Key
The Key
by Nick Gisburne
Stolen by a murdered thief
Lost in centuries of grief
Deep within a burning tree
Lies the sacred, secret key
Taken by a crippled hand
To a barren, broken land
Here, in cities paved with pain
Live the shadows of the slain
Locked behind the darkest door
Memories of plague and war
From these torments none are free
Death alone can turn the key
Monday, 19 March 2012
About my writing
I've been recording more audio - my usual leanings towards H P Lovecraft, but also the epic that is Homer's Iliad (2 books out of 24, it will be years before I'm done). However in an enforced hiatus brought on by a severe cold, I started writing a horror story about catching a cold... which has developed into a horror story not about catching a cold.
So I'm writing again, but I think that I write more when I'm not writing about my writing. Hence I'm writing this to explain that I probably won't be writing about writing and will now be concentrating on my writing.
I hope that clears things up?!
So I'm writing again, but I think that I write more when I'm not writing about my writing. Hence I'm writing this to explain that I probably won't be writing about writing and will now be concentrating on my writing.
I hope that clears things up?!
Monday, 12 September 2011
Darkness
Darkness, by Lord Byron, is one of my favourite poems. Here's my recording of it.
Darkness
by Lord Byron
I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
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 chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings—the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd,
And men were gather'd round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other's face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;
Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour
They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks
Extinguish'd with a crash—and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd
And twin'd themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food.
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again: a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought—and that was death
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails—men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devour'd,
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answer'd not with a caress—he died.
The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies: they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place
Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage; they rak'd up,
And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other's aspects—saw, and shriek'd, and died—
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless—
A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd
They slept on the abyss without a surge—
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before;
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them—She was the Universe.
Darkness
by Lord Byron
I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
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 chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings—the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd,
And men were gather'd round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other's face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;
Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour
They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks
Extinguish'd with a crash—and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd
And twin'd themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food.
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again: a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought—and that was death
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails—men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devour'd,
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answer'd not with a caress—he died.
The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies: they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place
Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage; they rak'd up,
And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other's aspects—saw, and shriek'd, and died—
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless—
A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd
They slept on the abyss without a surge—
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before;
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them—She was the Universe.
Sunday, 31 July 2011
Washout
July was a complete washout. No writing at all. I had other things on my mind and there was no space for anything else. Oh well.
Sunday, 3 July 2011
Tangents
Well, 'the book that never was' seems to be turning into 'the poem that never was', in that the few verses I've written so far are sitting abandoned, unlikely to be joined by others in the foreseeable future. This was, however, not writer's block, but simply the urge to do other things.
As you'll have seen from my last blog, I wrote an entirely new poem, and quite quickly at that - one day, from start to finish, including recording, editing and uploading the audio to YouTube. When I say 'day' I actually mean that I refused to go to bed until it was finished, so it was more of a literal 24 hours, after which I slept for a long, long time, then woke up for a couple of hours and slept again.
Yesterday (which could be counted as today, since I've not actually slept between the end of one day and the beginning of the next) saw the arrival of an idea which could have been a new poem, but which unexpectedly turned into prose. It's so rare that I sit down and write prose that, yes, I sat down and wrote, continuing until I felt I'd done enough. All being well, I'll continue with it tomorrow (actually today - it's almost midday, so if I sleep now I'll wake up later in the evening). Without giving too much away, it's a story you need to read once to find out what happens, then read a second time with 'the spectacles of hindsight' to work out what was really going on.
Tangents are welcome. They at least are signs that I am doing something productive, even if, at the same time, they show that one or more existing projects have been left behind.
As you'll have seen from my last blog, I wrote an entirely new poem, and quite quickly at that - one day, from start to finish, including recording, editing and uploading the audio to YouTube. When I say 'day' I actually mean that I refused to go to bed until it was finished, so it was more of a literal 24 hours, after which I slept for a long, long time, then woke up for a couple of hours and slept again.
Yesterday (which could be counted as today, since I've not actually slept between the end of one day and the beginning of the next) saw the arrival of an idea which could have been a new poem, but which unexpectedly turned into prose. It's so rare that I sit down and write prose that, yes, I sat down and wrote, continuing until I felt I'd done enough. All being well, I'll continue with it tomorrow (actually today - it's almost midday, so if I sleep now I'll wake up later in the evening). Without giving too much away, it's a story you need to read once to find out what happens, then read a second time with 'the spectacles of hindsight' to work out what was really going on.
Tangents are welcome. They at least are signs that I am doing something productive, even if, at the same time, they show that one or more existing projects have been left behind.
