#paul
~
October 2025
HP Poet: Pagan Paul
Country: UK
Question 1: We warmly welcome you to the HP Spotlight, Paul. Please tell us about your background?
Pagan Paul: "I am from Bristol, England. I have always been a Free Spirit and never really settled into the society into which I was born. I am neuro-diverse. I am generally quite a shy and private person. I also write a little comedy and love listening to old comedy radio shows. I like cheese (especially vintage Chedder)."
Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?
Pagan Paul: "I have been a member of HP since August 2016. I started writing poetry in around 2012, but not regularly. I think it was around 2015 I became more prolific and took it more seriously."
Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).
Pagan Paul: "My inspiration comes from many sources. Nature, mental health, relationships, experiences, articles, books and my interests. But also from the mess that is my mind."
Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?
Pagan Paul: "What does poetry mean to me? Escape and expression for my creativity. Its a chance to write down things in a way that makes more sense to my neuro-diverse mind as well as to explore and experiment with ideas, concepts and imagination."
Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?
Pagan Paul: "I do not really read much in the way of classical poetry (Byron, Keats etc) but do tend to read some from ancient Greece and Rome like Callus, Praxilla, Virgil etc. I also tend towards the more abstract or psychedelic poetry of James Douglas Morrison. As mentioned I am a fan of comedy poetry by people like Spike Milligan, Henry Normal and Pam Ayers always raise a laugh."
Question 6: What other interests do you have?
Pagan Paul: "My main interest is music and the consumption thereof. I listen to a lot of different music from different genres. I have always regretted never learning an instrument or music theory. I also read a lot, especially with regard to the ancient world. The old myths and legends and folklore are also a source of inspiration for my poetry."
Carlo C. Gomez: “We would like to thank you Paul, we really appreciate you giving us the opportunity to get to know the person behind the poet! It is our pleasure to include you in this Spotlight series!”
Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed coming to know Paul better. We most certainly did. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez
We will post Spotlight #33 in November!
~
Oct 1, 2025
Oct 1, 2025 at 3:41 PM UTC
I saw the smoke from the mountains,
Early in the morning sun,
Billowing deep from the trees,
Where the great mountain beast once was.
I saw the smoke from Paul Bunion’s cabin,
Rolling up into the sky,
So when I climb up there tomorrow,
I’ll bring him a great big pie.
Jul 27, 2025
Jul 27, 2025 at 7:50 PM UTC
Let's play a game of guess who,
They've got HP riled up,
My poem blazing on the front page,
So many supposed alter egos I can't even count!
Did you get it?
My person was, Paul! Paul?
Who even is Paul?
Mar 11, 2025
Mar 11, 2025 at 1:34 PM UTC
Arrested by God's grace and blinded by His light
Convicted by the Spirit and found dead to rights
You are found guilty of ****** in the first degree
The sentence to be carried out: death on a tree
Justice will be served, and the price must be paid
About to be led away, but the crowds are stayed
By a voice soft and strong: "Let them go. Take me instead."
A perfect stranger was tortured, he suffered and bled
It should have been me on that cross on that hill
But He had plans for me and, to this day, He does still
I had condemned, I had tortured, and I had slain
I felt no remorse, and even enjoyed their pain
But God's love and mercy found me on the road
My life is His now: a life is saved, a life is owed
If God can take a wretch like me and turn my life around
Use me as an example of how much his grace abounds
He humbled me greatly: knocked me off of my horse
And, with a mighty wind, I was forced to alter my course
I am by no means the greatest, rather I am the least
But He bids me rise like dough to His yeast
Through his goodness I have done great things
I have seen the blessings that a grateful heart brings
For it is not I, but Christ that lives within me
I die with him and in rising He sets me free
Glory to Him who sits on the throne
Honor to Him to whom I am intimately known
Praise be on my lips and in my heart
For we have been given a brand new start
Dec 13, 2024
Dec 13, 2024 at 9:04 PM UTC
In dreams, she floats on rivers made of light,
With tangerine trees and marmalade skies.
A girl with eyes like kaleidoscopes,
She wanders through a land of cellophane flowers,
Where colours blend and dance in harmony.
The sun, a golden orb, smiles down on her,
As rocking horse people eat marshmallow pies.
She drifts past fields of towering blooms,
Their petals whispering secrets to the wind.
In this surreal world, time stands still,
And newspaper taxis wait by the shore,
To carry her to realms unknown and vast,
Where imagination reigns supreme and free.
Lucy, in the sky with diamonds bright,
A symbol of the wonder in our minds,
She guides us through the labyrinth of dreams,
Where every turn reveals a new delight.
