"norwich" poems
*two bottles of 70cl whiskey later and a few beers, popping sleeping pills for an actual effect worked with (it's ten past five p.m., i'm already mentioning ~ eleven minutes to midnight, so wait)... you get the shovel and broom ushering the ***** drinkers from a town centre in Leicester or Norwich; or you implant a hope to live in Scandinavia; you're basically laughing with a russian at that point: 'eh eh, where's lithuania?' 'ah **** it's next to yuri reciting poetry on the laika satellite.' 'thought so.' german started from monkeys, sent one into space... slavs started with dogs... like all good people, i would too have kept the cats grounded in atmosphere; well, the oedipal riddle began with a sphinx, so i'm more than ready for the cerberus.*
i'm not going to repent for
my alcoholic metabolism,
i'll wait till you turn into ostriches
ostricizing vegans for anaemia
and bulimia and the london fashion show;
bullseye market that cares for
diaphragms and diabetes; sure the arabs
are alcohol free, but diabetic
looking into the sand dunes like looking
at dunes of sugar.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 12:02 PM UTC
As he scanned the far horizon of the mangrove beach
He imagined her silhouette by the sea of Norwich
A home he had left long to be so remotely far
On this alien shore with her face a distant star!
The sea winds kissed his skin in a bid to make amend
For his walks in the blazing sun weariness of dayend
He felt a peace in his ruffled mind craving for a rest
Amid the waves’ serenade dreaming a lulling nest!
What if he made his home on this ****** desolate beach
Walked the sands thought-romancing the woman of Norwich
Swam wild in the saline sea then lie in the mangrove’s shade
With no statistics to worry about only love’s buzz in his head!
Not going back to the asphalt path he would build here a hut
Laze dream lying in the shadows of wild and green coconut
In the starry evenings when the sea would hold her bewitched
He would walk the trails of scent left by the woman of Norwich!
This man went with the mission of building on the sea a port
But the mangrove gave him a reason to make there a love resort
No relic survives now the waves having carried beyond reach
All except the lingering scent of his love for the woman of Norwich!
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 4:24 AM UTC
*My very dear friends and wonderful, international tribe of poets:
When I first joined you all here last August, I was in a time of deep solitude, culturing inner silence.
It became an ideal time to make real progress with my writing.
The part I had no idea about then, and that has become such a treasured part of my life, is the growth and blossoming of new friendships
with many of you!
On June 2nd, 2016, just over a month ago, I felt an innocent, spontaneous impulse to open up, once again, to the world around me.
After all that immersion in transcendental bliss consciousness, life began presenting me with beautiful new opportunities, which has in turn lead to the most fantastic job I have yet had the honor to call my own, in which I am able to express and employ
all of my particular set of talents and abilities.
Hence, then, my long absence, and my enormous, growing admiration for those of you who have families, jobs,
and also contribute excellent poems here!
*May the force be always with the poets, the writers, the thinkers, the artists... all the good and sincere well-wishers of our dear world family, and of our precious Mother Earth.
(I have just re-written this poem that speaks to my present experience and frame of mind, and thought to offer it again in this context.)
Eyes of Light
Momentarily, two eye-shaped
places in these thick grey clouds
stared directly at me, and there it was:
"Always be truthful.
Always be kind."
Just that.
A reminder.
Slipping down into the place
beyond all words,
feeling knowingness
seeping
into my bones,
residing in quiet bliss,
at home
in my own authenticity.
The lamp at the door shines,
both within, and without
residing, just being,
knowing, in the the words
of Julian of Norwich:
"All shall be well,
and all shall be well
and all manner
of things shall be well.”
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 4:19 AM UTC
there is a limit for everything.
there's a limit on how accurately
you can pronounce 'pecan',
and it's worth a watch--
between wild west ranger
and retired norwich resident.
one must decide which arm
is stronger-- two grocery bags
for the left arm and one for
the right,
but if it were not so,
you may as well carry them
on each drooping finger.
a can rests on a tired desk.
it is filled with nothing,
which is precisely everything.
it weights 478 lbs. to an ant,
a balloon's helium proximity to you.
now try to step in the aluminum cylinder
and carry it from the inside
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 8:39 PM UTC
Sorry father for I have sinned
I Shall tell you my story, but where to begin?