Thursday, 30 June 2011
Get the Fuck out of Bed
No prizes for guessing which book inspired this one. Go the Fuck to Sleep is for parents of small children. My poem is a more realistic view of parenthood when they become teenagers!
Get the Fuck out of Bed
by Nick Gisburne
It’s morning and yes, it’s a school day.
I know it’s the thing you most dread.
You can’t stay at home and you know it.
So please, get the fuck out of bed.
It’s daytime, or don’t you remember?
More classes, more books to be read.
Don’t mumble some shit about headaches.
Just get the fuck up out of bed.
It’s time for your annual shower,
And even the fleas on your head
Have called the emergency soap squad,
To get you the fuck out of bed.
Don’t ask me to bring up your breakfast.
Come down if you want to be fed.
Your sheets are still covered in cornflakes.
Want more? Get the fuck out of bed.
Your room is a dangerous war zone
And smells as though something is dead.
We’ve not seen the carpet since Christmas,
And fuck knows what’s under the bed.
You’ve battled all night on the Xbox.
The zombies screamed out as they bled.
Your eyeballs are bleary and bloodshot.
Game over. Fuck off out of bed.
I’ve just had a call from your teacher.
There’s truth in the words that she said.
She thinks you’re a germ in the gene pool
And you won’t fucking learn much in bed.
I realise school isn’t easy,
And homework means planning ahead,
But plan for a job flipping burgers
If you don’t get the fuck out of bed.
You should be out smoking and drinking
And smashing up cars, but instead
You’re typing in code on your cellphone.
Will u plz GTFOO bed?
We thought we were ready for children.
It’s why we decided to wed.
And as you’ve grown up we’ve seen changes:
You spend all fucking day now in bed.
We might have brought home the wrong baby.
The name tags were swapped or misread.
I can’t even check for a likeness
’Cause you won’t get the fuck out of bed.
You’re really a huge disappointment.
Perhaps you could live in the shed.
We tried once to have you adopted.
Who’d want you? You’re in fucking bed.
I turn away, just for a moment,
My jaw drops, as heavy as lead.
The room when I look back is empty.
Fuck me! You’ve fucked out of the bed!
My patience delivers a triumph.
To school my young offspring has sped.
Oh shit. Wait a minute. My bedroom.
Get the fuck out of there! That’s my bed!
Get the Fuck out of Bed
by Nick Gisburne
It’s morning and yes, it’s a school day.
I know it’s the thing you most dread.
You can’t stay at home and you know it.
So please, get the fuck out of bed.
It’s daytime, or don’t you remember?
More classes, more books to be read.
Don’t mumble some shit about headaches.
Just get the fuck up out of bed.
It’s time for your annual shower,
And even the fleas on your head
Have called the emergency soap squad,
To get you the fuck out of bed.
Don’t ask me to bring up your breakfast.
Come down if you want to be fed.
Your sheets are still covered in cornflakes.
Want more? Get the fuck out of bed.
Your room is a dangerous war zone
And smells as though something is dead.
We’ve not seen the carpet since Christmas,
And fuck knows what’s under the bed.
You’ve battled all night on the Xbox.
The zombies screamed out as they bled.
Your eyeballs are bleary and bloodshot.
Game over. Fuck off out of bed.
I’ve just had a call from your teacher.
There’s truth in the words that she said.
She thinks you’re a germ in the gene pool
And you won’t fucking learn much in bed.
I realise school isn’t easy,
And homework means planning ahead,
But plan for a job flipping burgers
If you don’t get the fuck out of bed.
You should be out smoking and drinking
And smashing up cars, but instead
You’re typing in code on your cellphone.
Will u plz GTFOO bed?
We thought we were ready for children.
It’s why we decided to wed.
And as you’ve grown up we’ve seen changes:
You spend all fucking day now in bed.
We might have brought home the wrong baby.
The name tags were swapped or misread.
I can’t even check for a likeness
’Cause you won’t get the fuck out of bed.
You’re really a huge disappointment.
Perhaps you could live in the shed.
We tried once to have you adopted.
Who’d want you? You’re in fucking bed.
I turn away, just for a moment,
My jaw drops, as heavy as lead.
The room when I look back is empty.
Fuck me! You’ve fucked out of the bed!
My patience delivers a triumph.
To school my young offspring has sped.
Oh shit. Wait a minute. My bedroom.
Get the fuck out of there! That’s my bed!
Wednesday, 22 June 2011
Slow Start but Building Momentum
Even though I started work on The Big Project (I'll have to call it that until the final title is decided upon) five days ago, I've still only written six verses. I was hoping for more but it does seem to be taking a while to get my head around the fact that a section of story I've already written as prose needs some severe changes if it's ever to work as a poem.