Sep 17, 2024
Sep 17, 2024 at 11:35 AM UTC
My Night With Paul Simon
(Posted originally on June 5, 2013)
On the night train, the red eye plane,
Flying home to NYCeeeeeeeeeeeee,
From the city of Los Angeleeeeeeez
Feeling flush, dropped some cash,
Got me a seat in extra large first class
Seat 2C, plenty of room for my toes,
To wiggle to dance, lay down some poetry tracks,
pretending I'm a **** jive,
bad *** from the
make-believe west coast
A short guy, with fedora down low,
An older man,
looking about nine years older
than somebody I might know,
hiding his eyes @ 9pm
neath some excellent Raybans,
slip slides into 2D,
gives me a smile,
And says Hi, I'm Paul
I look once at his face and say,
Listen Rhymin' Simon,
I'd know you any place,
No worries, your secret,
with me is safe,
Cause dudes in row 2,
gottta stick together, be cool,
We're riding first class,
over the land of the free
What ya do for a living he asks,
A little of this and a little of that,
All of which, ain't no **** good at!
So I spend my cold, hard time
laying down cold hard verse,
Can't stop, cause it's my daddy's dying curse
He said that's cool,
I like to do that too.
Guitars on planes
drive passengers insane,
They take up too much
overhead compartment space,
I just scribble me some rhymes and
Let the music come
when I got two feet
on the ground in the city
we both come from.
Paul: You got any stuff writ
on that yellow sheet,
or just pretty blue lines,
a big pad of nothing?
Dude: Man you may got diamonds
on the soles of your shoes,
But pay me some 'spect,
you talking to the man who penned
Sad Eyed Teenagers of the Lowland
on Hello Poetry, gad ****
Paul smiled and said
you can call me Al,
And if you feel like blowing some lines together,
We got five hours till we can see
the house that Ruth built.
Dude: Hit me with your best shot,
I'll show you what I got
Paul: And she said honey take me dancing
But they ended up by sleeping
In a doorway
By the bodegas and the lights on
Upper Broadway
Wearing diamonds on the soles of their shoes
Dude: Just cause the union of the monkeys
in the Bronx Zoo done gone on strike,
Don't mean the lion ain't
still king of the hill
inside this New York city jail
Paul: And the sign said,
"The words of the prophets are written
on the subway walls
And tenement halls"
And whispered
in the sounds of silence
Dude: A home-grown poet.
I am
Soul enslaved to words.
The alphabet - My oxygen molecules,
I am both,
Addict and dealer
A ****** poet
******
Paul: You don't need to be coy, Roy
Just listen to me
Hop on the bus, Gus
You don't need to discuss much
Just drop off the key, Lee
And get yourself free
Dude: Contact with the atmosphere
makes self pity die,
blue blood turn red,
the TNT tightness in my chest exploded
I got no place
to store these words,
the cops think I'm
some kind of
Terrorist
On and on thru the night,
Riffing, rapping, rambling, and spitting,
Ditties and darts, couplets and barbs,
Single words and elegies,
Free verse and a lot of fking curse words,
It was a moment, a time
that deserved
to be preserved,
and so this poem got writ
You may think this story apocryphal
Which is another way of saying untrue,
But I got his boarding pass and it is signed,
To this crazy poetry dude, long may you rasp,
And it is signed by Mr. P. Simon, a big fan,
And it has never since that day,
Left my grasp
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 11:51 PM UTC
I'm not all that good,
I'm not all that bad,
Maybe one day,
I'm as bad as a person can be,
Maybe on another day,
I'm one of the best you can meet,
Raised in a small town,
Where people gossip
from sun up to sun down,
Brought up poor in a broken
family, only added more,
When I'm out and about,
I get those judgemental stares,
with whispers of, "she's hopeless,
she's beyond repair,
I get worked up so
I purposely give them a reason to
gasp for air,
Of course they all claim to be Christians,
The type that choose clean blue water
to be baptised in,
But I was baptised in muddy water
and I'm glad to say," hey listen up,
I was baptised in muddy water so
I guess that makes me too ***** for
your kind?"
Then I smile to myself because
I know something they must not,
JESUS WAS BAPTISED IN MUDDY
WATERS, as well.
I imagine it kind of went like this:
Upon meeting Jesus, John said: "I have need to be baptized of thee, and comest thou to me? I imagine Jesus told John it was only right to do so, I can imagine John trying to convince Jesus to at least let him find cleaner waters but Jesus knew so He refused.