Born a poor young Norwich boy
A colourless town drained of joy
It's ok for what it is
But i'm arrogant father, and far too good for it.
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 3:51 AM UTC
Mad in my envy.
Mad in the irrational stresses of "love".
Mad at all the happiness I isolate.
Mad with the visions of success.
Mad with my prewar publications.
Mad with your gestures of bliss.
Mad in how we can't get carried away.
Mad at how the money always talks back.
Mad when I am making this a monologue.
Mad when I haven't crossed the minds of
strangers.
Mad when they declare the eyes of reason to
be obscene for the children.
Mad at the fame that they call existence.
Mad when I see the lackluster descriptive
lies within their Bibles.
Mad that you became the society we
******
Mad toward the rebirth of the minister's
daughter who sang for forgiveness and
love but lied about both,
Wasting our time on useless Norwich
sonnets, and naming the theoretical
infants—
Wouldn't anyone be mad as hell?
II. GENESIS.
Beautiful in your powerful gaze, upgrading
constantly, tossing me aside, casting
countless new euphoric darlings into the
void since my dismissal.
Draining each meaningful vein from the
poor souls who fall under your magnetic
pull—who want to brave the human
castle (floor lined with pitfalls) and then
you, *** Incarnate! Most perfect
amongst us! Blessed be your Godly
word, you execute them with joy!
Holy in your immaculate beauty, dear Saint!
Now it is your time of reckoning.
Happy Birthday.
Don't forget who made you.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 1:26 PM UTC
The only natural poem I have consciously been involved in-
The site, not just the reporting-
was when I happened upon a sheep gazing at me
in a field immediately off a motorway in Norwich.
This was not planned, yet it was
disconcertingly poetic.
Life whispers it's potentialities, it's immovable eros
the way billboards make us aware of our melancholia.
"Your hair is flaxen"
No, your hair is just damp. "Flaxen" reminds
us of a language that according our reading of poetry
existed long before our ancestors could read.
It does, however, sound more complimentary,
therefore more sincere,
therefore more comforting
than "damp."
I wear all my pretentious vocabulary and sentimental heart-stirrings
like a cross dangling from my neck
pretty as the plastic emotions I express
Because of my dearth of enthusiasm as opposed to experience
Because of the transparency of my speaking without first attuning
to the spectre of blood which no longer clots my lungs Dominika
but now sullies my hands.
But I wash and wash, and am clean, cleaner than most.
And my cleanliness infuriates you Dominika,
it breaks your back to see me so elevated among the wrecks.
When you speak there is no air that leaves your lungs to pollute the air
there are all only words whose sounds make the other sounds commonplace.
Whereas I am all white, brilliant, brutal air.
I've calculated the effect this has on your sense of self
Dominika, of your progress, of your place in the narrative
and though you hate me for implying so if I explained
You wouldn't understand
Dominika
I made it that way.
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 2:59 PM UTC
Here come
pairs of legs
riddled with cellulite
accents
stuff the air
Neuwcassul
Burmingum
stores reek
of cheap tat
bargain last-few-quid items
Irish music
no-one gives a jig about
Mr. Whippy's
for sale every seven/six
make that five cafés
women packed
like bubblewrap
into denim shorts
middle-aged men
plagued with tattoos
Irn Bru tans
back at the chalet
kids thwack
plastic *****
with plastic racquets
next-door neighbours
puff on their nineteenth
*** before midday
come night
karaoke floods towards us
like a murky tsunami
don't stop believin'
hold on to that feelin'
but the girl
in the museum
had a ponytail
another one
dipped in gold
like a fancy chess piece
and I walk around
in a Norwich shirt
lick sea-breeze
and know
this isn't
home
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
When was the last time I wrote something meaningful?
My life has become nothing more than shifting from one
house to another, encompassed by drug taking and a sense
of nothingness. I have become a working class flea, but with enough money
to feign royalty, structure is a distant memory, no longer tangible.
Living in total squalor with no desire to change, a perverse lusting
to continue down this dusty trail of over indulgence and self-deprecating
destruction. I need to get out of this ******* mess, yet at the same time
a sick voice within tells me to stay, so perhaps I will, perhaps I will crash
further into the aphotic world of the people I loath, the people who I despise. But I am not like them. I am different, right? For the moment, my blade has been sharpened enough to slash through the inevitable wrath of unfortunate circumstance, I am still in control, unlike the others - dying in their own self-encompassing shadows of subjugation.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 3:21 PM UTC
Hundreds of foam backed carpet squares.