My first challenge was that I immediately have two female characters who are not known to each other, so great care is needed with pronouns until their names are revealed. Too many tangled instances of 'she' and 'her' will inevitably confuse things, and it can only get worse in about, oh, three or four more verses, when I introduce three more girls into the mix!
Since the poem will be divided up into chapters, I've used the device of starting each chapter with a brief hint at what will follow. Of course, it had to be in the form of a rhyming couplet:
I had contemplated changing the names of some of the characters, not least because the name Anya doesn't really rhyme with anything, but I did spend a lot of time choosing those names, many of which have meanings relevant to their place in the story, so I decided against it. However in the prose version everyone has second names and there really is no place for those, other than in exceptional circumstances which won't appear for a long while yet.
Moving on, the problem of describing each character raises its head. I simply cannot bring someone into the story and devote a whole verse to her physical appearance. Okay, actually I have done that for the 'stranger' I've just introduced, so that's my rule completely abandoned. However, the main character of the story has not been described in any great detail. We know she's a girl of school age and she's carrying a bag of heavy books on her back. The rest is up to the reader's imagination. It was always my plan (even in the prose version) to let the reader picture the main character for themselves. She is you, the reader, or someone you've met or imagined. You know what she looks like better than I do.
Many details from the prose version have had to be abandoned, and on the whole that's a good thing. As I said last time, my prose tends to be overly descriptive. I spent a couple of sentences describing how she walks between two parked cars, sees the other person sitting opposite and can't comfortably back up to find a different place to cross. In the poem it's reduced to half a line, no mention of cars, and the words are simply and with no way to retreat, which give the same meaning, that Anya is compelled to walk towards the stranger because to do anything else would be to draw even more attention to herself.
Slow progress so far then, but that is also partly because it's a huge shift in the way I'm approaching the project, as compared with other poems I've written, even the longer ones. I've had to hold myself in check, which has been difficult. The Genie Within was relentless drama, an avalanche of huge, dramatic scenes one after the other. I think that would be too tiring to read on such a large scale, although I of course want to write a page-turner. If it's all drama there is no way to introduce more drama when the narrative calls for it. When you see earthquakes and floods on TV they are shocking. When you see them over and over, day after day, it's human nature to become immune to the shock of the event. So in my case the quiet parts of a story are just as important as the 'big' events because they provide the contrast needed to lift or lower the emotions of the reader.
I do need to press on with the poem now. One verse a day is not enough! Momentum please!
My first challenge was that I immediately have two female characters who are not known to each other, so great care is needed with pronouns until their names are revealed. Too many tangled instances of 'she' and 'her' will inevitably confuse things, and it can only get worse in about, oh, three or four more verses, when I introduce three more girls into the mix!
Since the poem will be divided up into chapters, I've used the device of starting each chapter with a brief hint at what will follow. Of course, it had to be in the form of a rhyming couplet:
In which Anya meets a mystery, an enemy, a friendThat solved part of the first problem - introducing the name of the main character. I didn't want to use her name at all in the first verse, mainly because I'd already written that verse, so now I don't need to make any kind of fuss when I use her name in the poem itself for the first time.
And discovers one on whom she can depend
I had contemplated changing the names of some of the characters, not least because the name Anya doesn't really rhyme with anything, but I did spend a lot of time choosing those names, many of which have meanings relevant to their place in the story, so I decided against it. However in the prose version everyone has second names and there really is no place for those, other than in exceptional circumstances which won't appear for a long while yet.
Moving on, the problem of describing each character raises its head. I simply cannot bring someone into the story and devote a whole verse to her physical appearance. Okay, actually I have done that for the 'stranger' I've just introduced, so that's my rule completely abandoned. However, the main character of the story has not been described in any great detail. We know she's a girl of school age and she's carrying a bag of heavy books on her back. The rest is up to the reader's imagination. It was always my plan (even in the prose version) to let the reader picture the main character for themselves. She is you, the reader, or someone you've met or imagined. You know what she looks like better than I do.
Many details from the prose version have had to be abandoned, and on the whole that's a good thing. As I said last time, my prose tends to be overly descriptive. I spent a couple of sentences describing how she walks between two parked cars, sees the other person sitting opposite and can't comfortably back up to find a different place to cross. In the poem it's reduced to half a line, no mention of cars, and the words are simply and with no way to retreat, which give the same meaning, that Anya is compelled to walk towards the stranger because to do anything else would be to draw even more attention to herself.