You see in the time of Jesus’s baptism, the Jordan river and surrounding areas was no less than now, a river full of muck, ***** muddy, and gross looking, you can’t see two inches into it today nor could you then.
These very people called Christians are the same people who judge so harshly, through the centuries they've compared Jesus's baptism to our own, with an understandable preference for the clear waters of a Blue Hole over the muddy waters of the Jordan and beyond,
So yeah, I'm all messed up in the head,
Better the head than the heart,
But you've already judged my part.
So if you ever run out stuff to gossip about, just think back and remember,
the small town girl that was baptised in muddy water.
- Author Ven J Arnold / SacredInkedBlood
Apr 26, 2022
Apr 26, 2022 at 11:50 PM UTC
He said,
Now please attend
My praying class,
But don't offend
By playing crass!
I heard
A Crashing Cymbal,
Sounding Brass,
A Blasting Wind,
A Braying ***
In the end,
Despite the way
The teacher tried,
I still remain
Unedified.
Feb 27, 2022
Feb 27, 2022 at 5:23 PM UTC
This is my modern English translation of Paul Valéry's poem “Le cimetière marin” (“The graveyard by the sea”). Valéry was buried in the seaside cemetery evoked in his best-known poem. From the vantage of the cemetery, the tombs seemed to “support” a sea-ceiling dotted with white sails. Valéry begins and ends his poem with this image ...
Excerpts from “Le cimetière marin” (“The graveyard by the sea”)
from Charmes ou poèmes (1922)
by Paul Valéry
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Do not, O my soul, aspire to immortal life, but exhaust what is possible.
—Pindar, Pythian Ode 3
1.
This tranquil ceiling, where white doves are sailing,
stands propped between tall pines and foundational tombs,
as the noonday sun composes, with its flames,
sea-waves forever forming and reforming ...
O, what a boon, when some lapsed thought expires,
to reflect on the placid face of Eternity!
5.
As a pear dissolves in the act of being eaten,
transformed, through sudden absence, to delight
relinquishing its shape within our mouths,
even so, I breathe in vapors I’ll become,
as the sea rejoices and its shores enlarge,
fed by lost souls devoured; more are rumored.
6.
Beautiful sky, my true-blue sky, ’tis I
who alters! Pride and indolence possessed me,
yet, somehow, I possessed real potency ...
But now I yield to your ephemeral vapors
as my shadow steals through stations of the dead;
its delicate silhouette crook-fingering, “Forward!”
8.
... My soul still awaits reports of its nothingness ...
9.
... What corpse compels me forward, to no end?
What empty skull commends these strange bone-heaps?
A star broods over everything I lost ...
10.
... Here where so much antique marble
shudders over so many shadows,
the faithful sea slumbers ...
11.
... Watchful dog ...
Keep far from these peaceful tombs
the prudent doves, all impossible dreams,
the angels’ curious eyes ...
12.
... The brittle insect scratches out existence ...
... Life is enlarged by its lust for absence ...
... The bitterness of death is sweet and the mind clarified.
13.
... The dead do well here, secured here in this earth ...
... I am what mutates secretly in you ...
14.
I alone can express your apprehensions!
My penitence, my doubts, my limitations,
are fatal flaws in your exquisite diamond ...
But here in their marble-encumbered infinite night
a formless people sleeping at the roots of trees
have slowly adopted your cause ...
15.
... Where, now, are the kindly words of the loving dead? ...
... Now grubs consume, where tears were once composed ...
16.
... Everything dies, returns to earth, gets recycled ...
17.
And what of you, great Soul, do you still dream
there’s something truer than these deceitful colors:
each flash of golden surf on eyes of flesh?
Will you still sing, when you’re as light as air?
Everything perishes and has no presence!
I am not immune; Divine Impatience dies!
18.
Emaciate consolation, Immortality,
grotesquely clothed in your black and gold habit,
transfiguring death into some Madonna’s breast,
your pious ruse and cultivated lie:
who does not know and who does not reject
your empty skull and pandemonic laughter?
24.
The wind is rising! ... We must yet strive to live!
The immense sky opens and closes my book!
Waves surge through shell-shocked rocks, reeking spray!
O, fly, fly away, my sun-bedazzled pages!
Break, breakers! Break joyfully as you threaten to shatter
this tranquil ceiling where white doves are sailing!
***
“Le vent se lève! . . . il faut tenter de vivre!
L'air immense ouvre et referme mon livre,
La vague en poudre ose jaillir des rocs!
Envolez-vous, pages tout éblouies!
Rompez, vagues! Rompez d'eaux réjouies
Ce toit tranquille où picoraient des focs!”