Fiber, pattern, loop or pile;
The same materials each one bares.
Design in laying of interest to sight.
Rotated up, down, or flipped around;
Creates diversity in the way it reflects the Light.
We are “soul and body, clad and enclosed in the goodness of God.”
Julian of Norwich
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 10:23 AM UTC
1044. BC
King. David. Writes. On the. Run from Saul
". Keep me. Safe. O. Lord in you I take. My. Refuge."
The. Year. 1338.
A. Pestulance. Lies. Untouched. for. Hundreds. Of. Years. Suddenly. Awakens. .
China. The once. Great. Mongolian. Empyre Finds. a. Gateway to the. West,
Only to become. Ravished by. Sickness. ,.
Cappas. Catapult corpses. ,
Cappa. S. Merchants. Flee. On. Death. Boats. Set. For. England ,
Prosperous. England's. Green fields. ,
A. Monks. Prayer
". Dear. Lord. Keep. This. Sickness. Away from these. Green fields. "
Yet. Flanders. Ships. Sailed. ,
Port. To. Port. The. Merchants. Sailed .
Fear. Stalked. the. Deckhands. ,
Stay away "
Stay. Away ". Cry. After. Cry. , untill
The. Ghost ships. Deadly. Cargo. Of. Fleas. , and. Rats. Sailed. Into. The. evenings. Sun.
Airborne !,!!!
Boils
Fever,
The. Spewing ,
Dead. In. Six. Days.
They. Danced. The. Macarbra. , ..
Mothers. Abandoned their children. ,
Fields. Lay. Empty. Of. Harvest ,
Death. Stalked. England's. Green. Fields. Like. a. Table. Cloth set. For. Tea .
God. Is. Love. ,
God. Does. Not. Condem.
Those. He. Loves. To. Damnation. For their sin.
All. Will. Be. Well. do not. Fear.
For. All. Will. Be. Well. ""
Julian of. Norwich. Had. Seen a. Great. Vision
Burn.
Her. Manuscript. Must. Go. To. The. Flame"
The. Reformers. Came. .
With. Pitchfork and. Intent.
Yet. They. Found. Nothing.
Nothing but. An impenetrable Fortresses of. Love.
Ashford. In. Middlesex. Twenty. Sixteen.
Dudley. Road. Sunday. Morning ,
God. Forgives our sin.
and. Heals. Our. Deseses. ""
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 2:17 PM UTC
A seven-hour stretch
Over 300 miles
Of motorway
Across country
It was a tough trip
The temperature dropped
As the bright blue sky
Changed to a gorgeous cascade of pinks
It was breathtaking
And made me think
We do not experience these scenes
In our everyday life
It was for the traveller's eye
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 5:37 AM UTC
I sit here silently listen to music and think is my thoughts while they float around allowed I see myself as a different person I hear the sounds around me take the lyrics in makes no difference music's just freeform expression of ones and just and demons I go to school and go to college I gained knowledge there is no difference in the way I walk around these holes the emptiness I walk I see the darkness the tide ebbs and flows the ocean goes home seem to float away faces in the crowd I talk but no solace is found allowed I read my soul as if it were a blank page I see nothing nothing but pain disdain and discord I put the record on that block I see nothing shock of pain there's no freedom in this world left is there nobody here that actually cares the hear someone share their words my feelings written down on paper is there no one that can come take you away from here do you weigh your mind body and soul I wear my heart on the sleeve setting in cold or nothing to behold I read this poem aloud and then I walk through a desolate crowd if there is no one watching sitting there and watch ruins of cities wants forgotten I look at prep yet and I look at different cities around the world that look at Ohio Troy I love you get Connecticut and I look at the town I live in Norwich all the Forgotten buildings once burned unseen I mean all these towns are we forgotten all these places around the world the Berlin Wall USSR Soviet Union's all the time nothing to see nothing I am too young to know this but for what our society does to are young lead them astray to lead their pain away for nothing good can stay everything gold is nothing to hold for we are all better left unseen forever
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 10:53 PM UTC