Slow progress so far then, but that is also partly because it's a huge shift in the way I'm approaching the project, as compared with other poems I've written, even the longer ones. I've had to hold myself in check, which has been difficult. The Genie Within was relentless drama, an avalanche of huge, dramatic scenes one after the other. I think that would be too tiring to read on such a large scale, although I of course want to write a page-turner. If it's all drama there is no way to introduce more drama when the narrative calls for it. When you see earthquakes and floods on TV they are shocking. When you see them over and over, day after day, it's human nature to become immune to the shock of the event. So in my case the quiet parts of a story are just as important as the 'big' events because they provide the contrast needed to lift or lower the emotions of the reader.
I do need to press on with the poem now. One verse a day is not enough! Momentum please!
Friday, 17 June 2011
The Big Project
It seems that The Genie Within has given me confidence in my ability to write long narratives in poetry, such I now think I could write really long narrative poetry. How long? Book long.
My previous post about Scrivener was actually meant to go on to describe a big project I was working on, and the one for which I needed Scrivener in the first place. However, as a review of the software I thought it was better to keep things separate. This, then, is what I was intending to do with it.
I was writing a book. And the past tense is unfortunate there because I am no longer writing that book. The book was planned out in full, with a fully realised plot, some incredibly detailed information for characters, settings, everything I'd need to begin writing the actual narrative. And I did begin writing it. And then I stopped writing it.
I stopped writing it because I have a tendency to be overly descriptive when I'm writing prose. I like to be 100% sure that my readers have the picture inside their head which I have inside mine. With prose there are few restraints, and my writing reflects that - I seem to be unable to hold back and self-edit as I write.
With poetry I find that the restrictions of writing, say, 8 lines with 15 syllables to a line, are exactly what I need to convey what's in my mind, but in a far more compact, more precise way. Every word is chosen with great care. There is no waffle, no fat, no waste. And I like that. I like the limitations. I like the challenge of working within those self-imposed rules and getting the best out of the medium. Quite simply, I like to write narrative poetry.
So here I am, looking for my next project, and I recently blogged that I needed to find myself a new story before I could begin. A day or two ago the penny dropped. I already have a story. I have a big story, a plot plan I'd worked on for about 6 months before writing even a word of narrative. I have a story I could turn into poetry.
Are there such things as novels written entirely in poetry? They are few and far between, and could more correctly be categorised as 'long poems long enough to fill a book'. One which immediately springs to mind is The Song of Hiawatha by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, which is an epic poem by any standards. Dante's Divine Comedy, Homer's Iliad and Odyssey are all epics. You can dispute the word 'novel' but they are all huge pieces of work. Wikipedia's entry on Long Poems has more.
Here's a short list of other titles, more modern this time: Novels in Poetry Form. I've not read any of them but I may take a look to see what's out there.
So what's my story about? I can't possibly tell you at such an early stage, for fear of jinxing it. I can say one thing: it's not a horror story, which is the genre into which I seem to have placed myself in recent times. As such it's a departure from the kind of poems I usually write, although since I created the story before I wrote most of my other poems, I don't quite know if it's a return to the past or a projection of the past onto my future. Yes, I'm confused by that too, so perhaps it's just as well that there's no time travel in it either!
Without revealing much more, I will share with you a couple of stanzas, written yesterday to explore the possibilities. You'll notice that I use the same rhyming scheme as The Genie Within. I have no hesitation in doing that because it served me so well in the writing of that poem; it really is perfectly suited to writing longer narratives.
Here then are two verses from chapter one of my yet-to-be-titled project. Don't even get me started on why, even after so long, there is still no title!
Famous last words: more will follow. Hopefully.
My previous post about Scrivener was actually meant to go on to describe a big project I was working on, and the one for which I needed Scrivener in the first place. However, as a review of the software I thought it was better to keep things separate. This, then, is what I was intending to do with it.
I was writing a book. And the past tense is unfortunate there because I am no longer writing that book. The book was planned out in full, with a fully realised plot, some incredibly detailed information for characters, settings, everything I'd need to begin writing the actual narrative. And I did begin writing it. And then I stopped writing it.
I stopped writing it because I have a tendency to be overly descriptive when I'm writing prose. I like to be 100% sure that my readers have the picture inside their head which I have inside mine. With prose there are few restraints, and my writing reflects that - I seem to be unable to hold back and self-edit as I write.
With poetry I find that the restrictions of writing, say, 8 lines with 15 syllables to a line, are exactly what I need to convey what's in my mind, but in a far more compact, more precise way. Every word is chosen with great care. There is no waffle, no fat, no waste. And I like that. I like the limitations. I like the challenge of working within those self-imposed rules and getting the best out of the medium. Quite simply, I like to write narrative poetry.