PAUL VALERY TRANSLATION: “SECRET ODE”
“Secret Ode” is a poem by the French poet Paul Valéry about collapsing after a vigorous dance, watching the sun set, and seeing the immensity of the night sky as the stars begin to appear.
Ode secrète (“Secret Ode”)
by Paul Valéry
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The fall so exquisite, the ending so soft,
the struggle’s abandonment so delightful:
depositing the glistening body
on a bed of moss, after the dance!
Who has ever seen such a glow
illuminate a triumph
as these sun-brightened beads
crowning a sweat-drenched forehead!
Here, touched by the dusk's last light,
this body that achieved so much
by dancing and outdoing Hercules
now mimics the drooping rose-clumps!
Sleep then, our all-conquering hero,
come so soon to this tragic end,
for now the many-headed Hydra
reveals its Infiniteness …
Behold what Bull, what Bear, what Hound,
what Visions of limitless Conquests
beyond the boundaries of Time
the soul imposes on formless Space!
This is the supreme end, this glittering Light
beyond the control of mere monsters and gods,
as it gloriously reveals
the matchless immensity of the heavens!
This is Paul Valery’s bio from the Academy of American Poets:
Paul Valéry
(1871–1945)
Poet, essayist, and thinker Paul Ambroise Valéry was born in the Mediterranean town of Séte, France, on October 30, 1871. He attended the lycée at Montpellier and studied law at the University of Montpellier. Valéry left school early to move to Paris and pursue a life as a poet. In Paris, he was a regular member of Stéphane Mallarmé's Tuesday evening salons. It was at this time that he began to publish poems in avant-garde journals.
In 1892, while visiting relatives in Genoa, Valéry underwent a stark personal transformation. During a violent thunderstorm, he determined that he must free himself "at no matter what cost, from those falsehoods: literature and sentiment." He devoted the next twenty years to studying mathematics, philosophy, and language. From 1892 until 1912, he wrote no poetry. He did begin, however, to keep his ideas and notes in a series of journals, which were published in twenty-nine volumes in 1945. He also wrote essays and the book "La Soirée avec M. ***** ("The Evening with Monsieur ***** 1896).
Valéry supported himself during this period first with a job in the War Department, and then as a secretary at the Havas newspaper agency. This job required him to work only a few hours per day, and he spent the rest of his time pursuing his own ideas. He married Jeannie Gobillard in 1900, and they had one son and one daughter. In 1912 Andre Gide persuaded Valéry to collect and revise his earlier poems. In 1917 Valéry published "La Jeune Parque" ("The Young Fate"), a dramatic monologue of over five-hundred lines, and in 1920 he published "Album de vers anciens," 1890-1920 ("Album of Old Verses"). His second collection of poetry, "Charmes" ("Charms") appeared in 1922. Despite tremendous critical and popular acclaim, Valéry again put aside writing poetry. In 1925 he was elected to the Académe Francaise. He spent the remaining twenty years of his life on frequent lecture tours in and out of France, and he wrote numerous essays on poetry, painting, and dance. Paul Valéry died in Paris in July of 1945 and was given a state funeral.
Along with Paul Verlaine and Stéphane Mallarmé, Valéry is considered one the most important Symbolist writers. His highly self-conscious and philosophical style can also been seen to influence later English-language writers such T. S. Eliot and John Ashbery . His work as a critic and theorist of language was important to many of the structuralist critics of the 1960s and 1970s.
#VALERY #MRB-VALERY #MRBVALERY
Keywords/Tags: Paul Valery, French poem, English translation, sea, seaside, cemetery, grave, graves, graveyard, death, sail, sails, doves, ceiling, soul, souls, dance, sun, sunset, dusk, night, stars, infinity
Jan 4, 2022
Jan 4, 2022 at 8:50 AM UTC
There was earth inside them, and
they dug.
They dug and they dug, so their day
went by for them, their night. And they did not praise
God
who, so they heard, wanted all this,
who, so they heard, knew all this.
They dug and heard nothing more;
they did not grow wise, invented no song,
thought up for themselves no language,
They dug.
There came a stillness, and there came a storm,
and all the oceans came.
I dig, you dig, and the worm digs too,
and that singing out there says: They dig.
O one, o none, o no one, o you:
Where did the way lead when it led nowhere?
O you dig and I dig, and I dig towards you,
and on our finger the ring awakes.
by Paul Celan, translated by Michael Hamburger
Nov 10, 2021
Nov 10, 2021 at 3:15 PM UTC
Speak, you also,
speak as the last,
have your say.