So here I am, looking for my next project, and I recently blogged that I needed to find myself a new story before I could begin. A day or two ago the penny dropped. I already have a story. I have a big story, a plot plan I'd worked on for about 6 months before writing even a word of narrative. I have a story I could turn into poetry.
Are there such things as novels written entirely in poetry? They are few and far between, and could more correctly be categorised as 'long poems long enough to fill a book'. One which immediately springs to mind is The Song of Hiawatha by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, which is an epic poem by any standards. Dante's Divine Comedy, Homer's Iliad and Odyssey are all epics. You can dispute the word 'novel' but they are all huge pieces of work. Wikipedia's entry on Long Poems has more.
Here's a short list of other titles, more modern this time: Novels in Poetry Form. I've not read any of them but I may take a look to see what's out there.
So what's my story about? I can't possibly tell you at such an early stage, for fear of jinxing it. I can say one thing: it's not a horror story, which is the genre into which I seem to have placed myself in recent times. As such it's a departure from the kind of poems I usually write, although since I created the story before I wrote most of my other poems, I don't quite know if it's a return to the past or a projection of the past onto my future. Yes, I'm confused by that too, so perhaps it's just as well that there's no time travel in it either!
Without revealing much more, I will share with you a couple of stanzas, written yesterday to explore the possibilities. You'll notice that I use the same rhyming scheme as The Genie Within. I have no hesitation in doing that because it served me so well in the writing of that poem; it really is perfectly suited to writing longer narratives.
Here then are two verses from chapter one of my yet-to-be-titled project. Don't even get me started on why, even after so long, there is still no title!
Chapter One
Butterflies
They were dancing, they were diving, flying, floating on the breeze,
Over walls and into gardens, past the street lights, through the trees.
As she followed them, the butterflies, with subtle, golden wings,
Swept the memories and worries of a day’s unpleasant things
To a place beyond her vision, where each flash of amber light
Hid her troubles, hid reality, from sight.
Were there two, or three? They flashed and turned so quick, so hard to tell,
And she tripped and ran, caught up in their imaginary spell.
In the fading, failing daylight, now the lamps all flickered on,
And she stopped and turned, and turned again, but knew that they were gone.
She was far from school, from home, from any street she’d ever known,
And, without the golden butterflies, alone.
Famous last words: more will follow. Hopefully.
Scrivener
Before 2009 I'd tried to write books, or at least longer pieces of work, and failed because the complexity of the research and character/story building I was trying to do exceeded the power of the computer software I was using. Primarily I wrote everything in Word, which is fine if you're stringing together a long document, if you're writing the story itself, but for the research it's terrible.
Story development, for me at least, needs a separate page for each character, one for each scene, and many more pages just to set down random ideas and structure them in some way. You can't do that without a database. And yet a database is too rigid if you want the power of a word processor for each entry.
I also work very visually. I constantly look for pictures (and I'll say it again, this is where DeviantArt is in a class of its own) for my characters. Sometimes I have a general feel for a character and a picture will solidify that idea in my mind. Sometimes the picture will add to my original concept and suggest new areas to explore. It might be something as insignificant as eye colour or the shape of the nose, or perhaps the whole face stirs up some memory or half-thought of someone I once met, whose character can be introduced into the story.
Picture libraries are a vast resource of ideas, but a hard drive full of pictures is no use to anyone. They need structure. So again, I need software to give me that structure, and to allow me to put the pictures into my database so that when I'm writing I have the image in front of me. I can imagine what is going on inside that character's head and make notes, then later create the narrative, using the notes and the images as cues.
All that is a tall order, and believe me when I say I tried every possible solution designed to assist in the writing process, all to no avail. I can tell within 10 minutes that software isn't going to be of any use to me - if it doesn't immediately feel right I don't go beyond the trial version, and scrap it altogether. Some software manages to capture my attention beyond those ten minutes. I am, after all, looking to do fairly complex things, so if the basics are in place I might spend a few more days putting the thing through its paces. Such software is rare, and after a few days each title invariably failed and was discarded.
It was then that I heard of Scrivener, and when I read the product details I immediately knew that this what what I was looking for. I didn't even need to use it. In fact, I couldn't use it. Scrivener is for Mac computers only and I'd only ever owned PCs. Up until then I'd never even used a Mac, let alone owned one. What to do?
Compared to PCs, Macs are expensive. Yet the system requirements for Scrivener were quite low. I decided to do something crazy - buy a computer just so that I could use the software with it. It was actually quite cheap. I bought an old eMac from eBay for £40 which was a bargain. It's one of those all-in-one things with the computer and the screen in one big, heavy box. One problem: the seller said it had the version of Mac OSX (the operating system) needed to run Scrivener, but when I got it home it actually didn't. I had to download a later version and install the whole operating system again. Remember I'd never used a Mac before this point! But I got it working, I got Scrivener working and Scrivener is just an incredible piece of software.