Speak -
But keep yes and no unsplit,
And give your say this meaning:
give it the shade.
Give it shade enough,
give it as much
as you know has been dealt out between
midday and midday and midnight,
Look around:
look how it all leaps alive -
where death is! Alive!
He speaks truly who speaks the shade.
But now shrinks the place where you stand:
Where now, stripped by shade, will you go?
Upward. ***** your way up.
Thinner you grow, less knowable, finer.
Finer: a thread by which
it wants to be lowered, the star:
to float further down, down below
where it sees itself glitter:
on sand dunes of wandering words.
by Paul Celan, translated by Michael Hamburger
Nov 10, 2021
Nov 10, 2021 at 3:02 PM UTC
Deep sleeping delta breathing
Breath of subtle water air
Salivating in mid summer airs-
Night view on the dark pavement.
Hands on it feeling upward rising
Warmth. Gazing up at the sun
Red, Pink, Orange and Blue coalescing infinitely.
The Sky Earth Action in my memories
m e m o r i e s
Feb 17, 2021
Feb 17, 2021 at 11:47 PM UTC
Trying is a lot harder than the first time we were pressed with overwhelming night
Through dark you stay despite the fact neither can see light
Oxygen inside lungs feels stuck
Tried again alright
Zero luck
Everything falling apart
Can't control a single part
When you are near find new strength
For you I'd go any length
I cannot help it
Head over heels
I watch you smile
Can't explain how it feels
You carried many loads for others with grace
You never had the time for your own goals to chase
Instead drew the conclusion way too early on
That you were meant to be a doormat for feet to walk upon
I have seen those who loved you for possessions you owned
When you had nothing they left you alone
Truly feel like you don't see your worth
Purpose of each breath you take on this earth
Everything should be easier
Than it is now
These obstacles are issues we allow
But possible as that may be
No simpler does get
Problem I see
I am not afraid you'll leave me anymore
Afraid I'll leave your heart sore
People like us hard to find
Not afraid cause our hands are intertwined
Since we created beautiful connection
Senselessly lived with no direction
The idea of without you is crazy
Future lacking your embrace at best hazy
We have confrontation but we always work it out
Headstones will be together no doubt
Painful or not
Til death do part
Closer ghosts than we are with beating hearts
Human or undead
Always be my best friend
Until very existence of Earth comes to an end
I am not ever letting you go
I'm attatched like a yo-yo
If you push down
Spring right back up
Forgetting mistakes at bottom of a cup
Why am I quick to forgive?
I get an apology AFTER forgiveness I give
But this is the way things are
Causes me to keep trust far
But what if you were given a legitimate chance?
Instead of the runaround you gave me real romance?
Just every now and then I'd like to see you put forth your all
Have to believe that if you could choose it'd still be me for whom you'd fall
When it comes to you kinda forget other guys even exist
I can't name a single thing better than the second my lips are kissed
So have to show my love for you in any way I can
Just don't know how to make you see for me you are the perfect man
Nov 21, 2020
Nov 21, 2020 at 3:10 AM UTC
Until the day I die swear I will never stop loving you
Until you prove you mean it what am I supposed to do?
You did things to display to everyone
Proud you were of me
Those days are done
Apart from Instagram posts teeming with corny lines
Rarely make the effort I need to see you remain mine
Start following through plans you make
Try to be extra nice when I first wake
Do not throw away the cards I construct
For birthday or Christmas no matter how ******
They may be unpleasantly messy
They are created with love
It hurts when to the side you crudely shove
Distressing seeing how little I mean
All that we hoped you no longer dream
Of lost joy and the friends who used to care
No longer expecting me to be there
I am sorry for being part of the reason why
No longer carry the spark in your eye
It was not my intention to cause you pain
Now your suffering is my greatest shame
All I wanted was for us to both become something more
Now I'm wistfully wondering what I did that for
Nov 21, 2020
Nov 21, 2020 at 2:40 AM UTC
Do not wanna scream at you every day
I don't want to fight or make you hurt
More and more I say words that cause you pain
Is it so hard to make this work?
Would need you if you didn't need me
To face that realization is hard
Sleep off doubts hoping you won't see
Return cause they never go far
Why are you what I fear the most?
Dreaming open eyes
Fantasies we hope to come true that we used to host
Never will if you keep giving lies
There will come a day everything changes
Nothing will stay the same
Left picking up pieces while reality rearranges
Both will end up with cuts of shame
Love with an intensity so great
When saying your name it rattles doors
Mind might belong to me
My heart is all yours
Nov 16, 2020
Nov 16, 2020 at 8:37 PM UTC
I should have never answered the phone when you called
The fact that you did had me feeling appalled
I never have the resolve to stand by my word
Worked to stay strong but my emotions were stirred
You never got the rejection you should have faced
Instead met with forgiveness you barely chased
I gave in too easily as I always do
Lose all control when it comes to you
Wanted you to experience similar suffering
I should have made you try harder
Should have let the phone ring
Nov 14, 2020
Nov 14, 2020 at 5:42 PM UTC
https://americansongwriter.com/behind-the-song-you-can-call-me-al/
The songwriter explains the new methods used to write this and the others songs on “Graceland.”
If you’ll be my bodyguard
I can be your long lost pal
I can call you Betty
And Betty, when you call me,
You can call me Al
Call me Al
From Paul Simon’s landmark Graceland, “You Can Call Me Al” is quintessential Simon. It’s whimsical, rhythmically infectious, poetic and conversational, all before it expands into a whole other realm.
The famously funny yet enigmatic chorus, Simon said, came from a funny memory of going to a party at the New York apartment of Pierre Boulez, the conductor-composer. Simon and his first wife Peggy arrived, meeting their host at the door, who evidently had no clue who they were. Boulez introduced them to his guests as “Al and Betty.”
It was the first single from Graceland, and became a hit, launched by the famous music video with Chevy Chase.
“I need a photo-opportunity, I want a shot at redemption, don’t want to end up a cartoon in a cartoon graveyard”
All the songs for Graceland, unlike his previous work written with voice and guitar, were written to tracks he and his friend, the producer-engineer Roy Halee, recorded in Africa. Simon brought those recordings back to his New York City home, where he allowed the energy of the music to inspire the lyrics and melodies.
It was completed at the Hit Factory in New York with Roy Halee in April of 1986. Rob Mounsey, who played synth, also arranged and conducted the nine-piece horn section (five trumpets, two trombones, baritone and bass saxophones).
There’s a delightful bass break by Bakithi Kumalo, which was not part of the original arrangement, but suggested by Paul when learning that it was the bassist’s birthday. Bakithi improvised the fast fretless break, which Roy sonically doctored in New York; he used the first half of the phrase, then reversed it for the second half, creating a musical palindrome.
Jazz musician Morris Goldberg played the other solo on the song on a penny whistle.
Simon wrote the song using a new approach to lyrics, which combined colloquial speech with abstract, “enriched” language.
The lyrics shift from the ordinary language of the first verse to a third verse imbued with enriched imagery, the “angels in the architecture, spinning in infinity…” That progression is not random. Nothing Simon does is random. Which is not to say he calculates his lyrics; he doesn’t. As he said during our first of many conversations back in 1988, “I’m more interested in what I discover than what I invent.”
“He looks around, around, he sees angels in the architecture spinning in infinity, he says, 'Amen and Hallelujah!’”
Asked what the distinction was between discovery and invention, he said, “You just have no idea that that’s a thought that you had; it surprises you; it can make me laugh or make me emotional. When it happens and I’m the audience and I react, I have faith in that because I’m already reacting. I don’t have to question it. I’ve already been the audience.”
“But if I make it up,” he continued, “knowing where it’s going, it’s not as much fun. It may be just as good, but it’s more fun to discover it.”
To get to the right place to allow that discovery to occur, he’d listen to the music while tossing a baseball against the wall, and catching it. Asked what effect that had on this song, he gave the following answer, which leads into his explanation of discovering what became “You Can Call Me Al.”
“You Can Call Me Al,” the video with Chevy Chase.
PAUL SIMON: The act of throwing a ball and catching a ball is so natural and calming. It’s like a Zen exercise, really. It’s a very pleasant feeling if you like playing ball, and while you do it, your mind kind of wanders, and that’s really what you want to happen. You want your mind to wander and to pick up words and phrases, and fool around with them and drop them.
Because as soon as your mind knows that it’s on, and it’s supposed to produce some lines, either it doesn’t or it produces things that are very predictable.
And that’s why I say I’m not interested in writing something that I thought about; I’m interested in discovering where my mind wants to go or what object it wants to pick up.
[The mind] always picks up on something true. You’ll find out much more about what you’re thinking that way than you will if you’re determined to say something. What you’re determined to say is filled with all your rationalizations and your defenses, and all of that what you want to say to the world. As opposed to what you’re thinking.
And as a lyricist, my job is to find out what it is that I’m thinking. Even if it’s something that I don’t want to be thinking.