It does all I ever wanted it to do and probably some things which I haven't thought of yet. A Scrivener project contains every single document and piece of information - text, images, links, all bundled together into one. Everything can be organised in a tree-style hierarchy, so you might have 500 documents/image/etc and they can all be arranged logically to suit your own personal needs. What's more, if you need to find a particular document you can just search for a phrase and all matching documents are brought up, ready to be selected and edited. With large projects I simply cannot work without that feature - I'd be lost in a mass of information.
While the eMac worked, of course it was an old computer (not to mention noisy!) and before long it started to creak under the weight of information I was adding to my projects. I needed something faster, so I ended up buying a Mac Mini which is a tiny, tiny, tiny computer (I currently can't see it because it's behind a book - an ordinary paperback!) with an up-to-date spec. Oh, and it runs almost completely silently which takes a lot of getting used to compared with the super-turbo fan noises of my older PCs. It was expensive, I'll not deny that, at least when compared with a comparable spec PC, but it runs Scrivener and that was my only requirement.
Of course Macs don't run PC software so I lost the use of some useful tools. Or did I? Well, no, because I also run Windows at the same time in a 'virtual machine' which lets Windows software run too. The best of everything.
If you're a writer you must - you must - try out Scrivener. Get a Mac, or get access to one, and just install the trial version and give it a go. You will love it.
Did I mention the mad, mad price of Scrivener? It's so low that I'm amazed they can get away with selling it at that price. Cost is not even a consideration. You won't find cheaper, and you certainly will never find a better piece of software designed specifically for writers, tuned exactly to how writers work.
And that, I'm happy to say, is my totally unbiased opinion. Did I mention that I like Scrivener? I did didn't I?!
Story development, for me at least, needs a separate page for each character, one for each scene, and many more pages just to set down random ideas and structure them in some way. You can't do that without a database. And yet a database is too rigid if you want the power of a word processor for each entry.
I also work very visually. I constantly look for pictures (and I'll say it again, this is where DeviantArt is in a class of its own) for my characters. Sometimes I have a general feel for a character and a picture will solidify that idea in my mind. Sometimes the picture will add to my original concept and suggest new areas to explore. It might be something as insignificant as eye colour or the shape of the nose, or perhaps the whole face stirs up some memory or half-thought of someone I once met, whose character can be introduced into the story.
Picture libraries are a vast resource of ideas, but a hard drive full of pictures is no use to anyone. They need structure. So again, I need software to give me that structure, and to allow me to put the pictures into my database so that when I'm writing I have the image in front of me. I can imagine what is going on inside that character's head and make notes, then later create the narrative, using the notes and the images as cues.
All that is a tall order, and believe me when I say I tried every possible solution designed to assist in the writing process, all to no avail. I can tell within 10 minutes that software isn't going to be of any use to me - if it doesn't immediately feel right I don't go beyond the trial version, and scrap it altogether. Some software manages to capture my attention beyond those ten minutes. I am, after all, looking to do fairly complex things, so if the basics are in place I might spend a few more days putting the thing through its paces. Such software is rare, and after a few days each title invariably failed and was discarded.
It was then that I heard of Scrivener, and when I read the product details I immediately knew that this what what I was looking for. I didn't even need to use it. In fact, I couldn't use it. Scrivener is for Mac computers only and I'd only ever owned PCs. Up until then I'd never even used a Mac, let alone owned one. What to do?
Compared to PCs, Macs are expensive. Yet the system requirements for Scrivener were quite low. I decided to do something crazy - buy a computer just so that I could use the software with it. It was actually quite cheap. I bought an old eMac from eBay for £40 which was a bargain. It's one of those all-in-one things with the computer and the screen in one big, heavy box. One problem: the seller said it had the version of Mac OSX (the operating system) needed to run Scrivener, but when I got it home it actually didn't. I had to download a later version and install the whole operating system again. Remember I'd never used a Mac before this point! But I got it working, I got Scrivener working and Scrivener is just an incredible piece of software.
It does all I ever wanted it to do and probably some things which I haven't thought of yet. A Scrivener project contains every single document and piece of information - text, images, links, all bundled together into one. Everything can be organised in a tree-style hierarchy, so you might have 500 documents/image/etc and they can all be arranged logically to suit your own personal needs. What's more, if you need to find a particular document you can just search for a phrase and all matching documents are brought up, ready to be selected and edited. With large projects I simply cannot work without that feature - I'd be lost in a mass of information.