I was trying to learn how to be able to write vernacular speech and then intersperse it with enriched language, and then go back to vernacular. So the thing would go along smoothly, then some image would come out that was interesting, then it would go back to this very smooth conversational thing. That was a technique that I was learning.
It didn’t have anything to do with logic or anything; I don’t know where it came from. But on Hearts and Bones, there’s more of that. “[“Rene & Georgette] Magritte” has more of that. “Hearts and Bones” is more of that.
“A Train in the Distance” is in itself that kind of speech: “Everybody loves the sound of a train in the distance; everybody thinks it’s true.” That is imagery, and that’s the title.
So by the time I got to Graceland, I was trying to let that kind of enriched language flow naturally in the course of it, so that you wouldn’t really notice it as much.
I think in Hearts and Bones, you could feel it was coming. Whereas in Graceland, I tried to do it where you wouldn’t notice it, where you sort of passed the line and then it was over. To let the words tumble this way and that way, and sometimes I’d increase the rhythm of the words so that they would come by you and then when a phrase was sort of different and came by you so quickly that all you could get was the feeling.
So I started to try and work with more feelings around with words because the sound of the record was so good, you could move feelings.
“You Can Call Me Al” starts very ordinary, almost like a joke; like the structure of a joke cliche; “There’s a rabbi, a minister and a priest….” “Two Jews walk into a bar…” “A man walks down the street…” That’s what I was doing there.
Because how you begin a song is one of the hardest things. The first line of a song is very hard. I always have this image in my mind of a road that goes like this: [motions with hands to signify a road that starts narrow and gets wider as it opens out], so that the implication is that the directions are pointing outward.]
It’s like a baseball diamond; there’s more and more space out here as opposed to like [motions an inverted road growing more narrow], because if it’s like this at this point in the song, you’re out of options.
So you want to have that first line that has a lot of options to get you going. And the other thing that I try to remember, especially if a song is long, is: You have plenty of time. You don’t have to **** them; you don’t have to grab them by the throat with the first line
In fact, you have to wait for the audience. They’re going to sit down, get settled in their seat. Their concentration is not even there. You have to be a good host to people’s attention span. You’re not going to come in there and work real hard right away. Too many things are coming; the music is coming, the rhythm is coming; all kinds of information that the brain is sorting out
“You Can Call Me Al,” Live in Central Park with Chevy Chase.
So give them easy words and easy thoughts and let it move along, and let the mind get into the groove of it. Especially if it’s a rhythm tune.
And at a certain point, when the brain is loping along easily, then you come up with the first kind of thought or image that’s different. Because it’s entertaining at that point. Otherwise people haven’t settled in yet.
So “You Can Call Me Al” is an example of that kind of writing. It starts off very easily with sort of a joke: “Why am I soft in the middle when the rest of my life is so hard?” It’s a joke, with very easy words.
Then it has a chorus that you can’t understand what is he talking about – “You can call me Betty, and Betty, you can call Me Al.” You don’t know what I’m talking about, but I don’t think it’s bothersome. You don’t know what I’m talking about, but neither do I, at that point.
The second verse is really a recapitulation of the first: A man walks down the street he says… another thing. And by the time you get to the third verse, and people have been into the song long enough, now you can start to throw abstract images. Because there’s been a structure, and those abstract images, they will just come down and fall into one of the slots that the mind has already made up about the structure of the song.
The guy in the third verse thinks, “Maybe it’s the third world, maybe it’s his first time around…” I thought it was interesting to combine what was on my mind with that music. I thought it would be interesting to an African audience, if they could get to the point of hearing it. And they did, once the album became a big hit.
So now you have this guy who’s no longer thinking about the mundane thoughts, about whether he’s getting too fat, whether he needs a photo opportunity or whether he’s afraid of the dogs in the moonlight and the graveyard, and he’s off in: “Listen to the sound, look what’s going on… there’s cattle and scatterlings…
And these sounds are very fantastic. And look at the buildings – there’s angels in the architecture.
And that’s the end of the song. It goes “phooomp,” and that’s the end.