While the eMac worked, of course it was an old computer (not to mention noisy!) and before long it started to creak under the weight of information I was adding to my projects. I needed something faster, so I ended up buying a Mac Mini which is a tiny, tiny, tiny computer (I currently can't see it because it's behind a book - an ordinary paperback!) with an up-to-date spec. Oh, and it runs almost completely silently which takes a lot of getting used to compared with the super-turbo fan noises of my older PCs. It was expensive, I'll not deny that, at least when compared with a comparable spec PC, but it runs Scrivener and that was my only requirement.
Of course Macs don't run PC software so I lost the use of some useful tools. Or did I? Well, no, because I also run Windows at the same time in a 'virtual machine' which lets Windows software run too. The best of everything.
If you're a writer you must - you must - try out Scrivener. Get a Mac, or get access to one, and just install the trial version and give it a go. You will love it.
Did I mention the mad, mad price of Scrivener? It's so low that I'm amazed they can get away with selling it at that price. Cost is not even a consideration. You won't find cheaper, and you certainly will never find a better piece of software designed specifically for writers, tuned exactly to how writers work.
And that, I'm happy to say, is my totally unbiased opinion. Did I mention that I like Scrivener? I did didn't I?!
Sunday, 12 June 2011
Reading the meter
Since completing The Genie Within, I've done my usual thing: absolutely nothing. I become so utterly involved and engrossed in a project that when it's done it's almost impossible for me to immediately switch to something else. So it has been for the past week or so, although when I say 'nothing' I really mean that I've not been writing any more poetry. Instead I read a book and bought several more, most of which will be forever neglected on my shelves - I buy far more books than I will ever read, and in fact reading one of them is a major achievement for me. I read all day, but usually I graze on short article 'snacks' from various blogs and news sites.
While doing 'nothing' I do, however, take plenty of notes because I find that I'm constantly coming up with new ideas and fragments of story which may or may not be useful. If all of those fragments became full-blown poems/stories I'd have written half a dozen books by now - this year. But of course that's not how these things work. I make notes, notes, notes until one day one of those notes flicks a switch and turns into a poem.
Today might be one of those days when that begins to happen, so I thought it might be interesting to document when and how it happened. It's sometimes difficult to know where ideas come from, although often I'm looking at an image and something simply presents itself. This is why I visit the DeviantArt site so often. It is my primary source for inspiration, simply because there is such a vast quantity, ever-increasing, of strange and unexpected pictures. But this idea didn't come from there. It just popped up and jabbed me in the brain, as if from nowhere.
First, some background:
I like to experiment with meter. I have never studied poetry, and in fact came to it only relatively recently, but I know that my own poems don't get started until I've identified the correct meter and rhyming scheme for each one. In fact I've abandoned poems after as many as a dozen verses because the meter was either too inflexible or just gave the poem the wrong tone. You can't write a horror story with a 'jolly' meter, and you can't write a comic piece when the meter reminds you of a dirge.
The Genie Within has, in each stanza, 7 lines with 15 syllables, followed by an 8th line with only 11, which is used to summarise or emphasise the first 7. Without knowing how to describe the meter (de-dum-de-dum-de-dum is the extent of my powers!), I just know that it felt right and worked well. It seemed to be perfect for the type of story I was writing. A sample:
For what will be a new poem if it goes beyond this initial stage, all I had were a few words: 'blood and stones and finger bones' and I couldn't tell you where they came from. They just rolled around in my head and eventually I wrote them down, added to them and found this weird couplet, whose meter and rhyming scheme is unusual to say the least:
I don't know how far I'll be able to take this poem. I usually experience some difficulty with ultra-short rhymes (4 syllables in this case) and these two lines are, on reflection, really no more than lists, so it will be interesting to see if I can add a narrative in future lines. Of course I can always add lines which don't follow the same meter/scheme, which may shake things up a little. Oh, and it might help to think of a story for the poem - as I'm writing this I don't have one at all!
While I can't foresee this being a long poem, that is no bad thing. I need to broaden my skills, so a short piece will be just the thing. In fact this overly-long blog will almost certainly be longer than the poem itself, so perhaps I should finish here.
Update
A day later, as I suspected, I have a definite problem: I have no story! I've written more, but the more I've written doesn't have any attachment to anything. I have the beginnings of a character but I don't know who she is and why she exists. So, like many of my ideas, this one is being filed away for now, until I find some place for it/her at some undetermined point in the future.
While doing 'nothing' I do, however, take plenty of notes because I find that I'm constantly coming up with new ideas and fragments of story which may or may not be useful. If all of those fragments became full-blown poems/stories I'd have written half a dozen books by now - this year. But of course that's not how these things work. I make notes, notes, notes until one day one of those notes flicks a switch and turns into a poem.
Today might be one of those days when that begins to happen, so I thought it might be interesting to document when and how it happened. It's sometimes difficult to know where ideas come from, although often I'm looking at an image and something simply presents itself. This is why I visit the DeviantArt site so often. It is my primary source for inspiration, simply because there is such a vast quantity, ever-increasing, of strange and unexpected pictures. But this idea didn't come from there. It just popped up and jabbed me in the brain, as if from nowhere.
First, some background:
I like to experiment with meter. I have never studied poetry, and in fact came to it only relatively recently, but I know that my own poems don't get started until I've identified the correct meter and rhyming scheme for each one. In fact I've abandoned poems after as many as a dozen verses because the meter was either too inflexible or just gave the poem the wrong tone. You can't write a horror story with a 'jolly' meter, and you can't write a comic piece when the meter reminds you of a dirge.
The Genie Within has, in each stanza, 7 lines with 15 syllables, followed by an 8th line with only 11, which is used to summarise or emphasise the first 7. Without knowing how to describe the meter (de-dum-de-dum-de-dum is the extent of my powers!), I just know that it felt right and worked well. It seemed to be perfect for the type of story I was writing. A sample:
Seven times the turning seasons thawed the winters into spring,Castles of Carboard, my previous poem, was even more unusual: 9 lines in total, the first line not rhyming with anything at all which is something I've never tried before. The syllables for each line are as follows:
And to threads of fleeting sanity his mind could scarcely cling.
Thus, encumbered with the madness of a decomposing world,
He returned before the priestess, his barbarity unfurled.
In his eyes were all the cancerous depravities of man,
And his deviant delirium began.
9 --- 9 / 6 / 6 / 9 --- 6 / 6 / 9 / 9So the lines were divided into that non-rhyming line, followed by 4 lines in which the first+last and middle-two lines rhymed with each other, ending up with two couplets of different length. And it worked perfectly for the story, because for some reason the final line seemed (to me at least) to underline the whole verse with melancholy, which is exactly what I was looking for. Again, I find it hard to know why that is the case. Sometimes I used the last line to reverse everything which had gone before in the previous 8 lines - just when the girl in the story thinks things are improving, the last line brings her back to reality. Here's a sample:
The beach is their pebble-strewn playground
Skipping stones out for miles ’cross the waves
Fair and young, grey and old,
Their adventures are bold,
As they splash in the pools, in the caves.
A warm hand holds her tight
As the day turns to night,
And a crimson sun sets on the sea.
And the flames fade to ash and debris.
For what will be a new poem if it goes beyond this initial stage, all I had were a few words: 'blood and stones and finger bones' and I couldn't tell you where they came from. They just rolled around in my head and eventually I wrote them down, added to them and found this weird couplet, whose meter and rhyming scheme is unusual to say the least:
She rose from a place of blood and stones and shattered bones,While writing the second line I was myself so confused by the meter and the positions of the rhymes that I had to divide the thing up into much shorter lines, so:
decayed remains, corroded chains and twisted trees
A night where the wind’s uncanny breath, born out of death,
blew tortured sighs and frigid cries, with bitter breeze
She rose from a placeIt does seem to be much simpler written out like that - it's as if each line is a verse in itself, with a non-rhyming line (5 syllables) followed by two 4-syllable rhyming couplets, and a final 4-syllable line which rhymes with the next verse (actually, the next line when they are put back together).
of blood and stones
and shattered bones,
decayed remains,
corroded chains
and twisted trees
A night where the wind’s
uncanny breath,
born out of death,
blew tortured sighs
and frigid cries,
with bitter breeze
I don't know how far I'll be able to take this poem. I usually experience some difficulty with ultra-short rhymes (4 syllables in this case) and these two lines are, on reflection, really no more than lists, so it will be interesting to see if I can add a narrative in future lines. Of course I can always add lines which don't follow the same meter/scheme, which may shake things up a little. Oh, and it might help to think of a story for the poem - as I'm writing this I don't have one at all!
While I can't foresee this being a long poem, that is no bad thing. I need to broaden my skills, so a short piece will be just the thing. In fact this overly-long blog will almost certainly be longer than the poem itself, so perhaps I should finish here.
Update
A day later, as I suspected, I have a definite problem: I have no story! I've written more, but the more I've written doesn't have any attachment to anything. I have the beginnings of a character but I don't know who she is and why she exists. So, like many of my ideas, this one is being filed away for now, until I find some place for it/her at some undetermined point in the future.