Oct 26, 2020
Oct 26, 2020 at 4:13 AM UTC
When I do not see you for awhile
Start going through withdrawals
Like when you’re addicted to drugs
Dependent on alcohol
When I eat food is tasteless
In fact hard to enjoy
Much anything consumed
Focused on the void
No matter what’s done or said
Nothing distracts from absence
If I keep hours busy
Not once your thought leaves my head
My brain obsessed with you
Turning memories around
Try focusing on anything else
But way your laughter sounds
Impossible to be at peace
I wake up alone
Emptiness follows me from our bed
Clinging to each bone
Inside stomach sits a knot
Tangled with concern
Ball that gets tighter every minute
Messages left unreturned
I hate how I need your kiss
To function throughout day
Did not realize contact was necessary
Til moment it was taken away
My heart beats unevenly when you are gone
Stays like that until you come back
Every ***** placed in my body
Is in some manner out of whack
I am more than just miserable
Sick without you here
Unable to be myself
Until presence is again near
Oct 25, 2020
Oct 25, 2020 at 5:10 AM UTC
Shine like it does
You set the sun against me
And here I fell
Only to find my feet
Along the blinding path
To dust, the persecuting heart returned
So too, the spirit flew
And like scales
The veil lifted
And I caught sight
Of something quite intangible
Yet, therein I found true freedom
In slaving for you
As a fisher of men
Sep 27, 2020
Sep 27, 2020 at 12:14 PM UTC
Old friends two bookends
Catching fish and memories
On a river bank
Sep 7, 2020
Sep 7, 2020 at 3:36 PM UTC
Well dear poet Diya
Your poem inspired my next one.
How lovely expressed your story poem reposted on the page of a great Poet I am so fond of
Master Poet Pagan Paul
my loyal reader writer
gracious poet on HP
Through the years
poet Pagan Paul is a
loyal amazing writer.
~~~~
So dear poet Diya
I see the glass half full not half empty nor overflowing,
So do not cast spells on yourself
Roses aren't death!
Be careful what you think and write it becomes law.
The rooms filled with roses for me inferred by my own ancient true love are ALIVE because I watched E.T The movie
and my beloved was there too with his face among the toys hiding in a love letter he sent to me anonymously.
So even though we are apart temporarily
we aren't divided in heart
nor soul by divine doing.
My E.T out worldly is!
And he has powers to bring dead roses to thrive alive again!
For, such is the power of love
the prayers of the heart are true.
Many times I buy Roses instead of food and then I fast steadfast
His roses aren't death they are alive in me in most mine art.
No one is able nor allowed to curse me nor his Roses or his memory in me.
Nobody can place any spells on this divine sacred fact.
Oh well Dija thanks for your "Midnight" poem inspiration.
~~~~~
By:Karijinbba
Copy Rights apply.
Jul 26, 2020
Jul 26, 2020 at 4:38 PM UTC
I wanna let you know
You are the only guy for me
I leave
It hurts me so
With you wish I could always be
The hardest part
Letting go
I have to say goodbye
Though I try to force time to slow
Keeps on passing by
Jun 29, 2020
Jun 29, 2020 at 3:20 PM UTC
___________________
another mourning morning, usual signs of warning,
wanted to wash away the distress signs of no sleep,
turned on the tap, out came only troubled waters,
my only friend, the voice from the mirror, pretending
to be coming from me, speaking: Oh Lord, Oh Lord!
*is there no surcease for me, somewhere, can I find,
little bites, small plates, pieces of peace, the kind
of kindness that eases, repairs the dividers of mind,
the country stone fences that been growing wilder,
when, troubled child of 10, window breaking, beyond
youthful mischievousness, evil streaked, so deemed*
Give me a boat, give me a bridge, give me a road, a home,
one of those things poets, songwriters about, wax lyrical,
Oh Lord, give me time, 45 seconds, even two or three,
Being strong, being confident, am I not entitled to that,
a boat, sturdy mast, cause sailing from storm to storm,
just glimpsing dry land, is that too much, a pale beyond?
love, nah, a bridge too far, not even on the menu, not blinded,
I am off key, not well enough, between the peaks between,
*I am out of sync, bubbling discombobulated, a **** besided, behind,
lend me a finger, not even a hand, a kernel, not even a cob,
a string, forget a rope, a washcloth to bathe and dry,*
lay me down, lay me down, to live, even just not dying.
Jun 16, 2020
Jun 16, 2020 at 1:08 PM UTC
You Were My Death
by Paul Celan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You were my death;
I could hold you
when everything abandoned me—
even breath.
Paul Celan (1920-1970) was a Romanian Jew who wrote poems in German. He survived the Holocaust, despite the loss of his mother and father, to become one of the major German-language poets of the post–World War II era. His parents' deaths and the horrors of the Holocaust have been called the "defining forces" in Celan's poetry.
Keywords/Tags: Paul Celan, Holocaust poems, Holocaust poetry, Shoah, German, translation, death, breath, abandoned, abandonment, hold, holding, Germany, racism, antisemitism, injustice, brutality, genocide, ethnic cleansing, World War II, world conflicts
Mar 12, 2020
Mar 12, 2020 at 1:41 AM UTC